Foreplay: The Ivy Chronicles (7 page)

Chapter 8

S
tepping inside the Campbell house was like coming home. Only no home I had ever known. Mrs. Campbell greeted me, adjusting her earrings, as her two daughters raced past her and flung themselves at me.

I grabbed hold of them with a gasp, lifting both up off the floor.

“Pepper!” they cried in unison. “We missed you!”

“Hey, guys,” I gasped. “I missed you, too!”

“You like our costumes?” They both dropped back down to model and twirl in the costumes.

“I ladybug,” Madison announced, holding out her black tulle skirt.

Sheridan hopped several times to gain my attention. “I’m a princess!”

“You guys are awesome. These are like the best costumes I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even recognize you until I heard your voices.”

They tackled me again, elbowing each other to get in a better position. For two years old, Madison held her own remarkably well against her seven-year-old sister. I staggered, wincing as I stepped on what felt like a Barbie. I glanced down. Yep.

Mrs. Campbell closed the door after me. “Thanks for coming, Pepper. They’ve been bugging me all day about when you were going to get here.”

I dropped my bag near the door under the weight of squirming girls and readjusted my hold on them. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to hang out with my favorite monkeys.”

“I’m ready. Let me just round up Michael. We’ve had a minor crisis today. The garbage disposal died on us.” She shot a narrow-eyed look at her oldest daughter. “Sheridan might have decided to put some marbles down the sink.”

Sheridan’s face went pink. I rubbed her small back comfortingly.

Shaking her head, but still smiling, Mrs. Campbell waved me after her into the house. “C’mon. I made spaghetti and I have garlic bread in the oven.”

“It smells delicious.”

“Thanks. It’s my mother’s recipe,” she called over her shoulder. “Michael would probably prefer to stay here and eat that than the five-course dinner at Chez Amelie tonight.”

Even without the rich aroma of garlic, meat, and tomatoes, the renovated farmhouse always smelled good. Like vanilla and dryer sheets.

With Madison and Sheridan clinging, their skinny little legs wrapped around me like vines, I managed to follow their mother through the living room (avoiding additional Barbies) and into the kitchen, where Mr. Campbell stood over a guy who was half buried in the open cabinet below the kitchen sink, his long, denim-clad legs sticking out into the kitchen, various tools surrounding him.

“Michael. Our reservation is in forty minutes. We need to go. Can you please let Reece off the hook?”

My stomach bottomed out.
Reece?

My gaze fixed on those long legs jutting out from beneath the sink. His face was beyond my vision, but I could make out the familiar flex of his tattooed bicep and forearm as he worked. My lips tingled, remembering how his mouth had moved over mine, and it took everything in me not to reach up and touch my lips.

Mr. Campbell shot his wife a pleading look and motioned to the sink—to Reece really. “We’re almost done.”

She looked on the verge of laughter. “Really?
We?
” She sent me a knowing look. “We had to call in reinforcements. Michael’s an accountant. Not quite the handy man.”

“Nice.” Mr. Campbell’s face flushed. “We all heard that, honey.”

She shrugged. “Maybe you should take some of those weekend classes at Home Depot and stop calling up Reece every time something breaks.”

Mr. Campbell pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they didn’t appear to have slipped.

“Michael. We’re going to be late,” she reminded him sharply.

He motioned to Reece again with a swift wave of his hand. “Ten more minutes.”

Reece’s deep, familiar voice rumbled up from under the sink. “I’m almost done here. You can go on, Mr. Campbell.”

“Thank you, Reece.” Mrs. Campbell’s voice was all relief. When her husband looked prepared to object, she cut him off. “Michael, get your coat.”

Mr. Campbell’s shoulders slumped but he nodded. He kissed both his girls and reminded them to behave. “Thanks, Reece,” he called, a certain glumness to his voice as he exited the kitchen.

Mrs. Campbell turned to me. “The girls have had their baths already. We shouldn’t be too late tonight. Just text or call if you need anything.”

I nodded, knowing the drill by now. “We’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Pepper.”

At the pronouncement of my name, my gaze flew to the sink—to the guy under it—registering the way he froze. I swallowed. How many girls could be named Pepper, after all? He knew I had watched the Campbells’ kids before. It only made sense that it would be me here. Pepper from the bar. The girl he kissed. The girl who less than smoothly gave him her number. Not that he had called or texted me. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach and I quickly decided this was going to be uncomfortable.

