Page 518 of Summer Heat
But that meant allowing herself to be in his company, and even more, forcing herself to try to be objective. It would mean that at some moment, he would kiss her again like he had tonight. And meant she might not resist his invitation to his bed the next time.
Could she bear it? How could she stand wanting anything, ever again?
In his bed, Cody sleepily turned over, and she tucked his covers over his slim shoulder. Light fell from the hallway over his small, still face, and Tamara saw his father in the clean carved lines, saw where the baby plumpness would one day whittle down and where a beard would grow. In the silky tresses, she felt the thickness that it would take on. Like his father’s.
Tenderly she kissed him. For Cody she could do anything.
Anything.
Chapter Eight
Lance rose early Saturday. He felt muddled and off center, not quite like himself. It didn’t feel like too much drink, but he couldn’t quite place the feeling, either. As he shaved, he wondered wryly if it were Tamara, if she were a drug he ought to stay away from.
Viewed in the bright light of morning, his reaction to kissing her seemed absurd. He rinsed his razor and frowned, remembering that weird, lost, unthinking haze that had come over him. He liked kissing, and he liked Tamara, but last night had just been—
Well…weird. That was the only word he could think of.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it this morning. He had to go scour Red Creek for rentals. Last night, Lance had discovered that Alonzo was living in a motel. Thanks to the ski slopes within easy driving distance and the almost insane upswing of the economy lately, rents were outrageous—not easily in the reach of even a well-paid construction worker.
Lance washed shaving cream from his face. His help this morning wasn’t unselfish by any stretch. Lance had worked with adobe makers in Houston and San Antonio, and none of them had come close to the exquisite work Alonzo could do. In addition, Alonzo had the rare ability to teach his craft to others, and run a crew reliably and with good humor.
Lance didn’t want to lose him.
Unfortunately, a dozen calls, and even the yanking of a few strings, turned up nothing. With the first snows around the corner, all the rentals in the area were locked up tight. Lance found one available property—a luxury home a half hour away that rented for three times what Alonzo made in a month.
Finally, driven by desperation, Lance called his mother to ask about the guest house that sat on their land. She hesitated for one long moment, and then said, “Let me meet him first.”
So Lance picked up Alonzo with the vague promise that they’d look at rentals after a while, but he wanted to go by and see his mother first.
Louise answered the door, wearing an apron over her plump curves. Flour dusted her. “Y’all come on in. I have to get these muffins out of the oven. My timer just went off.” Leaving the door open, she hurried off.
“Oh, you’re in for a treat,” Lance said with a grin. “She’s one of the best cooks in the state.”
“Yeah?” A curious expression, half amused, half surprised, was on Alonzo’s face. “I miss good food.”
“Don’t tell her. She’ll have you fat as a hog in two weeks flat.” He gestured for Alonzo to enter. “My mother loves to cook—but even more, she likes to feed people.”
Alonzo smoothed his mustache, raising one devilish black eyebrow. “An old-fashioned woman.” He winked. “I like that. You young ones, you don’t know yet what’s important in a woman.”
Lance thought of Tamara. For a fleeting second, he tasted her lips on his own. Then his mind snagged on the way her house had seemed so warm and comfortable and easy to be in the night of his father’s funeral. He remembered awakening, fed and soothed, in her chair, covered by a blanket she had placed over him.
The memory gave him a strange twist in his gut. He frowned. “You might be surprised,” he said to Alonzo.
They followed Louise to the kitchen, where she was taking out a tray of enormous, steaming blueberry muffins. Lance’s mouth watered instantly. “Those look good. Don’t tell me you’re making them for some museum tea or something.”
“No sir, they are not.” She gave him her sunniest smile. “I made them for you and your friend.” Putting the tray on top of the stove, she took off her oven mitt and held out a hand to Alonzo. “You must be Alonzo Chacon. I’m Louise Forrest. My boy has been singin’ your praises for weeks now. I’m glad to meet you.”
Alonzo moved forward, and took the outstretched hand. With a courtly gesture, he bent over it and planted a kiss lightly to the knuckles. “They did not tell me you were so beautiful,” he said.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Chacon,” she said briskly, taking back her hand.
“No flattery,” Alonzo said, inclining his head with a smile. He touched his hand to his chest. “From the heart.”
To Lance’s amazement, his mother blushed faintly, the color washing over the clear, smooth cheeks in a way he found touching. “Y’all sit down in the dining room and I’ll bring the muffins. Lance, you grab the butter. The real butter, now.”
“I know, Mom.” She didn’t allow margarine to taint her bakery goods.
He carried the ceramic butter dish to the table. “Why do we get blueberry muffins? What’s the occasion?”
