Lovers And Other Strangers

The last thing he wanted was to get involved with anyone, he reminded himself. He was here to clean out his grandfather’s house and maybe, while he was at it, figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He didn’t need any complications. Breakfast was one thing, especially when it came with caffeine, but anything else was out of the question.

And if his new neighbor would be willing to start wearing baggy clothes and put a paper sack over her head, he just might be able to remember that.

The interior of the house continued the pseudo-Spanish theme of the exterior. The floor of the small entryway was covered with dark-red tiles, and arch-ways led off in various directions. Through one, he could see a living room, which looked almost as uncoordinated as the flower beds out front. A sofa upholstered in fat pink roses sat at right angles to an over-stuffed chair covered in blue plaid. Both faced a small fireplace. The end table next to the sofa was completely covered in magazines and books. In one corner of the room, there was a sewing machine in a cabinet. Heaped over and around it and trailing onto the floor, there were piles of brightly colored fabric. The comfortable clutter made it obvious that this was a room where someone actually lived, and he couldn’t help but compare it to the painful neatness of his grandfather’s house—everything in its place, everything organized with military precision. The whole place had a sterile feeling that made it hard to believe it had been someone’s home for more than forty years. Pushing the thought aside, Reece followed Shannon through an archway on the left of the entryway.

The kitchen was in a similar state of comfortable disarray. It was not a large room but light colors and plenty of windows made it seem bigger than it was. White cupboards and a black-and-white, checkerboard-patterned floor created a crisp, modern edge, but the yellow floral curtains and brightly colored ceramic cups and canisters added a cheerfully eclectic touch.

“Have a seat,” Shannon said, gesturing to the small maple table that sat under a window looking out onto the backyard.

Reece chose to lean against the counter instead, his eyes following her as she got out a cup and poured coffee into it.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked as she handed him the cup. “I don’t actually have cream, but I think I’ve got milk.”

“Black is fine.” Reece lifted the cup and took a sip, risking a scalded tongue in his eagerness. But it was worth it, he thought as the smooth, rich taste filled his mouth. “This is terrific coffee,” he said, sipping again.

“It’s a blend of beans that I buy at a little coffee shop downtown. They roast it themselves.” She opened a cupboard, stared into it for a moment and then closed the door.

“You do your own grinding?”

“I haven’t figured out yet whether or not it actually makes a difference but the guy who runs the shop sneers if you ask him to grind it for you.”

Shannon opened the refrigerator door, and Reece felt his stomach rumble inquiringly. It had been a long time since dinner last night, and if she cooked half as well as she made coffee, breakfast was bound to be special. Relaxing back against the counter, he sipped his coffee and allowed his eyes to linger on her legs with absentminded appreciation while he entertained fantasies of bacon and eggs or maybe waffles slathered in butter and maple syrup or—

“How do you feel about Froot Loops?”

Chapter 3

“I haven’t really given them much thought,” Reece admitted cautiously.

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having them for breakfast?” she asked. “I have that and Pepsi.”

“Pepsi?” An image of multicolored, sugar-coated bits of cereal floating in a sea of flat cola flashed through his mind, and his stomach lurched. “On the Froot Loops?” he asked faintly.

“Of course not!” Shannon’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “With it, not poured over it.”

It seemed a marginal improvement. Reece took another swallow of coffee and tried to decide just how polite he should be in turning down her offer. It seemed a pity to offend someone who made coffee this good.

Shannon sighed abruptly and pushed the refrigerator door shut with a thud. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted upward. “The truth is, I don’t cook.” Her tone mixed apology and defiance. “In fact, I’m a complete disaster in the kitchen. I live on frozen dinners and junk food. Coffee is the only thing I can cook without destroying it, and that’s only because it’s an automatic pot.”

“You invited me to breakfast,” he reminded her mildly.

“I know.” She sighed and spread her hands in a gesture that might have been apology. “It was Edith’s idea.”

“Cacklemeyer suggested you should ask me to breakfast?” His brows rose in disbelief.

Shannon shook her head. “She said I shouldn’t. She came across the street while I was working in the garden.”

Reece took a fortifying swallow of coffee and tried to sort out the conversation. “She walked across the street to tell you not to invite me to breakfast?”

