Curiously Enchanted (Witches of Hawthorne Grove Book 2) Page 10

  “Grandma Ellie would be proud, Samster. You whip this up from memory?” Jordan asked while filching another spoonful of broth from the pot beside him.

  “Recipe, actually. The only thing I could remember was the smell. Once the kitchen took on a certain aroma, I knew I had it right. Do you think Emma will like it?” Sam barely glanced in his direction before he snapped and hurried to the fridge.

  “Can't have broth without bread for sopping.” He pulled a loaf from the freezer with one hand and waved at Jordan with the other. “Get off the counter, by the way. We aren't nine anymore, you know.”

  “So Emma fixed steak au poivre for your dinner with her and you're making Country Bumpkin stew. You don't think she'll think you're cooking down on her, do you?” Jordan needled playfully and Sam snorted.

  “Emma isn't pretentious, Jordan. Unlike some of my friends.”

  “Hey, I resemble that remark!” Jordan's pretended offense sounded clearly before he reminded Sam, “I'm not pretentious. I'm spoiled, thanks to my previous lucrative career, and there is a difference which I'd thank you to remember.”

  Sam gave him another snort. “Kaylee's rubbing off on you, I see.”

  Jordan's brow rose. “Kaylee rubbing?” he asked as he hopped off the counter. “Hmm, now that you mention it—”

  Sam's hand flew up. “No, no no. I don't want to know.”

  Jordan's laughter pealed through the kitchen. “Oh, come on. You've been with Miss Riley what? Three times? And you still haven't made it to second base? Yeah, I think you wanna know, Sam. You really wanna know. Especially the bit about—”

  The back door slammed and Kaylee's voice filtered into the kitchen. “Don't you dare, Jordan Parker. Sam doesn't need to know the details of how you tried to steal second and ended up sliding into third at the ball park yesterday.”

  In the kitchen, she put the bags she was carrying on the table and went to Jordan where she lifted a cheek for his kiss, then said, “Michael isn't a very good referee. Neither is Jo for that matter. Besides, it was just luck that you got around me and you know it.”

  “So you were lucky to get to third base?” Sam's pointed question was followed by the spill of guffaws every bit as full and cheerful as Jordan's had been until that one's suddenly much less enthusiastic expression forced him to mute his amusement to a simple grin. “Now that was useful information. Thanks, Kaylee.”

  “Of course. Any time,” she said, smiling up at him. Then, “Wait. I suddenly get the feeling you two weren't talking about baseball at all, were you?”

  “Not exactly,” Jordan admitted. “Why don't you explain what we were discussing, Sammy? Maybe Kaylee can give us both a few pointers.”

  Mock scowling at his friend, Sam shook his head. “Nevermind. You wouldn't want to know the depths of your fiance's depravity anyway, Kaylee. Not this close to the wedding.”

  Her nod of acceptance signaling a close to their previous teasing, Sam went about readying the bread for the oven while Kaylee checked the stew.

  “Wow, this is delicious, Sam. Emma is going to be pleasantly surprised. Mmm,” she said, spooning another bite into her mouth. “A man who can cook like this is a man worth hanging on to.”

  “Is that a jab at my lack of skill?” Jordan pretended to pout until Kaylee reassured him his skills in the kitchen were nothing to be embarrassed about either and Sam bit his tongue to keep from going back to the slightly naughty round of conversation him and Jordan been about to have before.

  “I'm hanging on to you,” Kaylee reminded him. “Or had you forgotten whose ring I am currently wearing?”

  Wiggling her fingers, she flashed said ring and Sam thought of the wedding band his grandmother had left him. Surprisingly enough, he also thought of Emma wearing it, and that had him hitting the breaks hard. No. The two of them had barely managed to get through one dinner together. It was way too soon to be having those sort of thoughts. But he couldn't seem to get them out of his head now that they were there.

  “Hello? Earth to Sammy? Are you in there, sir?” Kaylee asked, snapping her fingers in front of Sam's face. A quick mental shake brought him round.

  “Sorry, something popped into my head and I got lost in there. What did you need?”

  “Jordan and I were asking if you'd asked Emma to join you at the wedding,” she explained. “Have you?”

