Keep On Loving you Page 11

  Tilda was definitely not “the right kind of girl.”

  After the dessert had been offered, then cleared, and after she ate a plate with the other servers, she expected to be released from duty. Instead, the caterer and operator of Fare by Fanny, Fanny herself, turned to Tilda as she performed the final tidy of a countertop. “Could you do me a favor, honey?”

  The older woman was motherly and friendly and now passed her another piece of leftover cheesecake. Double desserts! “Um, sure?” she said.

  “It means more money for you.”

  Tilda smiled. “Absolutely sure, then.”

  “I was going to stay another two hours or so, put the remainders in the fridge and then serve coffee and tea a bit later, along with some nuts and candies. But I just got a call that one of my ovens is acting up. I need to go sweet-talk the thing immediately. Can you take over for me here and put out the beverages and sweets? She wants them on the small buffet in the card room. Ninety minutes, two hours max.”

  Tilda hesitated. She had the time, and there had been neither sight nor sound of Ash, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Yet what could she say? “Of course, Fanny.”

  After helping the caterer carry her now-clean pots and pans to her van, Tilda stayed busy stretching plastic wrap over the leftovers and rearranging the Robbinses’ refrigerator to hold the new items. While she had it open, she took an inventory of its contents, and it served as yet another reminder of the Tilda-Ash divide. The teeny fridge in her apartment that she shared with two roommates contained generic condiments, a couple of store-brand yogurts and some questionable lunch meat that no one claimed, so everyone declined to throw out.

  On the other hand, the Robbinses had a drawer of gourmet cheeses alongside butcher-paper-wrapped packages with adhesive tags that proclaimed them to be different kinds of ham, turkey and pastrami. Bottles of European sparkling water and organic milk sat next to juices that were labeled Fresh-Squeezed. There were five different kinds of mayonnaise and three of mustard, and none of them were the white and yellow kind with which Tilda was familiar.

  We don’t even eat in the same universe, she thought.

  Then she checked the time and turned away from the refrigerator in order to prepare a tray to take to the card room. This part of the afternoon turned out to be a little trickier than she’d expected, because Mrs. Robbins asked her to fetch teacups and tiny plates from the immense breakfront in the dining room.

  But she didn’t break any of the china and enjoyed admiring the pieces as she carried them carefully to each of the guests. It was a little like playing tea party. When she was little, she’d had a set of thin plastic dishware about the size and colors of Necco wafers. There’d been three plates and two cups—her grandmother had found the partial set at a garage sale—and Tilda had shared imaginary meals with many a princess before she’d understood that only in a Cinderella story did a scullery maid ever get to dine with royalty.

  Finally, the guests began to leave, which was Tilda’s sign to begin clearing the dishes and remaining food. It was all put away and she was glancing around the kitchen to make sure everything was in place when Mrs. Robbins strolled through the door, one of the delicate cups and saucers in her hand.

  “Oh,” Tilda said, hurrying forward. “I’m sorry. I missed one.”

  The older woman held it aloft. “No, no. This was mine and I’m just finishing it up. After an afternoon like that it’s either more caffeine or open a bottle of wine early.”

  “I understand,” Tilda said. “Would you like me to put on the kettle? Make an espresso for you?” There was a gleaming machine on the counter and she hoped she could figure out how to use it if Veronica Robbins said yes.

  “I’m fine.” She smiled. “How old are you, Tilda? Eighteen?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “You’ll be glad to look younger than your years when you get to be my age,” Mrs. Robbins said, smiling. “Husbands get more distinguished while their wives just get older.”

  Tilda fumbled with the apron bow at the small of her back. Talking about husbands and wives, particularly with this woman, was not a discussion she wanted to have. “I should be going.”

  Mrs. Robbins tilted her head. “Is this what you do?” she asked. “Work for Fanny?”

  “Mmm,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal.