“Not exactly.” She scowled and shoved her hands in the back pockets of her cutoffs. His eyes dropped to the soft curves of her breasts, pure male appreciation momentarily distracting him from both the conversation and the emptiness of his stomach. “She came across the street to tell me to pull my marigolds and that you were sure to cause trouble. So, I told her I liked marigolds and that I was going to invite you to breakfast. I hadn’t planned on it, obviously.”

“The marigolds or breakfast?” he asked, fascinated by her circuitous conversational style.

“Breakfast,” she said, her eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I knew I liked marigolds but I didn’t know I was going to invite you to breakfast until she annoyed me.”

“So this was all part of a plot to irritate Cacklemeyer?” A more sensitive man would probably be offended, Reece thought.

“I don’t think you could call it a plot.” Shannon’s tone was thoughtful. “If it had been a plot, I would have planned a little better and bought some decent food. Oh, wait!” Her eyes lit up suddenly. “There’s a box of waffles in the freezer, but I don’t think I have any syrup. I have grape jelly, though,” she added hopefully.

Reece barely restrained a shudder. Her idea of “decent” and his were not quite the same. Nothing—not the best coffee he’d had in months, not five feet eight inches of long-legged, blue-eyed, dangerously attractive redhead—could make him eat toaster waffles spread with grape jelly.

Shannon must have read something of his thoughts, because her hopeful expression faded into vague suspicion. “Are you a health food nut? One of those people who only eats roots and berries and never lets a preservative touch their lips?”

Reece thought about the Twinkies lying on the seat of the truck. “No, I’ve got nothing against an occasional preservative.” He finished off his coffee—no sense in letting it go to waste—and set the cup down, trying to think of a tactful way to make his escape.

Seeing his vaguely hunted expression, Shannon felt a twinge of amusement. Not everyone shared her casual attitude toward food. “Not a fan of grape jelly?”

Reece caught the gleam in her eye and relaxed. “Actually, I’m allergic.”

“To grape jelly?” Shannon arched one brow in skeptical question.

“It’s a rare allergy,” he admitted.

“I bet.” She told herself that she wasn’t in the least charmed by the way one corner of his mouth tilted in a half smile. “Fred and Wilma are on the jelly glass,” she tempted.

“The Flintstones?” Reece shook his head, trying to look regretful. “That’s tough to turn down, but my throat swells shut and then I turn blue.”

“Really?” Her bright, interested look startled a smile from Reece.

“I hope you’re not going to make me demonstrate.”

“I guess not.” Her mouth took on a faintly pouty look that turned Reece’s thoughts in directions that had nothing to do with breakfast. He reined them in as he straightened away from the counter.

“Maybe I can take a rain check on breakfast?” he asked politely.

“I’ll get an extra box of Cap’n Crunch next time I go shopping,” she promised, and he tried not to shudder.

“You did what?” Her eyes wide with surprise, Kelly turned away from the pegboard full of sewing notions, a stack of chalk markers forgotten in her hand.

“I invited him to breakfast,” Shannon repeated.

“That’s what I thought you said.” Kelly came over to the cutting table where Shannon was making up color-coordinated packets of fabric and leaned against its edge, her expression a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “You just sauntered up and offered him bacon and eggs?”

“Froot Loops,” Shannon corrected her. She slid a cardboard price tag onto a length of lavender ribbon before tying it around a stack of half a dozen different pink fabrics. “I didn’t have any bacon. Or eggs.”

“Froot Loops? You invited Reece Morgan over for Froot Loops? And you waited until now to tell me?” It was difficult to say what Kelly found most shocking.

“Yesterday was your day off. And there’s nothing wrong with Froot Loops. I eat them all the time.”

“You could have called me at home.” Kelly grumbled. “And Froot Loops aren’t exactly what I’d call company fare.” She shook her head, her dark eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I’d have given anything to see his face when you put the box on the table.”

“Actually, the box didn’t get that far.” Shannon began folding the next stack of fabric.

It was Tuesday morning, the sky was gray with the promise of rain that probably wouldn’t show up for another month and there were no customers. It was a perfect chance to catch up on a few things around the shop. And to indulge in a little gossip. Glancing at Kelly’s stunned expression, Shannon couldn’t deny that she was enjoying being the one with astonishing news to deliver.

