Page 64 of Holding On To Good

“Deal.”

“Come on, Ian,” Verity said. “We’re taking Toby’s Jeep.”

“Yay!” Instead of drying his hands on a towel, Ian waved them in the air, splattering the side of Urban’s face, then wiped them on his shirt before hopping down. “Can Bella come, too?”

Bella barked, all for that idea.

“You bet,” Verity said and they trooped out.

The least they could’ve done was left him his dog.

He slowly lifted his shoulder and wiped the water from his cheek. “Enjoy your ice cream,” he told Toby. “It’ll be your last meal.”

Heading for the door, Toby laughed. Glad to know he found his upcoming funeral funny. “You’ll thank me one day.”

Somehow, Urban doubted it.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Urban’s voice was a growl, a combination of irritation, frustration and resignation.

He sure had unhappy and grouchy covered.

Reaching for an empty glass across the table, Willow glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’ve got it. It’s been a while since I waited tables but it’s like riding a bike.” She stacked the remaining plates then set the glasses and silverware on top, lifting it all as she straightened. “Ta da!”

He kept right on scowling, unimpressed with what she considered a great skill—balancing tableware—and stepped forward. “I’ll take them.”She shifted so they were out of his reach. “I said I’ve got them.” Geesh. What was his problem? “If you really want to help, you can open the door.”

He looked ready to argue—argue! About opening the door! Next thing he’d be wrestling the dishes from her hands. Before he could, she brushed past him and walked over to the house and waited there while he had some internal debate about letting her inside.

As if she hadn’t been in his house a million times before.

Stupid, stupid drunken kiss.

Sensing him come up behind her, she tensed, her stomach twitchy, her skin stinging with nerves and awareness. He reached for the door handle, his hand brushing the sensitive underside of her arm, his breath along the nape of her neck. Goose bumps pebbled from her shoulder to her wrist, a sharp, almost painful contrast to the heat rushing through her.

She held herself rigid, but oh, how she wanted to lean back. Wondered what it would be like to have him pressed against her, big and solid and so very male.

It was a wayward thought. Dangerous.

But not a new one.

“Thank you,” she murmured and, using her hip, pushed the door open wider and hurried into the living room.

Distance, she thought firmly. Distance was the answer here. A few feet of emptiness between them or, better yet, something solid and immovable.

Her gaze landed on the kitchen island. It wasn’t exactly the walls of Jericho but it’d do.

She headed toward it, passing the seating area she’d designed anchored by the floral rug she’d picked up in Pittsburgh, a blend of rich burgundy, deep green, and muted taupe. A long wooden coffee table sat in the center of the rug, its top cluttered with books, magazines and several remotes. The cream-colored sectional was positioned so people could face either the stone fireplace, or the built-ins to its right housing the large-screen TV along with shelves of books, knickknacks and framed photos.

Six throw pillows in colors chosen specifically to match the colors in the rug had been tossed in a pile at one end of the sectional all willy-nilly, as if she hadn’t shown every member of the Jennings family, repeatedly, how they were to be strategically placed.

Toby was right. They were heathens.

Willpower already taxed, she somehow managed to keep walking instead of stopping long enough to put the pillows the way they were supposed to be.

Scurrying around the table, she rounded the end of the island and set the dishes on the counter. Stared down at the farmhouse sink full of bubbles, her fingers curled into her palms.

She never should have opened that bottle of champagne last night. Shouldn’t have sipped and sipped and sipped from it so many times. And she definitely shouldn’t have touched Urban.

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