Third Time Lucky: Volume 1 (The Coxwells)

  He was right to call it inexperience.

  When the doorbell rang, I seized the opportunity to get away from an interrogation that was nothing compared to what I’d face on Saturday night.

  And just about dropped my teeth to find Nick on my doorstep, burdened with groceries. He looked at me, then looked at the carrot I was still holding and grimaced.

  “Figures.” He hefted one of the many bags he was carrying. “Could you grab this one? I think it’s going to drop.”

  The bag I snagged held a set of pots, still neatly boxed up. I could see a whisk through the plastic of another bag, the outline of vegetables and bottles of spices.

  I looked at him, probably with an expression that matched my incomprehension.

  He’d shaved and his jeans weren’t either dusty or faded anymore. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt now and looked a bit uncertain of his reception.

  And so he damn well should.

  “I’m not cooking you dinner,” I said, which weren’t perhaps the most welcoming words that could have crossed my lips.

  He rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

  I put the bag down, square in the doorway. “I thought you’d headed for the hills.”

  “Well, you thought wrong. Do I get to come in and put this stuff down?”

  “Not without an explanation.”

  “I don’t think I came close enough to setting things right, Phil, so I’m here to finish the job.”

  It was awfully forthright for the Man of Few Words. When I hesitated, he smiled that smile that made me tingle, even though it clearly didn’t come out of that cologne bottle.

  So much for that theory.

  I still didn’t move out of the doorway. “So, you’ve come bearing gifts? I told you that I don’t cook.” I tried to hand him back the box of pots, but he didn’t take it. Of course, his hands were so full that I don’t know how he held onto it in the first place.

  “I know that. Fortunately, I do.”

  “So you’ve started a cookware collection and intend to store it here?”

  He shook his head, then dropped his voice to that husky burr, the one that makes me want to play tonsil hockey. “What do you say we make a deal, Phil?”

  “Here we go again.” I put the box down again and folded my arms across my chest. “Blend, stir or frappé?”

  His smile faded. “What?”

  “If I’m going to be a kitchen appliance, then I get to choose what kind. I’ll be a blender. I’ve always thought of myself as a blender. Dump in all sorts of interesting bits and the blender always gives you something pinky-orange and lumpy. It’s never what you want, but it’s what you get. Blenders are a lot less useful than people think, except when it comes to wringing consistency from chaos.” I leaned forward. “And when provoked, they can liquify.”

  He chuckled suddenly. “Are you provoked?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, here’s my suggestion.” He juggled the weight of his parcels pointedly, but I didn’t leap in to help. Let him sweat. “Let me make it up to you. I need a place to crash for a couple of days. You need a decently cooked meal at least once a day. What do you say I cook for you, in exchange for using your couch?”

  I could have felt sorry for him, under the burden of all that stuff, but this was what could only be called an opportune moment.

  He had gone and bought it all of his own free will.

  And given me a golden opportunity to solve my problem. I knew what I wanted from Nick, but couldn’t imagine he’d do it. “You’ll have to do better.”

  Now, he looked grim. “I’ll get rid of that McAllister jerk for good.”

  I shrugged, pretending I didn’t like the sound of that. He said it in a protective kind of way that made all the feminine bits of me tingle deliciously. “He might be gone already.”

  Nick watched me the way a hungry dog watches a hambone. “He must have told your family that you and I were an item.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  His grin flashed. “Because that’s what I told him.”

  “Why?”

  He rolled his eyes and shifted the weight of groceries again. “Phil. Could we talk about this over dinner?”

  “No. I want to know why you did that. I want an answer or two. If this is a communicative kind of mood—and I don’t for a minute think it is—then I’m not going to abandon the moment until I get some answers. You’re the one so hot to not leave any footprints behind—why would you tell him something like that?”

  Nick actually fidgeted. He looked out into the street and eased his weight from one foot to the other, clearly itching to evade that question.

  Sadly for him, I can wait with the best of them.

  “All right. He ticked me off.”

  “Why?”

  Nick made an exasperated sound. “Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated?”

  “Because you are.” I smiled. “And I’ve learned from the best.”

  He muttered something under his breath that I was glad I didn’t quite hear. “I didn’t like that he was so ready to do what your parents wanted him to do. And I really didn’t like that he didn’t care what you thought of the whole thing.” He glared at me. “Okay?”

  More than okay. “Fair enough.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Did he tell your parents that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you admit it was a lie?”

  I smiled. “Not exactly. It was a bit too handy to be let go so soon.” He smiled back, and we were co-conspirators, just like the good old days. His gaze slipped over my sweats and fuzzy slippers—I was outfitted for seduction, let me tell you—in what could only have been admiration.

  The man was obviously having vision problems, maybe from lack of food. The packages rustled. “Phil, I’m dying here. Do we have a deal or not?”

  I leaned in the doorframe and shook a finger at him. “Not yet. You may not want to talk, but I’ll let you off easy. There’s a Coxwell family dinner Saturday night for my father’s birthday. It should be excruciating enough to make fingernails on a chalkboard sound good. You have to attend and keep up the show.”

  He winced. “Tough call, Phil.”