“Apparently, Froot Loops and Pepsi are not among his favorite breakfast combos.”

“Who can blame him?” Kelly pulled her face into a comical grimace. “If he really is a mob boss, he’s probably already put a contract out on your life just for suggesting it.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a vegetarian zombie.”

“That’s Paul McCartney.” Kelly picked up the chalk pencils and carried them over to the notions wall to hang them up.

“Paul is a zombie?” Shannon looked surprised. “He looks so normal.”

“No, he’s a vegetarian.”

“Does that mean he can’t be a zombie?”

“Zombies pretty much have to be carnivores, don’t you think?” Kelly wandered back to the cutting table and reached for the roll of ribbon and began snipping it into eighteen-inch lengths. “I mean, how frightening would it be if a bunch of squash-eating undead were roaming the streets?”

“I guess it would be pretty frightening for the squash.” Shannon tossed another fabric packet into the box.

“I suppose,” Kelly agreed absently. “What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Reece Morgan.” Kelly’s tone was exasperated. “Who were we talking about? And if you mention Paul McCartney, I’m going to brain you with the nearest blunt object.”

“I wasn’t going to mention him,” Shannon lied meekly.

“Good.” Kelly set the ribbon aside, lifted a bolt of fabric from the stack leaning against the side of the cutting table, clicked open a rotary cutter and began slicing off half-yard chunks. “You’re the first eye witness I’ve talked to, so tell me what the infamous Reece Morgan is really like. Did he send shivers up your spine?” she asked, grinning.

“Not that I noticed.” At least not the kind of shivers Kelly was talking about. If there had been a small—practically infinitesimal—shiver of awareness, she was keeping it to herself. The last thing she needed was for Kelly to turn her matchmaking eye in Reece Morgan’s direction.

“Is he mean looking? Does he have a patch over one eye? Antennae growing out the top of his head? A nose ring? Wear three-inch lifts and a girdle? Tell me all.”

“He doesn’t need a girdle,” Shannon said, remembering the muscled flatness of his stomach. “Or lifts. He’s tall. No eye patch, nose ring or antennae that I noticed. And I didn’t think he was mean looking, though I imagine he could be. He has dark hair, dark eyes.”

“Good-looking?” Kelly asked, folding the end of the fabric and pinning it to the bolt.

“I think most women would say so,” Shannon offered, careful to sound neither too interested or suspiciously indifferent.

“Well, who cares what men think? Unless…” The bolt of fabric hit the table with a thud as a possibility occurred to her. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“No,” Shannon answered without hesitation.

“Are you sure?” Kelly shook her head as she began folding the fabric she’d just cut. “Because it seems like every good-looking, single man in the state of California is these days.”

Shannon could have told her that Reece Morgan was more likely to turn out to be the world’s first squash-eating zombie, but she settled for a half shrug and mild reassurance. “I’m pretty sure.”

Kelly folded in silence for a moment then sighed abruptly. “Well, it’s certainly going to disappoint a lot of people.”

“People are going to be disappointed that he’s not gay?” Shannon asked, startled.

“Not that.” Kelly grinned. “They’re going to be disappointed if he’s normal. I mean, what’s the point of having a bad boy come back to town if he’s not bad anymore?”

“I see what you mean. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Shannon shook her head sadly. “When you think of it, it was pretty inconsiderate of him. The least he could have done was get his nose pierced or maybe file his teeth.”

“Exactly.” Kelly looked wistful. “I was really hoping for black leather and chains.”

Shannon’s brows rose. “Does Frank know about this?”

“Not for me, silly. For Reece Morgan. He could at least have worn a black leather jacket and maybe an earring. For heaven’s sake, even stockbrokers are wearing earrings these days!” She shook her head at the unfairness of it.

“The man’s an inconsiderate lout.” Shannon looped a ribbon around the next stack of fabric.

“So, what did you do about breakfast?” Kelly asked.

“Well, I offered him toaster waffles and grape jelly but he said he was allergic to grape jelly and took a rain check.” Shannon dropped the fabric packet into the basket and waited for Kelly’s reaction. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Toaster waffles and jelly?” Kelly stared at her in horror. “You actually eat that?”