  “Fanny,” the older woman said again and slapped her free hand to her forehead. “I completely forgot to hand her a check.”

  “She’ll invoice you,” Tilda said.

  “No, I better get it now. We’re going to the Palm Springs house for a few days. If I give it to you, will you be seeing her soon?”

  “I can drop it off on my way home,” Tilda offered. “No problem.”

  “Excellent.” Veronica Robbins beamed. “You wait right here. I won’t be long.”

  That’s why, when she heard footsteps approaching, Tilda felt no alarm. But instead of Ash’s mother entering the kitchen, it was Ash himself.

  He stopped short, staring at her.

  “Um, I helped with your mother’s luncheon.” She backed up a step. “I’m leaving in just a minute...”

  Why did he have to be so gorgeous? That rumpled golden hair, the lean body, the way his mouth curled at the corners—the entire package was just. So. Hot.

  As if he read her mind, he came closer.

  Tilda retreated. “Your mom will be back any second.”

  “Don’t look so scared, Tilda. I’m not going to bite you.”

  Her laugh came out weak. “Of course I don’t think that.”

  “I took you at your word,” Ash said, still moving forward. “I’ve left you alone.”

  She’d said “no.” She hadn’t said anything about him leaving her alone. Not that she was going to make that distinction, because of course she wanted him to leave her alone.

  Except now, when he was closer than he’d been since that night in May, she couldn’t leave him alone. She couldn’t move, except to breathe in the soapy scent of him.

  “Go out with me,” Ash whispered.

  She should speak. At least shake her head. In some way indicate refusal.

  “Your mom will be back any second,” she repeated. The idea of Veronica Robbins walking in on them standing so close caused Tilda to panic. Her throat squeezed and the back of her neck flashed hot. “You don’t want her to catch us, um, you know...flirting.”

  “Flirting?” One of Ash’s eyebrows winged up and his mouth quirked. “Is that what we should call this?”

  “What, um, else would it be?” Damn! She sounded breathless and helpless and spineless.

  “Let’s call it kissing,” Ash said. Then he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.

  The floor went unsteady beneath her feet. To keep upright, she curled her hand around Ash’s biceps, feeling the flex of his muscle in reaction to her touch.

  “Go out with me,” Ash said against her mouth.

  In the distance she could hear footsteps and his mother’s voice. She was on the phone, it sounded like, and on her way to the kitchen.

  With Ash’s lips still soft on hers, Tilda tried marshaling her thoughts. But only one was crystal clear: I like his mouth on mine. Her common sense had completely left the premises or was wrapped in the honey sweetness that was Ash’s hand now in her hair and the fingers of Ash’s other hand stroking her cheek.

  Shivers rolled down Tilda’s body as that voice and those footsteps got closer and closer.

  “Go out with me,” Ash said a third time.

  And it was the charm. Because Tilda said, “Okay, okay, but please, get out of here.”

  Flashing a triumphant smile, Ash departed, leaving Tilda vaguely recalling her vow to fade into the woodwork and definitely worrying about what trouble “Go out with me” could cause.r />
  For them all, including Ash’s mother and his father.

  * * *

  MAC RETURNED TO Zan’s the day after he dropped the bombshell about owning the cabin property. She’d had twenty-four hours to get her head on straight and her emotions locked down and now she was prepared to do the grown-up thing. An adult would be able to look her old flame in the eye, get down to business—he had a job for her, she always needed money—and proceed in a professional manner.

  Hot kisses be damned.

  He pulled open the door and the surprise on his face kind of pissed her off. She frowned at him. “What? You thought I’d run away for good? I’m no quitter.”

  “But you hold grudges damn well,” Zan said.

  Narrowing her eyes, she tried not to absorb how mouthwatering he looked in battered jeans and an off-white chambray shirt, cuffs rolled up, tails out. No way would she recall the weight of his body on hers the day before, the solid heat of him all around her, and especially against that pulsing place between her legs.

