With limited success. But it had been a noble effort.
She turned off the faucet and grabbed one of the big, fluffy towels she’d found on the shelf. She’d found some soap and shampoo over the tub, too, and thank God for it, since she hadn’t remembered to pack bath stuff into her duffel.
She sorted through her bag, hair dripping, taking inventory. Kendrick’s brooding presence outside the van had addled her wits. She’d remembered dog food, for instance, but had forgotten the can opener. She was usually extremely organized. Maniacally so. It was an essential survival skill when one lived in a camper van.
She dragged out bits and pieces from the pockets of her purse and duffel. Matches, pocketknife, flashlight. Strange guy, that Jack Kendrick. He seemed so mellow and quiet, soft-spoken, and then suddenly he was provocative and rude. She hauled out a handful of candles, a pack of her favorite incense. No pans, dishes, or human food. She had to hike back to the van if she wanted to eat.
A bleak, exhausting prospect. Her stomach rumbled.
First things first, though. Edna was waiting patiently, gazing through the glass door from the deck outside in limpid reproach. The pocketknife would not open a can of dog food. She would have to face the man and beg a can opener off him. No avoiding this necessity.
A few careful, anxious primping minutes later, she walked down the stairs, wishing she had a blow-dryer. She needed to fluff herself up, get some volume. With wet hair, she looked even smaller and more insignificant than she already was. Like a wet Persian cat.
She was angry at her silly self for being so nervous. This man had no power over her. He was nothing to her. He just happened to be good-looking and charismatic, that was all. No biggie. She was a normal hetero female. She noticed a good-looking man when one came into her field of vision.
Although she certainly hadn’t thrown out any come-hither glances since the Brian Wilder debacle. That bitter taste in her mouth still lingered, after six years. Six years of celibacy. She could hardly believe it herself, but there it was.
And this falling away, weak-in-the-knees feeling was absurd. Being afraid of what Kendrick thought of her. Wanting his approval. Yikes.
She could not afford to feel so vulnerable.
She’d spent too much energy fighting other people’s opinions and efforts to control her. Like she had with Brian. Just thinking about Brian made her angry, exhausted. Sickened.
She’d worked so hard, given up so much, to be free to do as she damn well pleased. She’d sacrificed a brilliant, lucrative career as a sculptor for that precious freedom and independence. That was why she’d been on the road so long, making the best of the hard choices she’d made. And working her ass off, too, incidentally, which was nothing to be ashamed of. She’d be damned if she’d let some pinheaded, muscle-bound doofus make her feel small, no matter how hot he was.
Her sense of self was too hard-won.
She walked across the luxuriant lawn, up the porch steps, admiring the thickness and variety of the flowers bordering the house and the flagstone walkway. The garden was over-the-top beautiful.
At the front door, she raised her hand to knock, and her hand stopped in midair as her chest constricted. Oh, please. Enough of this crap. She forced herself to rap boldly. Bam-bam, here I am.
The door opened after a moment, and there he was. He seemed even bigger than before, framed by the door. No poncho. She could finally check out all his assets. Wow.
She was absurdly glad that she’d changed into the green rayon dress. She’d even considered taking out the nose ring. Then she’d concluded that the damage was done. Taking it out now revealed more about her fears and insecurities than leaving it in did. And as if that wasn’t enough to make her feel self-conscious, the dress she’d shoved into the duffel was the very one that dipped down in the front and the back, showing off the little flower tattoo over her breast and the sun tattoo on her shoulder.
Just as well. It kept her honest. She’d flaunt ’em. He’d just have to deal with the tattooed, itinerant sexpot that she was. Nyah, nyah.
Other than that particular, the dress was quite modest and feminine and pretty. It was ankle length, just skimming her curves, and it looked great with the little gold and emerald V pendant that Lucia had given her. If her hair had only been dry, it would have covered both tattoos, being more than long and thick enough. But not when wet.
His eyes swept over her, and she suffered a burst of agonizing self-consciousness. She hadn’t packed a bra into her duffel. Her brights were on, big-time, and not just because of the cold, either. She’d put on a little bit of makeup, too, just because, and he was noticing it. Maybe he would think she was trying to impress him. Allure him. God forbid.
He was still in his mud-spattered jeans. Without the poncho, she could see how barrel-chested he was. The T-shirt revealed the muscular breadth of his shoulders. The faded jeans affectionately hugged his powerful thighs. Talk to the man, Viv, her frozen brain pleaded. Say something. Anything. Don’t just stand there gawking at the guy’s pecs.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, kicking herself for the breathless, kittenish tone. None of that fluttery shit. She had to be an Amazon. A tough broad.
“No bother. Come on in. I made coffee.”
Vivi followed him into a big room with an open kitchen on one side, banks of windows on all sides, paneled in rosy, fragrant cedar. An old-fashioned woodstove had a couple of soft, battered-looking couches grouped around it, and a stack of cut wood tucked into a recessed space in the wall. There was an old-fashioned braided rug, in deep, brilliant colors, on the wood-plank floor. Plants were everywhere: ferns, jades, spider plants, begonias, scores of others she couldn’t begin to identify. The deep windowsills were all lined with clay boxes filled with pale sprouts and tender seedlings. It was warm, cheerful, welcoming. Beautiful.
Jack gestured toward an old trestle table in the kitchen area. “Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?”
“Milk, if you have it, and sugar, please.”
He poured coffee into a huge earthenware mug, reached into his refrigerator, and held up a carton of half-and-half. “This do?”
“Oh, yeah! How luxurious. Nobody I know uses half-and-half anymore. It’s always one percent, or skim. Or that foul nondairy stuff.”
He grunted. “I eat what I like.”
A sudden memory of Brian, who had a precision scale in his kitchen and counted every gram of fat he ate, rose up in her mind. She fought back a silly impulse to giggle and concentrated on stirring a spoonful of glistening, sticky brown sugar into her coffee. She tried not to stare at the way his biceps distended the short sleeves of his shirt.
He sat down across from her. She took a cautious sip. The coffee was delicious. “Great coffee,” she offered, feeling idiotic.
He nodded. Vivi tried to relax, studying the plants, and then noticed that he was staring fixedly at the neckline of her dress. She glanced down, terrified that it was gaping scandalously over her nipple, or something, but no. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
“Sorry,” he said, looking down. “I, um, was just looking at your eranthis hyemalis.”
She blinked. “My…ah, my what?”
He looked embarrassed. “The flower. On your chest. I thought at first that it was Ranunculus acris, but then—”
“A what?”
He let out an impatient sigh. “A buttercup. But then I saw the leaves. Definitely Eranthis hyemalis. Winter Aconite, I mean.”
She looked down at her tattoo. “Oh. Yeah. I like this flower. I noticed it in a friend’s garden, blooming in the snow. That impressed me. The perfect combination of toughness and a good attitude.”
“Yeah, they’re great flowers.” He tore his gaze from her body and stared down into his coffee cup as if there were something really interesting at the bottom of it.
Vivi shoved her damp hair behind her ears. “I came down to ask you a favor.” She took another sip of the bracing coffee. “I forgot some key things when I left the van. Most I can do without, but the most important is a can opener, so I can feed Edna.”