“Sure.” He started to reach for the dish.
She pulled it back a few inches. “It’s too hot to handle without the mitts.”
He turned and opened his kitchen door for her.
Emma’s first impression was disappointment. The room was so bland, without any personality. But, of course, he hadn’t had time to decorate. She put the casserole on the cool, empty range burners. “Looks like you haven’t started dinner.”
“No. I’m not into cooking.”
Which meant he probably lived here alone. But she refused to give into the temptation to pry. “When I first moved here I lived on takeout. Some of the neighbors brought cookies, but even I can’t live on sugar and chocolate alone.”
He pointed to a counter piled with plates of cookies, brownies, pies and cakes. Maybe Cindy was right. The word must have gotten out to the single women of Rosewood: handsome, single man on Elm Street. Catch him while he’s fresh.
But Emma didn’t rise to the obvious. “I hope you have a gallon of milk to wash those down with.”
He grimaced.
“Or coffee,” she amended. Self-consciously, she gripped the oven mitts.
“That’s one staple I’m never without. Would you like a cup?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“You aren’t going to leave me to polish off these delicacies by myself, are you?”
Emma didn’t know how to flirt. She was so out of touch, she wasn’t even certain that’s what he was doing. But then it was coffee, not a date. “I guess I could have a cup,” she conceded.
Again she thought she saw that barely visible motion with his brows. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“No. But having a cookie won’t spoil my appetite.”
He scrounged around the counter, finally coming up with two mugs. “Good. Then we can have the lasagna for dessert.”
She flushed. “I don’t mean to impose. I made the casserole for you…and, well, your family.” She stood abruptly, poised to flee.
“No family,” he replied shortly, shifting back into his earlier intense mood.
She was mortified. “I’m not trying to pry.” Her words were stiff. “I’m a private person myself and I don’t appreciate it when well-meaning people poke around in my personal affairs.”
His gaze appraised her. “No harm. No foul. You’d have seen soon enough that I live here alone.”
Because of their close proximity. Which meant he would know the same about her soon enough. “Me, too,” she blurted. “Live alone, I mean. Except for my dogs.”
“The hole-in-the-wall gang; I remember.”
Her nervousness lessened a touch. “Yes. But they’re not breaking and entering today. I left them in the house.”
“They don’t shred your place while you’re gone?”
She smiled. “They have their moments, but for the most part they’re well behaved.”
He didn’t argue the point. “I hope you don’t mind paper plates.”
“Not at all.” There weren’t any moving cartons in the kitchen. Either he’d already unpacked or there was little in the way of dinnerware to fill the cabinets. She wondered if he was recently single.
He put two mugs on the bar beside the disposable plates and plastic forks. Certainly no sense of cozy home and hearth. Her guilt multiplied. She should have made this visit earlier.
Climbing onto the bar stool he indicated, she realized at the last moment that Seth would be sitting close beside her rather than across the safe length of a table. Unaccustomed these past years to a male presence, she caught her breath when his arm brushed hers as he sat on the adjoining stool, then scooped out two generous portions of lasagna. He was tall…tall and powerfully built. Her nerves jumped to alert.
“I hope you like the lasagna…most people like my spaghetti sauce. I use lots of fresh vegetables and let it simmer for hours. And I make a really huge vat, enough so that I can freeze some in smaller containers. And, like this time, I make up some lasagna…I have to bring a casserole to a potluck Saturday night, so I’ll use some of it then.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry. Am I babbling? I babble when I’m…well, when I meet new people.” Men, she added to herself. But none had affected her like this. No doubt it was how close he was. Both beside her now and living in the house next door.
“Don’t apologize. At best I’m not much of a conversationalist. And I don’t know anything about cooking.”
“It’s not usually my favorite subject, either.” She poked her fork into the melted cheese on her lasagna. “Actually, there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Wariness tinged his dark eyes.
“Yes. I own a costume and design shop in town, Try It On. That’s the name of the shop, I mean. And I’m thinking of adding on to it. When I first bought the space it seemed more than adequate, but I’m outgrowing it.”
“Business must be good.”
“Yes, actually, it is. But we can barely turn around now. I’ve resisted the inevitable, but I think it’s time I take the plunge.” She met his curious eyes. “Which is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
He studied her. “Why me?”
“Well, Michael Carlson recommended you.”
“You know him?”
She nodded.
“This is a small town.”
“Yes, but I’ve found that to be a good thing in most ways.”
“Hmm. So tell me about this shop of yours.”
Warming to her favorite subject, Emma described at length her business and the store’s layout. “And my assistant, Tina, is certain we’ll pull in even more business now that I’ve started designing storefront displays. You know, like the first time we met.”
His gaze caught hers and she was sharply reminded of the encounter, that intense vulnerability she’d felt.
He glanced away, picking up his coffee. “When do you want a bid on the work?”
She blinked. “I hadn’t decided.”
“My schedule’s open right now.”
But it probably wouldn’t be for long, she realized, with Michael’s glowing recommendation. If she was going to do this, she needed to do more than wade at the shore. It was time to dive in. “Tomorrow then?”
He met her eyes again and she warmed under his intent gaze. “Tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
Seth arrived early, well before opening. Emma Duvere was his only client. He didn’t need the money, but he did need the work to keep himself busy, to keep his mind occupied with anything other than memories.
Emma was an odd bird. Quiet and thoughtful one moment. Nervous and distracted the next. He wondered if she was that antsy around all men or if he’d struck some agitated chord. Not that it mattered. She needed him for his work skills, not his social ones.
It didn’t take her long to show him around the small shop. She hadn’t exaggerated. The place was crammed to the limit. As he took measurements he understood why. There wasn’t enough square footage, and the available space