Awareness crackled in the air. He knew I was here. He knew
I
knew he was here. And the last time I’d seen him he had kissed me. He slid partway out from beneath the sink and propped himself on one elbow. His gaze locked on mine. My chest tightened as we stared at each other. His well-worn T-shirt hugged his chest, leaving little to the imagination. Under that shirt his body was firm, muscled. Stroke-worthy.

“Hey.”

I snapped my gaze back to his face and found my voice. “Hi,” I returned, the sound small and breathy.

Madison started bouncing her weight against me. I staggered, squaring my feet on the floor to keep my balance. “We hungy, Pepper!”

“Okay.” Grateful for the distraction, I untangled myself from the girls and ushered them out of the kitchen, leading them into the hall bathroom to wash up for dinner.

When we returned several minutes later, Reece had picked up the tools from the kitchen floor and was washing up at the sink.

He glanced at me. “You can use this sink now.”

I nodded as I helped Madison up into her booster seat, my thoughts churning feverishly, trying to come up with something to say that didn’t reflect the hot mess I was inside.

“Are you gonna eat with us, Reece?” Sheridan asked.

My gaze shot to his as I clicked Madison’s buckle into place.

“We eatin’ noodles,” Madison declared, slapping her chubby little hands on the top of the table as I dragged her chair closer.

“With meatballs,” Sheridan added. “Momma makes the best meatballs.”

“The best, huh?” Reece looked at her, considering her thoughtfully, like what she was saying really mattered. Not like other adults, who just looked through kids without really seeing them. Or talked down to them like they were some sort of sub-level human. “What are we talking about here?” He dried his hands with a dish towel and leaned a hip against the counter. “How big are these meatballs?”

Sheridan bit her lip, thinking, and then formed a circle with her hand about the size of a softball. “’Bout like that.”

I grinned at the slight exaggeration.

“Oh, man. Really? That’s the perfect size.”

Sheridan nodded, clearly happy to have Reece agree with her judgment.

His gaze slid to me.

“Would you like to stay?” Really. What else was I supposed to say at that point?

“Sure.”

The girls cheered, and I quickly moved toward the stove and the waiting bowls beside the pots of noodles and sauce. I grabbed a fourth bowl from inside the cabinet.

Turning, I jumped with a small yelp to find Reece directly behind me. The girls giggled uproariously, Madison snorting through her nose.

He held up his hands, palms face out. “Sorry. Just seeing if I could help.”

I nodded, hating the way my face burned. “Yeah. Thanks. Um. Could you pour drinks? There’s milk in the fridge.”

He opened a cabinet—the right one; clearly he had spent some time here—and selected four cups. I smiled, noticing that he picked two princess cups with sliding lids for the girls.

He poured milk as I dished noodles into each bowl. From the corner of my eye, I watched as he set the glasses on the table. Without being told, he opened the oven and removed the heavenly smelling garlic bread from inside.

With shaking hands, I tried to focus on spooning the thick red sauce over the noodles, but I was acutely conscious of Reece’s every move. The faint sawing sound of the knife as he cut the bread into slices. The girls’ silly chatter behind us. It was such a strange, domestic moment. I could almost fool myself that it was real . . . a peek into the life, the future, I wanted for myself.

“I want three meatballs!” Sheridan announced.

“Yeah?” Reece said as he carried the bread to the table. “I’m going to eat fourteen.”

Sheridan giggled. “You can’t eat fourteen!”

My lips curved as I poured only a small spoonful of sauce over Madison’s noodles. Just enough to coat. Setting the girls’ bowls before them, I went back for mine and Reece’s.

“Sorry,” I said, meeting his eyes as I sat between the two girls. “I couldn’t fit fourteen in your bowl.”

“There’s always seconds.”

My pulse spiked as he said this because for the barest second he looked at my mouth, and it was like he wasn’t talking about food at all.

Sheridan provided a welcome distraction, tossing her head back in a fit of giggles. “You’re so crazy, Reece!”

He made a funny face at her as he shook Parmesan over his noodles and then did the same over the girls’ bowls. Something inside my stomach flipped over. It was an odd thing, reconciling
this
Reece with the guy from the bar.