  “Those are the terms. You started this rumor and you can smother the flames. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  He nodded, but not as reluctantly as I might have expected.

  “So, look on the bright side. Maybe we could start a food fight and pretend to break up in front of them all. That would provide entertainment value, and maybe inject some levity into the proceedings. It would also give them something to talk about for a few years.”

  I held the back of my hand to my brow, feeling a lot perkier if you must know the truth, just because Mr. Enigma had turned up again. “I could be so emotionally shattered—or pretend to be—that I never date again. It would buy me at least six months.”

  He studied me. “Is that what you want, Phil?”

  What I didn’t want was to talk about that. “We’ll figure it out. Now, deal or not?” I tapped my toe. “I’m wasting coal-generated electricity while you waffle. It’s a very comfortable couch if that’s a factor in your calculations.”

  “And these groceries are heavy. You’re on.” He would have shouldered past me into the foyer, but I stopped him with one hand. His leather jacket was cold against my fingers, his shoulder firm beneath it.

  “One more thing. Why do you have so much cash, Nick?”

  He looked perfectly dumbfounded by my question. “I don’t have a lot of cash on me.”

  “Sure you do. I saw in your wallet at Chandra’s.” I paused. “It looked like you’re planning to not need a bank machine.”

  We eyed each other for a moment, my hand on his shoulder, and he seemed to realize what was bothering me. “I never use bank machines, Phil. They’re a rip-off. I’ve only got a couple of thousand in my wallet, enough for this trip, including incidentals. That’s how I travel.” He hefted the bags of groceries, a
pointed reminder.

  “A couple of thousand? No one carries that much cash.”

  He heaved a sigh and gave me a hard look. “Phil, mine is a cash-based business. In a lot of the world, American dollars are the terms of negotiation and the means of smoothing the way. The last time I went to Southeast Asia, for example, I had thirty thousand bucks on me.”

  My eyes must have boggled. “Are you running drugs or little boys?”

  “Neither.” His eyes flashed and I knew he wasn’t lying. But I didn’t step away. “I book guides, I arrange for porters, I ensure that space is found in the most popular hotels and that people remember my company name. I prepay for the incoming tours so that there are no problems once the group arrives. They’re on vacation, after all, and are paying my tour company to ensure that everything runs as smooth as silk.”

  “How do you keep from getting mugged?”

  “You look the way I did this morning.” He almost smiled. “At least, that’s what I used to do.” He looked into his bags of stuff, clearly avoiding my gaze.

  “And now?”

  His brow quirked. “I antagonize old friends.”

  I watched him for a moment, certain the joke had been purely to deflect my curiosity.

  But new rules were in force. I decided not to bite. “Why did you sell your business?”

  His gaze swiveled back to mine, his eyes cat-bright. Too bright. This was important and he wasn’t going to tell me, I knew it right then and there. “I needed a change.”

  “Liar.”

  He shrugged. I felt that invisible door slide into place between us, just like it always did when I asked him too much. His tone of voice turned neutral but I was feeling pretty charged up. “Deal or not?”

  “No.”

  Surprised him again. “Phil...”

  “No. No, no, no. You may love playing Man of Mystery but it drives me bananas. I’m not trying to claim all your state secrets, Nick, but it wouldn’t hurt you to answer a simple question or two.”

  He went very still. “Name your terms.”

  “Three answers to three questions. Tonight. Or your sorry butt’s out in the street, groceries and all.”

  His words were low, thoughtful. “I thought you needed me on Saturday night.”

  My breath hitched in my chest as I felt a need a little different from the one he was referring to. “I’ll think of something.”

  I forced a smile and propped one hand on my hip. “See, if I let you in and you go incommunicado on me, then I’ll have to kill you in your sleep, which isn’t going to do much for either of our futures, much less ensure that Sean gets his due.”

  He chuckled then. “All right, Phil. I think I can handle three answers.” He rustled the bags again. “Now, have mercy on me.”

  I plucked a bag out of his hands and stepped out of his way. The truth is that I’d never expected him to agree.

  But then, what else would he do with all this food? I knew Nick was practical—maybe agreeing to my terms was just the most practical solution.

  He filled the foyer, shedding bags of stuff as he progressed, a man on a mission. I felt like Neanderthal woman, helping Neanderthal man drag the kill back into the cave. There was a lot of stuff. Really, a lot of stuff. I wasn’t sure how he’d carried it all this far. He invaded my kitchen and took it over without so much as a do-you-mind.

  I peeked in a heavy bag. “I do have dishes, you know.”

  “The odds were against it.”

  It was a little insulting that he had bought everything from soup to nuts, forks to glasses. But then, he wasn’t completely off the deep end. The cupboards were pretty barren.

  I was sure there had never been so much food in my apartment at once. “How much does Freddie eat?” I grumbled. “I only have one fridge, you know.”

  He chuckled and chucked his jacket over a chair before I remembered poor Zach. I pointed at the phone, then gestured to Nick. “It’s my brother Zach. You talk to him.”

  “More conditions?”