  Emma. Joining him for a wedding. Well... He cleared his throat and reached for a towel to wipe his suddenly clammy palms. “Ah, no, I haven't. I wasn't aware I needed to bring a date?”

  “Silly. You know we aren't requiring a plus one but if you want to bring Emma along, I was just letting you know we'd be happy to have her there.” She gave Jordan a nudge. “Wouldn't we?”

  “As if Sam would show up anywhere without a date if I have one,” Jordan said. “Of course we would love it if Emma comes to the wedding with you, old man. Want me to ask her for you?”

  Sam pretended to go for Jordan's throat after that crack and Jordan pretended to care. From the corner of his eye, Sam caught Kaylee rolling her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile curling her lips as well so he knew she didn't think their mock tussle was serious.

  “Better take him in hand now, Kaylee, if you want anything left for the wedding night. Otherwise, I'm about to take him down,” Sam warned.

  Kaylee just laughed. “Be gentle, Sam. Last time you took him down for needling you, I had to coddle him for days.”

  “Yeah,” Sam grunted in response to Jordan's fist playfully grinding his ribs. “He always was a mama's boy!”

  “Hey, you leave Mama out of this. If you hadn't started it ...” Jordan complained and Sam found himself caught in a headlock.

  A timid knock at the door brought all their heads swinging round. “Ah, hello? Is Sam here?”

  Sam saw Kaylee motioning toward where he now lay sprawled in the floor between his kitchen and dining room, his head stuck in the crook of Jordan's arm, and she was grinning. “That's him. Don't worry, I'm about to take mine home now, so there won't be anymore rough-housing tonight. Well, unless you and Sam …”

  “Emma! You're early,” Sam interrupted, dislodging himself from Jordan's grasp so he could climb to his feet and greet her properly.

  “Mm hmm, a little,” she nodded. “But without the two grand a bottle champagne. Hope that's okay?” She glanced from him to Kaylee, to Jordan, and back again. “If you'd rather do this another day, Sam, I have things I could be doing—”

  “Oh, no. We are doing this.” Springing to his feet, Sam caught her by the elbow. “Emma Riley, this is Jordan Parker and his fiancee, Kaylee Dean.”

  Turning to his friends, he said, “Jordan, Kaylee, you remember the book I was telling you about? Well, this is Emma, the author. She's having dinner with me tonight. You two are not.”

  Kaylee laughed. “See, Jordan? You were worried for nothing. Sam's perfectly comfortable being himself with his new girlfriend.”

  Sam watched Emma's face color even as she stuttered out a hasty but useless correction. “He's not, I mean I'm not—”

  He pulled her forward to his side so the two of them were looking at Jordan and Kaylee and cast his friends a mock scowl. “Don't bother. These two are beyond correction.”

  Then he smiled. “Jordan and Kaylee are getting married in a few months and they'd like you to come to the wedding. With me. Any chance you'd put on a spiffy dress and walk beside me for a few hours in a month or two?”

  “Oh, there's no need to rush her for an answer, Sam,” Kaylee hurried to explain. “But it's true. We would love to have you there. Think about it? Meantime, we need to go, Jordan. Sam has this lovely dinner prepared and I need to stop by the shelter. It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Riley.”

  “Looking forward to your book debut launch party thing at the re-opening of the One Shot, too.” Jordan offered with a nod. His hand at the small of Kaylee's back, Jordan led her out the back door, calling over his shoulder as he went. “See ya later, Sam. Don't do anything
I wouldn't!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam's somewhat sheepish smile did nothing to quell the anxiety already rising inside her as Jordan and Kaylee left, nor did the quiet comforts of his surprisingly cozy kitchen. Her gaze flitted from the warm oak cabinetry to the deep double-bowl ceramic sink to the cool white and blue checked floor, somehow registering how much the room practically echoed with sentiment for good times, great friends, and delicious home-cooked meals while she impatiently waited for Sam to say goodbye to his friends.

  Sam closed the door behind them and had barely managed to turn back to her before she began to protest. To refuse, actually, in no uncertain terms, anything to do with a large public gathering she was expected to attend. “No. No launch party. I won't. How could you do this, Sam?”