“Not voluntarily, but there wasn’t anything else in the house.”

“What did he do?”

“Actually, I think he turned a little pale.”

“Who can blame him?” Kelly muttered and then giggled. “I’d love to have seen his face.”

“It was…interesting,” Shannon admitted, grinning at the memory of Reece’s poorly concealed revulsion. “But he managed to remain polite.”

“I’m almost sorry to hear that,” Kelly said.

“I suppose you’d rather he’d threatened me with bodily harm?”

“Well, you have to admit that the man is starting to sound depressingly normal. In fact, he sounds downright dull.”

The bell over the door jangled, saving Shannon the necessity of a response. Dull? she thought as she turned to greet the customer who’d entered. That was just about the last word she could imagine applying to Reece Morgan.

There was nothing like a small town to make you appreciate the joys of living in a city, Reece thought as he rolled his shopping cart into place behind a middle-aged woman wearing a hot-pink jumpsuit and purple sneakers. In the fifteen years he’d lived in D.C., no one had ever gawked at him over a pile of bananas or waylaid him in the dairy aisle to offer condolences on his loss and, in the next breath, ask what he planned to do about the condition of his lawn. He’d been discreetly eyed by a young woman pushing a cart full of baby food and disposable diapers, blatantly stared at by an old man carrying a six-pack of Coors and a bag of pretzels and nearly mowed over by a toddler trying to escape parental supervision.

Obviously, shopping at Jim & Earl’s Super Food Mart had been a mistake. It was just a few blocks from his grandfather’s house, which meant it was convenient, not only for him but for his neighbors, who apparently found his presence a source of endless fascination. He didn’t even have to turn his head to know that the skinny blonde in the next checkout line was studying the contents of his cart as if trying to commit a complete inventory to memory. If only he’d thought of it sooner, he could have thrown in half a dozen boxes of neon-colored, fruit-flavored condoms and a couple cases of tequila so the local grapevine would have something really interesting to talk about. As it was, he doubted they were going to be able to do much with the news that he’d been seen buying boneless chicken breasts and bok choy.

He listened with leashed impatience as the cashier quizzed the woman in the pink jumpsuit about the health of every member of her family, clicking her tongue in sympathy or exclaiming with delight, as necessary. If only her hands moved as fast as her mouth, she could win the grocery-checking Olympics, Reece thought acidly. She paused, a box of bagels in her hand, her mouth forming an O of amazement as the customer detailed the results of her niece’s breast reduction surgery and he bit back a groan. At the rate she was going, he stood in real danger of growing old and dying before he made it up to the register. He turned his head to see if there was a shorter line—or a longer one with a deaf and dumb cashier—and forgot all about his irritation.

His coffee-making, Froot Loop-eating neighbor was walking toward him, though he might not have recognized her if it hadn’t been for the unmistakable reddish-gold gleam of her hair, which was caught up in a soft twist at the back of her head. The T-shirt and shorts had been replaced by a silky-gold blouse and a calf-length skirt in shades of rust and moss green. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret that those incredible legs were covered, but he had to admit that there was something tantalizing about knowing just what that flowing skirt was hiding. She looked older, more sophisticated and just as delicious, he admitted, letting his gaze skim over the soft curves and angles of her.

He hadn’t set eyes on her since their not-quite-breakfast encounter a little more than a week ago, but he’d thought about her more than he liked to admit. More than was smart for a man who wanted no entanglements, because, even on a short acquaintance, he was fairly sure that Shannon Devereux was not the sort of woman to fall into a casual affair with a currently unemployed ex-government agent who just happened to be living next door to her for a few weeks.

Shannon looked up and saw him. Her eyes widened in surprise and then she smiled and Reece found himself thinking that maybe Serenity Falls wasn’t such a bad place after all. She walked over to him, a mesh basket hanging over her arm.

“You know, recent studies indicate that people who eat large quantities of fresh vegetables are twice as likely to develop cauliflower ears.”

“I didn’t know cauliflowers had ears,” he said, responding to the unconventional greeting without missing a beat.

She widened her eyes in surprise. “Of course they have ears. How else could they know what’s being said on the grapevine?”