  Blame those moments on her weak will following his announcement. She’d been flabbergasted and beyond anxious about how the rest of the family would take the news—especially Poppy. Her mind reeling, she’d succumbed to the warmth of his arms and of his body, and after breathing in his scent she’d temporarily lost all her good sense.

  “I remember getting the deep freeze,” Zan continued now, “for at least two days when I hid Curly.”

  “I was twelve, Zan.”

  Faintly smiling, he shrugged. “It was a teddy bear, Mac.”

  She ignored his crack about the favorite stuffed animal of her childhood. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? We have a job to negotiate.”

  His expression turned serious. “You don’t have to do anything for me to ensure I keep that promise I made you.”

  Instead of waiting to be asked in, she pushed past him. “I’m not ‘doing anything’ for you. I’m going to help you clear out this place and in return you’re going to pay me a fair wage. Feel free to throw in a big tip.”

  “Mac—”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I know you’ll keep your promise.” Though she might not know what the Walkers would ultimately do about this new turn of events—was there anything to do?—she was certain Zan wouldn’t break his word.

  “Thanks.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where he poured her some coffee, and she laid out the hours she had to offer and they negotiated her rate. She allowed him to be generous without being ridiculous. They exchanged a heated word or two about that. “You’re a prideful woman,” he finally concluded.

  She thanked him for the compliment and he only shook his head.

  “Are we ready to go upstairs and do a thorough survey?” she asked, getting to her feet.

  He was staring at her. “What?” she said, alarmed. Looking down, she brushed at her jeans. They were her good black pair, which she’d worn with dressy-ish half boots and a V-necked lightweight knit top with an asymmetrical hem that swung about her hips. Okay, so she’d not gone the driving-to-the-dump route this time, but she also hadn’t intended to do anything grimy today, so—

  So she’d wanted to look nice for her ex. It wasn’t a crime.

  “That sweater...it makes your eyes look like blue ice.”

  Her whole body warmed.

  “Thanks,” she said, working to sound offhand. “I stole it from Poppy.” For just the exact reason he’d said, and—though she’d never admit it out loud—she’d worn it today in hopes that he’d notice. Then she cleared her throat. “Ready for that survey?”

  “Almost,” he said, then hesitated. “Do we need to talk about what happened on the bed?”

  This time her body flashed hot. “I think we shouldn’t.” There was nothing to say. It had been a short loss of control. A brief aberration.

  “Mac—”

  “Actually, I insist we shouldn’t,” she said, then started striding out of the room. When the faint bock, bock, bock of a chicken cluck sounded behind her, she pretended she was hearing things and stomped up the staircase. “Let’s work from the top down.”

  The third floor had the most number of empty rooms, but what was in them primarily appeared not worth saving or selling. “I’ll come with boxes next time and we can dump this stuff in, cart it downstairs. The old pots and pans, those mismatched sets of dishes and the lamps we found we can deliver to the charity thrift store.”

  On the second floor, they both contemplated the room with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Mac pulled out a heavy, embossed volume. “I’m not sure anyone will want the Encyclopedia Britannica set published in—” she checked “—1955.”

  Zan was perusing the tomes on the other side of the room. “Here’s a paperback version of The Lord of the Rings trilogy that I think I borrowed from Brett, like, fifteen years ago.” When he pulled a book out, the pages separated from the cover and fell to the Oriental carpet. “Oops. I won’t be able to return it in this condition.”

  Mac strolled over to him. “What else is there? Are those graphic novels? Now, they could be worth something.” As she pulled a few free, the action loosened another item farther down the row and it fell from its spot, nearly landing at Zan’s feet.

  They both stared a moment, then dived for it at the same time. Zan won. Mac tried to wrestle the scrapbook away from him, but he forcefully yanked it out of her grip and held it over his head. She hated that grin of his.

  “I want that back,” she demanded. “Give it to me.”