I realized I didn’t know him. Not really. But this. This
him
. It felt . . . wrong somehow. Like trying to force two mismatched puzzle pieces together. He even looked different. No longer cast in the hazy amber glow of the bar, but in the warm yellow of the kitchen. There was no way to hide the faintest flaw in this bright light, and yet, believe it or not, he looked hotter.

Sheridan stared at him with wide eyes. “Momma says you get a tummy ache when you eat too much.”

“What? This belly?” He sank back in his chair and patted his flat stomach. “No way. It’s made of steel. You should have seen what I ate for breakfast. My pancakes were stacked . . .” Squinting, he held his hand two feet above the table. “ . . . this high.”

Madison smacked a hand over her mouth, stifling her gasp.

“Sharks eat tires,” Sheridan volunteered loudly, and not entirely on topic.

Madison nodded sagely in agreement. “Momma read that to us in my shark book. They found a tire in a great white’s belly.”

“I could eat a tire,” Reece replied with utter seriousness, popping a whole meatball into his mouth and chewing.

More giggles erupted at this claim.

Smiling, I twirled spaghetti around my fork and tried not to compare this to the dinners of my childhood, when I usually ate in front of the television. If I was lucky enough to be in a motel room. Often it was the backseat of Mom’s car. Either way, there was rarely a microwave handy so I ate a lot of cold SpaghettiOs straight from the can. “Eat up, girls.”

The girls obliged, slurping noodles into their mouths and making a general mess. Sheridan stabbed her fork into a meatball and lifted it to her lips for a bite. She ate about half of it before it fell into the bowl with a splat, spraying sauce.

Madison proclaimed herself full after three bites, but I coaxed her into eating a little more, bribing her with the lure of bread. All the while, I tried to ignore Reece’s watchful gaze, hoping I was playing it cool as I wiped sauce off chins. Lowering the napkin, I glanced at Reece, only to find him staring back at me.

Heat prickled over my face and I looked away quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear self-consciously.

“C’mon.” I waggled a slice of bread at Madison. “One more bite and you can have this yummy yummy bread.”

Eyes glued to the bread, the toddler shoveled one more tangle of noodles into her mouth and then snatched the promised bread from my fingers.

Sheridan was another story, happily devouring her spaghetti and moving on to her second meatball. I picked at my dinner as they polished off their milk. Everything I chewed sank like lead into my stomach. It was hard to eat with Reece across from me. Watching. Eating with gusto. Apparently he had no such troubles.

“All right,” I instructed when the girls declared themselves stuffed. “Let’s hose you down and get in your pj’s and ready for bed. I promise to read to you if you guys don’t stall.” I clapped once. “Chop chop.”

“Two stories,” Sheridan wheedled.

“Um.” I pretended to think hard. “Okay.”

“Three!” Madison shouted, holding up four fingers.

Sheridan pointed at her. “Ha! You can’t count! You’re holding up four—”

I closed a hand around the seven-year-old’s arm and lowered it to her side. “I think three stories sounds perfect.”

“Yay!” The girls cheered and climbed down from their seats, Madison unlocking her own booster strap in her eagerness.

“Wait. Wash hands first.” I led them to the kitchen sink and supervised as they stepped up on the stool and washed up. They raced from the kitchen.

Turning, I faced Reece. He was watching me intently, relaxed in his chair, one arm reclined along the surface of the table. “You’re good with them.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you.”

He shook his head. “Not really. Just experienced. I grew up with a little brother who insisted on shadowing me everywhere.”

“That didn’t annoy you? I thought big brothers tortured their younger brothers?”

“Not so much. We got on pretty well. Still do.”

“You’re lucky,” I murmured, trying not to let the envy creep in. But then who knew what would have happened if I’d had a brother or sister? They might not have survived my mother. I barely did.

He angled his head. “Let me guess. You and your sister are still bitter rivals?”

“No. Only child.”

“Oh.” The teasing tone left his voice. He studied me again. I sank back into my chair and toyed with my food like I was still going to eat it. I stabbed at a meatball beneath his close scrutiny. “Never would have guessed it. You’re a natural with kids. Just a born mother, I guess.” The way he uttered that, I didn’t feel complimented. It was almost like the observation disappointed him.