Last Chance At The Someday Café

He seemed entirely too happy about that fact. She scowled and fought the answering smile. “I can take—” Glancing down, she realized she couldn’t take any of it. The other bag was ripped beyond salvaging, and she only had two arms. Surely, there was a way to stack it, cram everything into the one bag.

“Where you headed?” he asked, settling the canned goods more solidly in his arms.

“Home.”

“Point me in the right direction.” He was still smiling. “I’ll help.”

Tara shivered, as much from the cold of the rain as the realization that she had no choice but to show this veritable stranger her home. Either that or leave her groceries sitting here on the curb.

“Come on.” She headed toward her apartment building, knowing that at least some of her neighbors were home. Mrs. Walton across the hall was always home. If Tara screamed, someone would hear her. But would they do anything?

She mentally rolled her eyes. She was being ridiculous.

Morgan walked beside her, his height and bulk blocking some of the rain, and Tara gave up resisting the urge to look at him. He was as soaked as she was, but why didn’t he look like a drowned rat? If anything, he looked better all wet.

His jeans drew her gaze. The damp denim plastered to the hard contours of his leg muscles. Definitely a bodybuilder, he had a grace most hulking guys didn’t. The T-shirt he wore was a dark color, so the damp didn’t look as obvious, except to make the definition of those muscles clear. Six-pack abs. Pecs that were solidly defined and wide shoulders that flexed with the flow of muscle, broad and strong.

Tara doubted she could circle those biceps with both hands... The idea of touching him so intimately sent a flush from her head to her toes and back again.

Thankfully, they reached their destination, and she hurried to the protection of the porch. The rain intensified, and she dodged the cold drops falling down her neck. The patter of the raindrops on the veranda’s roof seemed loud and insistent.

“Nice place.” He looked around with interest when he joined her. “How many apartments?”

“Six,” she explained as she opened the door of what had once been a great Victorian house. Much of the grandeur still clung to the facade, but the inviting hominess of the place had long faded. “I’m upstairs.”

Stepping inside the foyer, she gulped as his size overwhelmed the tiny space. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the sides of the narrow doorway.

Once the door was closed and the patter of the falling rain muffled, silence pressed in on her, making her question again the sanity of bringing him to her home.

“If you’d feel better, I’ll just leave these things here. They should be safe enough. You can come back and get them.”

She stared. “How did you know?”

“That you’re nervous about bringing me here?” Morgan laughed, but it wasn’t a teasing laugh or a laugh that mocked her. It was almost self-deprecating. “You’re not stupid, Tara. You should be cautious. I appreciate that.”

Carefully, he stacked the cans on the small side table by the metal mailboxes in the wall. He’d wrapped a couple pasta boxes in the torn plastic bag, and, pulling them out now, he examined them to make sure they were dry. One looked the worse for the wear. “Sorry about that.”

He turned to go, nodding at her as his hand curled around the old-fashioned door handle. “I’ll be on my way.”

He’d almost reached the other side of the porch before she broke out of her stupor and called after him. “Wait!”

Morgan looked over his shoulder at her.

He stood on the edge of the rain, the streetlight’s bright glow falling over him the same way the raindrops did. So close. He was so close. Body-heat-sharing distance. Tasting the scent of him, she almost sighed at the rawness of him mingling with the damp night. She didn’t want him to leave. There was so much more to him, and she was intrigued.

“The least I can do to thank you is let you dry off.” This was ridiculous. She’d never been paranoid, never been inhospitable before. Why start now?

He turned around fully.

“I really do appreciate your help,” she added.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly, though the depth of his voice echoed around the empty foyer.

“Come on.” Reaching into her pocket, Tara pulled out her keys, then headed up the stairs.

* * *

MORGAN FOLLOWED TARA through the front door of the big, old house. He could see where it had been a grand place in its day, but where the foyer would have opened to several rooms, it was now a lobby of sorts, closed off and small. A door to the right had a brass A on it. B was across the hall, and straight ahead beyond the stairway was a door with C sitting a bit sideways.

A curved set of stairs led up, the carved handrail and delicate spindles showing definite signs of wear. As she stepped on the runner that ran up the center, each stair gave off a deep groan. He didn’t hesitate to grab the groceries he’d just set down and followed her.

Three more doors branched off the upper landing. She stuck a key in the door straight ahead. Apartment E. It opened soundlessly, and she led him inside. She tossed her purse on a small table and shucked her jacket, putting it on an old-fashioned coat tree a few inches beyond.

Fading daylight and the streetlight’s glow flooded the room through a turret-shaped alcove on the opposite wall. It looked inviting, and he took several steps before realizing he’d moved. He stood in the center of the room where he could easily turn and see everything. A small kitchen. The main room. Two wooden doors, both ajar. A bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a bedroom beyond. His gaze clung to that shadowed view. Rumpled bed, covers tossed up but not made.

Tara frowned but didn’t argue or try to stop his perusal. “Just put those on the kitchen table,” she directed, and he stepped into what seemed like a simple kitchen. Not what he expected in the home of a chef.

He continued to look around with growing interest. The pale green wall color and white subway tile fit her, though the regular stove and small counters did not.

He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t think he made any noise, but she turned her head. Their gazes met and held. Her eyes were pale blue, a color that fit with the light tone of her blond hair. Wisps fluttered in the air that wafted from the heat vent.

The image he’d seen of her on his computer where she’d been wearing the tank top and shorts flashed in his mind, reminding him that beneath that damp sweater were sweet curves and pretty, smooth skin.

Look somewhere else. He yanked his gaze to the surroundings, forcing his mind to think mundane thoughts.

This place told him more than he’d expected. He felt welcome here. She was relaxed and made her way around the kitchen table with ease.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked as she put the groceries away.

“Nah, I’m good.” Morgan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He’d always learned by touching and feeling, not just looking. And this place was filled with things he was sorely tempted to pick up and feel, experience. Including her.

“Well, I’m cold.” She rubbed her arms, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her movements. “I’m making some coffee.” Her smile reached out to him. “I’ll share.”

Stretching, she opened some upper cabinets and pulled out a canister. He stood there staring like a fool when her shirt rode up, just a little, to expose her sweet, flat abdomen. He tore his gaze away from her again. The scent of fresh-ground coffee wafted in the air as she busied herself making a pot. What was wrong with him? He had to get out of here before he said or did something stupid. He looked around for an escape.

As he turned, nearly bolting for the door, a shelf above the kitchen table caught his eye. Polished wood, it overflowed with books. Cookbooks. These weren’t fancy, gourmet books. No, these were old, tattered—the kind he remembered seeing in his grandmother’s house. That woman could cook.

“You get ideas for your menu from those?” He tipped his head toward the shelf.

Tara looked up. “From...?” She followed his gaze and smiled as if she didn’t notice the tension thick in the air. “Some, yes.” She took a step toward the shelf. “Some I can’t use since they don’t even make the ingredients anymore. But I was able to modify a few of them.”

She pulled down an especially tattered book and flipped through the yellowed pages. Finally, she found what she was looking for and pointed to a spot on the page. “This is the recipe I started with to make my turnovers.” She looked at him and smiled. “The ones you liked so much last night.”

Morgan smiled back, and the sound of the clock ticking over their heads was loud in the stillness between them.

His mind wound around itself. She’d noticed how much he’d liked the turnovers? She paid attention. To him.

“Do you know all your customers so well?” Damn. His voice broke on the third word. He cleared his throat.