  She didn't give him time to answer. Depositing the bag she had brought in with her on the fluffy blue and white checkered and padded seat cushion of one of the chairs at his breakfast bar, she turned to face him while her fingers tugged at the hem of her burgundy sweater, straightening it beneath her coat, and shook her head. “You can have the quilt and the puzzle. Both are in the bag. Sorry about dinner, but I'm leaving now.”

  Turning on her heel, she marched toward the door, but Sam's arm shot out, stopping her.

  “Why are you always leaving me? Don't you know I have issues with that, woman? Look, you don't have to do a thing, Emma. Not with the book, not at the One Shot, but you did agree to have dinner with me tonight and the one has nothing to do with the other. Think about that before you walk out of here without tasting my grandmother's stew recipe.”

  “I could care less about the stew!” Her arms flew upward gesticulating her exasperation. “I don't know if you've noticed or not, but I'm not like you, Sam! I'm not—I'm not a people person. I'm shy, and quiet, and non-assuming.”

  His brows rose. “You mean as opposed to the raging female I see before me now?”

  Emma rolled her eyes, closed them, and groaned. Somehow, she kept forgetting this Sam wasn't the man she knew intimately from her dreams and could freely express herself to. This Sam was practically a stranger. Still, she had to make sure he knew she wasn't about to start dancing to his tune whenever he thought to play Emma Radio. “This doesn't count. This is—I don't know what this is or why I'm even bothering to discuss this with you at all, but you have to know I am not going to be at any party for the launch of a book I never intended to publish in the first place—a party you've obviously already set up on my behalf without asking me. Again!”

  “On my behalf,” Sam quietly corrected. Now that she wasn't actively headed for the door, he'd relaxed his stance a bit. He even looked a little uninterested now with his hands resting lightly on the back of one of the three other chairs nestled up to the breakfast bar. What had he said about issues? The question niggled at the edge of her thoughts but he was still talking so she ignored it for the moment.

  “The book launch was planned by me to benefit my business. It's a book about coffee that I think my customers will enjoy, remember? If it helps you sell books that is good, too. You don't have to show up if you prefer not to, but I would be infinitely happier if you did.”

  His last words were like a bucket of ice water flowing over her. Her presence wasn't necessary but would be appreciated? Was that what he was saying? What he'd intended all along? Great. She had over-reacted. Again. Lowering her chin, she pinned her gaze to the floor about eight inches from his feet. “I'm sorry for my outburst. It was apparently uncalled for.”

  “Do you do that a lot?” At her questioning look, elaborated. “Do you freak out over the thought of appearing in public? Over the possibility of being recognized or noticed in a crowd?”

  Did she? Emma cocked her head to the side, considering. Before college, she would have given an immediate 'no,' but now? “Maybe.”

  “Except with me, of course. You never seem to have any confidence issues or hangups when it's just you and me.” His lopsided grin had an immediate effect, warming and relaxing her, and she smiled back, but her mind was spinning over the revelation he'd just given her.

  Was she different with him? “Only because you bring out the worst in me.”

  “How is that, I wonder?” Sam countered. “Such willingness to be open and forthright usually stems from trust built over a period of time or an indescribable but instant affinity with someone, but you and I...”

  Emma waited with baited breath for him to finish, which he did after he'd retrieved a pair of bowls and dished both full from the steaming pot on the stove and carried them to the table. Motioning with a quick tilt of his head which she assumed was a signal that she should follow him, he led her through the kitchen into the windowed dining nook where he deposited the bowls—heavy earthenware soup crocks actually, then turned back to take her coat, hanging it on a peg by the back door before he went to the kitchen again for silverware, and then joined her at the table.

  “You and I, we've only been in each others company a handful of times and for most of those other people were present—people whom, if I correctly recall, you either ignored or were passingly polite to, when and if the matter warranted,” he pointed out. “But you've never been particularly hesitant or shy about speaking your mind to me. What gives?”

  Comfort.

