I realize that Ransom knows none of this as I climb the two steps onto the porch and lean in to allow him to graze his lips over mine.
“You look fantastic.” Ransom beams as he takes hold of my hand and guides me to turn in a full circle. “If dinner wasn’t moments from being done, I’d give you a tour of my old bedroom growing up.”
There’s that sly smile again. I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. Ransom certainly knows how to make me smile. “What’s for dinner?”
“My favorite.” He doesn’t elaborate.
Keeping hold of my hand, he leads me inside. My gaze flits around, trying to take in my surroundings as we cut a quick path from the entry straight through to the kitchen located at the back of the house.
From what I glimpsed, the home boasts an open floor plan with a receiving and dining room at the head of the house, and a large staircase separating the rooms. The décor is rich, done up in mostly creams and gold, but it’s not overdone. It’s to the style of the house, which I can appreciate. I’m sure everything here is valuable, but I didn’t see any Renoir or Rembrandts hanging on the walls.
My overall assessment: It feels livable.
A woman with blue-black hair, a few shades darker than my own and pulled back in a severe knot, moves around the kitchen, her back to us as she checks the stove and stirs pots. She’s on the short side, is slim and is dressed in a pristine white cocktail dress beneath her pink ruffled apron.
This must be Mrs. Scott.
As Ransom tugs me over to the substantial island to make introductions, my gaze is drawn to the large bank of windows that line the entire rear wall and allow in copious amounts of natural light. Beyond a sprawling red cedar deck lays a short track of green lawn that spills into the calm waves of the Maumee River. Sailboats coast along in the distance and a little ways down, along the rocky shore, stands a couple of men in wading boots fishing.
I am transfixed by the serenity of the moment. In all my life, I’ve never experienced such a thing and I find myself fantasizing about a life where I wake up to scenes like this. I’d spend the weekends sipping hot tea in one of the Adirondack chairs, wrapped in a cozy blanket, with a book to keep me company.
I’m so lost in my fantasy that I miss Ransom’s attempt to gain my attention. When his face enters my line of vision, I blink out of my daze. Looking up, I find that he and the woman are both staring at me in amusement. She is stunning. Her dark hair paired with those sharp, midnight eyes are an exact match for Ransom’s and I can see plainly where he and Rebel got their looks from.
I realize I still haven’t said anything.
“Excuse me,” I say, laughing nervously as I hurry to get my brain up to speed. “This place is amazing. You have a lovely home.”
Holding out her hand, Mrs. Scott shakes mine. “Thank you. My husband, Vincent, had it built for me. I love it.”
“With a view like that, how can you not?” We both laugh at this. Hers is a tinkling, musical laugh lacking any pretense or falsehoods. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Josephine, this is my mother, Seraphim. Mom, this is my girlfriend, Joe.” Ransom’s chest expands. He looks proud.
I like that. It’s a good feeling, having someone be proud to be with me. I find myself beaming back at him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Seraphim.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replies. “My son failed to tell me he found himself such a catch though.” Her dark eyes scan my form, though not maliciously. The way she does it is appreciative. It reminds me of my tendency to people watch, studying others and judging how well all their parts match up. There’s nothing but abject curiosity burning behind those eyes.
“Mom,” Ransom complains, though he’s still smiling, which tells me he’s enjoying this. “Don’t run this one off. She’s skittish.” I give him a sharp look and he winks at me.
The oven timer goes off, saving me from a potentially uncomfortable exchange and Seraphim whirls back into motion. When she opens the oven door, the smell of cinnamon fills the room and I inhale deeply.
“Mmm, what smells so wonderful?” I ask.
Turning, Seraphim’s mitted hands set down a bubbling dish. Inside, I see slivers of fruit that have been caramelized in their own juices, and a crumbled topping.
“I made Summer Cobbler for dessert,” she declares. “It contains a medley of peaches, nectarines, and plums I found at the farmer’s market down the road.”
“Mom makes the best dessert,” Ransom states as he draws her into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of her head.
“I can’t wait to taste it.”
After assuring that the dessert will go perfectly with what she’s planned for dinner, Seraphim directs me and Ransom to set the dinner table.
We get to work laying out the fine China. The herringbone pattern is yet another thing that catches my eye and I admire the dishes as I place them just right around the oblong table.
“You never told me what we’re having for dinner,” I say to break the silence.
“Braised pork chops. They’re Mom’s specialty.” Ransom says this with a soft smile that reveals the depth of his love for his mother.
“You said it’s your favorite?”
“My whole life. Every birthday, Mom would ask me what I wanted her to make for dinner, and I always chose that.”
“It sounds like you had a happy childhood.” As I gaze at him from the opposite end of the table, I feel an ache form inside my chest for the family I no longer have. Mom got sick early on, so I don’t recall any family dinners. Just sickness, a lot of crying, and then the silence that followed. Dad was never the same after that, and then he passed, ensuring I wouldn’t be either. I doubt anyone under this roof knows the kind of loss I’ve experienced, and I envy them that.
Ransom must see the sadness in my eyes. Tilting his head, he passes me a curious look. “What was yours like? Were you happy?”
“It was…it was good.” From what little I can remember before my mom got sick, it was really good, but that was a long time ago. I look away, the back of my throat burning. Avoiding his eyes, I get back to work setting the table.
“My mom loves you,” Ransom says softly as we cross paths. He’s in charge of the silverware since he knows what fork goes on what side of the plate.
I chuckle, shaking my head in denial as I begin arranging the stemware. “She knows nothing about me.”
“She’s a good judge of character.”
I refuse to touch that. He is so sure of himself. Of me. I wonder how he’ll react when the time comes for me to tell him how I earn my paychecks.
“I can’t wait for my dad to meet you. I know he’ll love you, too.”
I open my mouth, prepared to tell him there’s no way for him to know that, either, when the front door opens. With the dining room positioned at the front of the house, I have a direct line of sight into the entry.
My heart stalls for a moment, pausing for dramatic effect as I witness Rebel stride in. He’s dressed to kill. Me. He’s dressed to kill me. I’ve gotten so used to the idea of seeing him in a business suit and tie that I’ve begun to associate the two with each other.
Rebel is wearing a black and white checkered button-down that clings to his well-muscled physique, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off sexy toned forearms, and tucked into a pair of black jeans that hug his powerful thighs. His dark hair is slicked back off his forehead, and I lose the ability to think clearly from just the sight of him.
It’s instant, burning attraction. Once again, I am reminded of why I chose him in the first place. Rebel’s head swivels in our direction, and when he sees me, he smirks. It’s a slow tilt of his lips, filled with arrogance and raw sexuality. Instantly, my heart rate kicks into high gear, hammering against my ribcage.