  “Forget about it,” he said, still wearing that triumphant smile. “This was a gift to me.”

  “That you clearly cherished so much you left it here stuffed between your Archie Comics and your—” she pointed at them “—Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues.”

  “Those were my grandfather’s.”

  “Right.” She rolled her eyes, then held out her hand, trying to appear calm and mature and not as if she was one second away from a teenage tantrum. “Please, Zan.”

  Stepping away, he brought the book down to eye level. She’d made the whole damn thing, Mac remembered. From the pages cut from construction paper to the binding, which was cardboard that she’d wrapped in material cut from her old jeans. On the front cover she’d managed to place a back pocket and even without looking she knew inside there was a key she’d found at a flea market. With a red ribbon she’d tied a piece of tagboard to it that read, “The key to Mac’s heart.”

  How young, how trusting she’d been.

  No less worse was the fact that in permanent pen she’d titled the scrapbook, Mac and Zan: The Early Years.

  Their only years.

  As he opened it, her heartbeat went crazy. Pasted to the first page was a photo of them before they’d become an item. Zan was mugging for the camera, all teen hotness, while she was looking at his face, yearning written all over it. Why the hell had she put that front and center? she thought, mortified by it now.

  Because, secure in his feelings for her, deep in sticky, sticky love, she hadn’t been afraid to let him know how she’d always felt about him. Mac had felt it safe to love Zan.

  Looking away, she could hear him turning pages and it felt as if he was peeling layers from her heart. She remembered attaching more photos of them and gluing pictures from magazines that reminded her of things they did together as well as lyrics from music that communicated all that Zan had meant to her.

  Country songs. Rock ballads. Top 100 singles from the top boy bands.

  Yeah. How young, how trusting she’d been.

  She was gearing up to attempt another snatch-and-grab, when he spoke again. “I’d forgotten about the poem.”

  Kill me now, came the silent whisper straight from her raw heart as she squeezed shut her eyes. Kill me right now.

&
nbsp; Unfortunately, she was still alive when he decided to share once more. “How could I have failed to remember that Zan rhymes with lamb?”

  “Don’t do that,” she said in a low whisper.

  “What?”

  “Don’t do that.” She opened her eyes, met his. “Don’t laugh at that scrapbook or that poem. Especially, don’t laugh at me.”

  His eyebrows rose and she could see there wasn’t a hint of humor left on his face. “Mac...”

  “That girl—” she gestured toward the book in his hand “—can’t we just let her be?”

  Slowly, he folded the cover over the pages. “Sure, Mac. No problem.”

  The way he was watching her so carefully made her want to kick herself. The mature Mac had almost come to begging and tears over a stupid scrapbook she’d poured her emotions into when she was seventeen years old! Great. Such a professional.

  Shoving her hands in her pockets, she addressed the toes of her boots. “Maybe I should go.”

  “Or maybe we should take a different trip down memory lane,” Zan said in a casual tone. “I could really go for a chocolate malt from the Shake Hut. Is it still there?”

  Yeah, it was still there, and she was not a fan of running from him again. She reminded herself she was tough. Mature. No longer that heart-open-wide, defenseless young girl. “A malt sounds good.”

  The Shake Hut was off the main road that ran through the tiny town of Cedar Creek, a few miles from Blue Arrow Lake. As she had dozens of times before, she rode shotgun with Zan driving, her nose nearly pressed to the glass as she took in the snowy woods on her side of the car.

  It calmed her to look at the pristine white and suddenly she had a different idea. “Shake Hut second,” she said, then pointed. “Turn off here first.”

  He glanced at her and she knew he understood the place she wanted to visit. So there was no further need to provide directions, and she sat back as he drove along smaller and smaller roads. Finally, they were at the bottom of the long steep drive that led to the cabins and surrounding property.

  Zan slowed. “It’s plowed.”

  “Brett keeps it that way. He and Angelica live in one of the cabins.”