  Emma almost blurted out the word but held it back while she examined what it meant for her to feel comfortable with Sam Huntingdon, III. From the moment she'd first seen him in Sevilles, he had caused reactions in her, mostly because he was so blasted good-looking she'd had a hard time looking away from him. Covert study from beneath one's lashes counted as legitimate research, right? Only Sam was not her subject and she had not been writing a discourse on attraction or a lack thereof. And then there were the dreams which had been so vivid, so consuming, it had led to a feeling of intimate connection whenever she ended up in his presence in real life …

  “While we wait for you to mull it over, why not have a bite of the stew?” Sam suggested, his words breaking into her thoughts, and Emma did not miss either the humor or the tiniest edge of sarcasm in his tone. Nor had she neglected to realize how deftly he had led her to his table for dinner although she had fully intended to leave but a moment ago.

  Seating himself across from her, he unfolded a napkin in his lap and took up his spoon, waving it over his bowl as he explained, “My Grandma Ellie used to make this exact stew every Sunday evening during the winter. She knew Dad would be dropping me off before heading out on another week-long cross-country haul and her stew, she said, would stick to our ribs and keep us plenty warm until Dad came home again.”

  “Memories,” Emma murmured before settling herself to scoop up a bite of the stew. Like the ones of her older brothers, she admitted, which had flitted through her thoughts earlier when she'd come inside to find Sam and his friend rough-housing on the kitchen floor. The ones that had incited the tiniest feeling of homesickness in her—something she hadn't felt in quite some time. “Your grandmother was helping you create good memories of your dad.”

  Between bites, Sam considered what she'd said for a moment, then nodded. “I think you're right. Grandma Ellie always did have a way of connecting things that comforted me the most with Dad.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured, reaching for the glass Sam had already filled with sweet iced tea from the pitcher on the table. “Like quilts?”

  “No,” Sam said, his voice much quieter now. “The quilts remind me of my mother.”

  His expression changed and Emma had a sinking feeling she'd touched on a subject Sam wasn't at all comfortable with. “Your mother?”

  Sam nodded. “She passed away when I was too young to remember a whole lot about her but old enough to miss her for the rest of my days, if that makes sense. For years, it was just me and my dad but his schedule didn't allow much home time. Grandpa and Grandma Ellie did their best to create a stable life for me but for the longest, I lived for the weekends when Dad would be home so he could tell me stories ab
out Mama.”

  Emma's smile was hesitant. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the story of the quilt, if there was one. She was already feeling too much empathy for this man with sandy hair and beautiful eyes. She already wanted to put her arms around him, too, but for entirely different reasons. If she allowed sympathy and desire to collide in her mind, there might be trouble—more than she could handle. Still, she laid her spoon beside her bowl and crossed her hands in her lap. “One of the stories your father told about your mom had something to do with a quilt, I suppose. Want to share?”

  Sam shook his head. “Actually, there was no such story. I'm not sure why quilts tend to make me think of Mama, to be honest, but I think it probably has something to do with feeling secure—a feeling Grandma Ellie continued to instill by wrapping me in the softest ones she owned every time Dad brought me inside.”

  “The one you bought out from under me,” he continued with a teasing arch of a brow, “was a bit of sentimental reminder. The black and white simplicity of it made me think of opposites.”

  His lips twisted into a wry smile. “And attraction.”

  He shrugged. “Then and now, mother and son, life and death. Man. Woman. Each so utterly different and yet connected in a way that says no matter the differences, regardless of the juxtapositions of life, we are still and will always be bound. We are together. Never apart, or alone, or even cold and lonely.”

  He took a deep breath and Emma covertly raised a hand to hastily wipe away a tear. Taking up her spoon, she chanced a look at his face and found him watching her intently.

  “Opposites do not attract arbitrarily, Emma. They are immutably bonded at the level of the soul.”

  Oh, wow. If he kept talking like that …

  Taking a deep breath herself, she blew at a curl which had fallen in front of her face and smiled before taking up her spoon again to taste the stew his grandma had made for him when she was alive; the simple meal he was obviously proud to have made. And he'd made it for her. She wondered if she should feel honored? “Well, ah, hmm. You were right. The stew is delicious, Sam. Your grandmother would be proud.”