The back-door screen opened and Hope looked over her shoulder. Dylan walked toward her carrying several paper plates. She slid to the corner of the counter, and he dumped them in the garbage.
“Paul is a good guy,” he said, “but he can’t cook worth a damn. You didn’t have to eat that hot dog.”
“It wasn’t the hot dog I minded.” Hope reached for a mayonnaise lid and screwed it on the jar. “How can you all eat testicles?” When he didn’t answer right away, she turned her head and looked at him. He stood beside her, one hip shoved into the counter, his arms folded across his chest, his attention pinned to her behind.
He slowly raised his gaze to her face, past her mouth to her eyes. He shrugged and just smiled at having been caught staring at her butt. “To tell you the truth, I never could work up an appetite for Rocky Mountain oysters.”
She imitated his casual poise. Arms folded beneath her breasts, hip resting against the counter. Outside, she heard snatches of conversation, engines racing, and the crunch of gravel beneath tires. Inside, it all receded to the peripheral of her brain, and she found herself completely focused on him. The sound of his voice, the exact color of his eyes, and the way he pushed his hat up his forehead.
“Personally,” he said, “I never felt right about chewing on some steer’s left nut.”
“How many have you eaten?”
“One.”
She looked at his mouth. She’d kissed a man who’d confessed to eating a “steer’s left nut.” She should have been repulsed.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I brushed my teeth for about an hour afterward, and I flossed real good.”
She couldn’t have prevented her smile even if she’d thought to. “I’ve always been a sucker for a guy with good oral hygiene.”
He reached for her hand and his warm fingers closed around hers. She tried to ignore the hot tingle warming her skin and spreading to her wrist. “And I’ve always been a sucker for a sucker, especially if she’s wearing a short skirt.”
She glanced down at herself, at the hem of her skirt resting about an inch, no more than two, above her knees.
“Did you know that when you bent over to set your plate on the table, I could almost see the color of your underwear?”
No way was her skirt that short. She looked back up into his face. “You’d have to stand on your head to see the color of my underwear.”
“Actually, if I tilt my head just a little…” he confessed with an evil glint in his eyes as he brushed his thumb across her palm.
It was just her hand, nothing sexual about that, but for some unexplainable reason, the simple touch felt much more intimate. There was nothing to get excited about, she told herself even as her pulse leaped. No, nothing. “That’s kind of pathetic, Dylan. The last guy who tried to guess the color of my underwear was Jimmy Jaramillo. That was in fourth grade.”
“Now, I’m sure you’re wrong about that. I’m sure there are a lot of guys standing around guessing the color of your underwear.”
“Just you and Jimmy.”
“No, me and Jimmy are the only ones who have told you what we were up to.”
“You’re obviously bored. It sounds like you need a girlfriend.”
“Nah, a girlfriend is the last thing I need.”
“Why is that?”
He turned her hand over and studied each of her red fingernails. “Why is what?”
“Why is a girlfriend the last thing you need?”
He shrugged. “A lot of reasons. I don’t have time. I don’t want a serious relationship right now, and I’m not very good at it anyway. Adam keeps me really busy.” He turned her hand back over and stared at her palm. “But I do miss having a woman around sometimes.”
She bet she knew what he missed. She missed it, too. Ever since the night he’d stood in her kitchen and kissed her, she’d thought about how much she missed it.
“I really miss feeling the weight of a woman’s hand in mine as I walk down the street.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d been thinking. He looked at her, and in an instant, she recognized the emptiness and longing gazing back at her. Dylan Taber, the very eligible and extremely handsome sheriff of Pearl County, the man who drove women crazy with his easy smiles and causal endearments, was lonely. Just like her.
Incredible but true, and something deep inside Hope swelled and answered the yearning in his green eyes. His lids lowered a fraction, and he stared at her lips. Her breath caught in her throat, and her chest got tight. She raised her face as he slowly lowered his mouth toward hers.
The back door was thrown open hard enough to hit the wall. The moment shattered, Hope and Dylan jumped apart as Paul and Shelly raced into the kitchen. Paul held Shelby’s hand above her head as blood ran down her arm and dripped from her elbow.
“Shelly cut her hand with my hunting knife,” Paul yelled before anyone had the chance to ask. He grabbed a towel off the counter and wrapped it around her hand.
“That’s dirty,” Shelly protested calmly. “Hope, behind you in the third drawer down are the clean towels.”
“What happened?” Dylan asked Paul.
“I put my knife in a bucket of soapy water she had out there for the kids to put their dirty dishes in. Before I could tell her, she stuck her hand in it.”
Under the circumstances, Hope didn’t think she could have remained as composed as Shelly. In fact, she was sure she’d be screaming her head off. She pulled a towel from the drawer and handed it over. “Is it deep?”
“She’ll need stitches for sure,” Paul answered. His breathing was shallow, and he was clearly more panicked than his wife. “I’m going to run her to the clinic.”
“I’ll drive you,” Dylan offered. “We’ll get there quicker.”
“What about the little boys?” Paul wanted to know.
“I’ll watch them,” Hope volunteered.
Dylan turned to her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll call someone.”
“I can handle two small boys,” she assured him, slightly offended that he didn’t think her capable.
“Are you sure?” Dylan asked.
“Sure.”
How hard could it be?
Chapter Eight
“Bloody finger one block awaaay…” Beneath a makeshift tent of blankets, safety pins, and kitchen chairs, Hope shined the flashlight under her chin and stared at the two young faces across from her. She opened her mouth and continued her scary story in her scariest voice. “I ran and hid behind my bed, but still I heard, ‘Bloody finger one house awaaay…’ ” She slid her hand under a pile of sleeping bags and rapped her knuckles against the hardwood floor. “Bloody finger at your door…” Adam’s eyes got wide and Wally chewed on his lower lip. “… knock… knock… knock.” She reached out her hand. “I opened the door… and there was a kid standing there.” She paused for dramatic effect, then continued. “He had a bloody paper cut, and he needed a Band-Aid.”
For several long moments the boys stared at her within the darkness of the blanket tent. Then they looked at each other and snorted.
Adam shook his head. “That was really lame.”
“It wasn’t even scary,” Wally added.
“You guys were scared,” she said. “I saw you.”
“Wally was, but I wasn’t.”
Wally punched Adam on the shoulder. “No way.”
“Come on, guys,” Hope complained as the two started punching each other in the arms. “You’ll knock down the tent again, and next time I won’t put it back up.” The two had spent most of the evening in a wrestling tangle, and while they seemed to really enjoy slamming and pounding on each other, it drove Hope crazy. Made her contemplate that bottle of zinfandel she had in her refrigerator. One glass probably wouldn’t hurt, but Adam’s daddy already thought she couldn’t handle two little boys. Probably wouldn’t look good if he came to pick up his son and Hope was knocking back vino.