  “Part of your declared mission. He’s skeptical.” I started putting stuff in the fridge, well aware of Nick’s gaze following me and not at all certain he’d do it. But he picked up the phone and tucked it under his chin, making order of his purchases on the counter as he talked.

  “Hey, Zach, how’s it going?”

  I waited for the sound of my brother’s sputtering, but it never came.

  I turned just as Nick held out the receiver with a shrug. “There’s no one there, Phil. He must have hung up.”

  Nuts.

  Chapter Twelve

  There’s something seductive about a man cooking for you.

  Especially when he won’t let you help. I had been banished to the kitchen table with a glass of mineral water, and nothing to do but watch.

  I did. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that Nick knew what he was doing—he moved with ease, the entire symphony of preparation planned in his mind to the last detail. He seemed to be concentrating, so I didn’t jabber away at him.

  He didn’t hurry, but then he wasn’t the kind of guy who was hasty about anything. His gestures were decisive and efficient. I certainly had never had any similar abilities in the kitchen and would have been all thumbs with a mean knife like the one he had bought.

  Maybe I would have had fewer thumbs by the time anything was done.

  “How many people are you planning to feed anyhow?”

  “Just two.” He pulled a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc out of a bag, then pulled a corkscrew from his pocket.

  “I don’t drink.”

  He considered me for a heartbeat, then went back to unpacking the last few bags. The wine sat on the counter. “I didn’t before either.” He stacked groceries with more care than the job required. I could practically hear the cogs turning.

  I was all ready for Nick to lock me out again, but he looked up suddenly and actually spoke. “You know, Phil, compromise was one thing I had to learn on my own, after I left here. With Lucia, it was all or nothing, in or out. No half-measures and no compromises. Everything was cast in black or white.”

  I was stunned to silence that he was even capable of stringing so many words together in sequence. Then my heart warmed. The man had taken that promise seriously. He was trying to open up. It obviously wasn’t easy for him.

  The least I could do was not interrupt. I watched as he worked the corkscrew into the bottle, transfixed by his hands and his concession to me.

  “Lucia never allowed liquor in the house. She had issues with the source of the Sullivan money. And then, my grandfather couldn’t resist the stuff. He died young of liver problems and I don’t think she ever forgave him for leaving her alone.”

  Because she had surrendered everything to him and to marriage. I can believe that would tick her off.

  Nick frowned. “But her rule was wrong, because it was too harsh. You and I both saw what came of it. Liquor became a forbidden pleasure, one that had to be enjoyed secretively, one that took on all sorts of emotional overtones. To drink was to defy Lucia, to cast a vote against her edicts. That was probably a big part of its appeal to Sean. And drinking excessively became a signal of defying her excessively.”

  The cork popped. “The problem is that the pendulum swings too hard when emotions get into the picture.” He hefted the bottle. “Lucia’s complete boycott of liquor upped the stakes. It wasn’t long before Sean could only drink excessively because of the emotional payload. All or nothing.”

  What he was saying could be applied equally well to food and we both knew it. I thought about the hard lines of my diet, which kept me slimmer but took a toll in sacrifice. It worked, as long as I didn’t have a big emotional disaster—because food had been equated with solace for me.

  Nick was all too right about snapping to the other end of the scale under duress. When my last relationship ended poorly, I inhaled a carton of double chocolate caramel ice cream without stopping for breath. I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight. The very memor
y of that lapse has kept me celibate and single for a long time.

  Nick made me wonder if there was another way. He poured some wine into a glass, sniffed it, tasted it, then held it up to the light. It sparkled.

  “Wine is just a beverage,” he mused. “Juice gone bad. It’s not defiance or rejection or even independence in a glass. Our bodies burn food and drink, admittedly some kinds more effectively than others, but they’re just machines consuming fuel. There’s no love in this bottle, no acceptance, no freedom, not even any illusions.” He winked at me as he conjured a second glass and poured some wine into it. “And once you get that straightened out, you realize that it tastes good with food.”

  He handed that glass to me and our fingers brushed in the transaction. “A little moderation never hurt anyone, Phil. And I think that moderation actually prevents those hard swings of the pendulum. Call it a point of balance.”

  Come to think of it, that chocolate bar a month plan had come into being after my last romantic disaster. It seemed to keep me on a more even keel and kept the worst of the yearnings at bay.

  Great minds think alike. I thought about that as he went back to work.

  It was nice silence between us, one that made my kitchen feel warm and cozy. We’d agreed to abandon the twin topics of Sullivans and Coxwells once he got off the phone with Zach—or more accurately, not-Zach—so this was a night out of time.

  Maybe that was what made it seem so special. I’ve told you about the emotionally charged silences I was used to, the ones that had me always looking over my shoulder to see who was angry with me.

  This was different. I watched Nick work, sipped my water and once in a while my wine, and felt the tensions of the day slip from my shoulders.

  He provided me with nibbles as he worked. I was touched that he had bothered to find a low fat Swiss cheese. He sliced it thin thin thin and laid it on grainy crisp bread—just about negative calories, those things—garnishing each one with a ruby red slice of pepper. He put some antipasto pickle things on the plate, as well, and some rabbit food from his slicing and dicing.