His smile widened into a quick grin that made Shannon’s breath catch. Over the past week, she’d almost convinced herself that her new neighbor couldn’t possibly be as attractive as she’d thought. Her imagination, fueled by months of whispered speculation about the mysterious Reece Morgan, had exaggerated his looks, created an image to suit his two-decade-old reputation. But the way her pulse stuttered when she looked up and saw him forced her to admit that no exaggeration had been necessary. Not when you had six feet four inches of dark-haired, dark-eyed, solidly muscled male standing right in front of you. Even on its best days, her imagination couldn’t improve on that reality.

With an effort she pulled her eyes away from his face and glanced at the contents of his shopping cart. Clicking her tongue, she shook her head in disapproval. “You don’t plan on buying that stuff, do you?”

Reece’s expression shifted to wary amusement. “You’re not going to tell me that they’ve decided that vegetables are carcinogenic, are you?”

“Not yet, though I’m fairly sure that further research will eventually prove Brussels sprouts were never intended to touch human lips,” she said darkly. “But that’s not the point now.” Shannon flicked her fingers at the bags of vegetables and the package of boneless chicken breasts. “You actually have fresh ginger in there.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Reece wondered if he should worry that her circuitous conversational style was starting to seem almost normal. The skinny blonde in the next line was craning her neck in what she probably thought was a subtle attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation. Reece ignored her.

“It hardly suits your image.” Her soft mouth primmed into a disapproving line. “Think about it. Bad boy returns home and buys vegetables? What kind of a message does that send?”

“Bad boy?” Reece repeated, not entirely pleased. “Is that what I’m supposed to be?”

“Of course.” She seemed surprised that he had to ask. “According to local myth, you were the scourge of Serenity Falls.”

“Scourge?” He was caught between irritation and amusement. “I think that’s overstating things a little. I may have raised a little hell, but I didn’t exactly pillage and burn the town.”

“You’re forgetting the petunias,” she pointed out.

“One flower bed and I’m a scourge?” How did she manage to pull him into these conversations?

Shannon looked regretful. “In a town this size, it doesn’t take much.” She shifted her shopping basket from her right hand to her left, and her voice took on a self-consciously pedantic tone that, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, made Reece wonder if her mouth could possibly be as soft as it looked. And wouldn’t that set the grapevine humming—news that that Morgan boy had kissed his very attractive neighbor right in the middle of the food mart with God and half the town looking on. With an effort, he dragged his attention back to what Shannon was saying.

“Actually, the Bad Boy is a classic figure in Western mythology. An important character in both film and literature. Think of James Dean.”

“James Dean?” Reece’s upper lip curled. “Kind of a skinny little twerp, wasn’t he?”

Shannon’s eyes widened in horror, and she pressed her free hand to her chest as if to protect her heart from the shock. “James Dean? The king of cool? You’re calling him a twerp?”

“Couldn’t have weighed more than one-fifty soaking wet and with his shoes on. Maybe if he’d eaten his vegetables, he’d have bulked up a little.”

Shannon’s mouth twitched and was sternly controlled. “Don’t you think that would have spoiled his lean and hungry look? It’s hard to seem tragically misunderstood when you look like you could eat hay with a fork.”

“So only the scrawny get sympathy?” Reece shook his head. “Doesn’t seem quite fair to me.”

“I’m told that life isn’t always fair.”

“I’ve heard that rumor.”

“Do you have plans for Thursday?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“Thursday?” he repeated blankly.

“Thanksgiving?” Shannon arched her brows. “You know, turkey, dressing, pumpkin pie. Pilgrims shaking hands with the Indians they’re eventually going to wipe out. The fourth Thursday in November when we all get together and eat too much? This coming Thursday? Do you have plans?”

“Not that I know of,” Reece admitted cautiously.

“Well, you’re welcome to join the crowd at my house,” she offered. “It’s nothing formal. People just drop by.”

“Are you cooking?” he asked involuntarily, visions of freeze-dried turkey flashing before his eyes.

Shannon’s quick, throaty laugh made the skinny blonde sidle closer in an attempt to overhear what was being said. “Don’t worry, it’s potluck. Everyone brings something, and I’ve been strictly forbidden to set foot in the kitchen.”