Page 20 of Just Trouble

She takes the knife to some asparagus spears with a savagery they can’t possibly deserve. “And he red-lined Margaret’s house.”

Ah, that’s what’s fired her up. Truth be told, it annoys me, too, but I expected it.

I tell her so.

She shakes the knife at me, obviously having no clue how amazing she looks. Her eyes are blazing, practically shooting sparks in every direction. Her cheeks are a bit flushed, too. She’s taken down her hair and shoved it into a messy bun instead, which proves that it’s both long and wavy. I can see the back of her neck, all smooth silky skin, and want to taste it. Her feet are bare and her toenails—be still my heart—are painted that same pale pink that her lips were earlier.

I could eat her up with a spoon.

Or without one.

I lean on the counter and remind myself that I’m not that interested in women anymore. I didn’t even have to swear off them when Taylor died. I didn’t care. Not about women. Not about sex. Not about pushing my hands through thick tresses of silky hair and taking a deep breath of any woman’s scent.

Until now.

Until Daph.

Come to think of it, her place smells humid and sweet. I realize that her hair looks damp and that the scent is shower gel. Jasmine and vanilla. I’m a dead man. (Well, not all of me.) My mind immediately conjures an image of Daph in the shower, of hot water and suds, a vision that does nothing for my ability to coherently continue a conversation with her.

Of course, I catch her looking at me. “What’s wrong?”

“Just disappointed,” I lie. “I was really hoping to give that place to Abbie.” That part’s true.

“I know. He went for the diner and Una’s place, though. I’m telling myself to be content with small victories.”

I wince that Rhodes Vineyards won’t be getting that piece of land. “But you’re not.”

“Are you?” She puts the lemon slices on a piece of fish without waiting for an answer. It’s already on foil on a sheet pan.I realize there’s a pot of rice on the stove and the asparagus is ready to be added to the sheet pan. She winces when she follows my glance. “I hope you’re not hungry. I only have this one piece of fish.”

“No worries. I’ve had more lasagna than is reasonable, but when it’s homemade, I can’t resist.”

I get a look for that. “Where did you get homemade lasagna in Empire?”

“I took a room at The Maple Leaf Motel. It’s worth it to be invited for dinner at DeLuca’s.”

She smiles and I bask in the sight, glad I could improve her mood. “I’ll have to ask Marissa if she takes orders.” She puts the fish in the oven, sets a timer and puts a second glass beside the one already on the counter.

“This your place or do you rent?”

“Mine,” she says with an increment of pride. “That’s one good thing about Empire. Cheap real estate. I could never have bought my own house in Toronto.”

It’s not nearly a good enough reason to live beyond the end of the world, but I don’t say it.

She raises a finger. “Speaking of which, the properties you listed have comparatively high prices.” She gets the paperwork from her briefcase and offers it to me, retreating to check on the fish.

I read it, like I’m supposed to, shake my head at the number Patrick has scribbled on it, and smile.

“You’re not surprised.”

“I was guessing he’d go ten per cent more. Maybe fifteen.” I take the pen she offers and sign.

“He made a bet with my dad that he’d have it all back in a year.”

“Then your dad should brace himself for the win.”

She’s watching me. “You really hate him.”

“I’m thinking he’s not one of your favourite people either.”

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