Georgeanne’s eyes widened. “I guess I did.”
“It doesn’t matter now anyway, damn it,” he cursed as he turned his wrist over and looked at his watch. “Even if I left now, the bar will run out of oysters before I can get there.” He turned and walked down the hall toward the living room. “I guess I’ll eat beer nuts and stale popcorn.”
“If you’re hungry, I could cook something for you.” Georgeanne followed close behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I don’t think so.”
She wasn’t about to let this opportunity to impress him pass her by. “I’m a wonderful cook. I could make you a beautiful dinner before you go out.”
John stopped in the middle of the living room and turned to face her. “No.”
“But I’m hungry also,” she said, which wasn’t precisely the truth.
“You didn’t get enough to eat earlier?” He buried his hands up to his knuckles in the front pocket of his jeans and shifted his weight to one foot. “Ernie sometimes forgets that not everyone eats as little as he does. You should have said something.”
“Well, I didn’t want to impose any more than I already have,” she said, and smiled sweetly at him. She could see his hesitation and pressed a little further. “And I didn’t want to hurt your grandfather’s feelings, but I hadn’t eaten all day and was starving. But I know how older people are. They eat soup or salad and call it a meal while the rest of us call it first course.”
His lips curved slightly.
Georgeanne took the slight smile as a sign of acquiescence and walked past him into the kitchen. For a jock who admitted he didn’t like to cook, the room was surprisingly modern. She opened the almond-colored refrigerator and mentally inventoried its contents. Ernie had mentioned that the kitchen was well stocked, and he hadn’t been kidding.
“Can you really make gravy with tuna fish?” he asked from the doorway.
Recipes flipped through her head like a Rolodex as she opened a cupboard filled with a variety of pasta and spices. She glanced at John, who stood with one shoulder propped against the frame. “Don’t tell me you want creamed tuna? Some people like it, but if I never have to see or smell it again, I could live quite happy.”
“Can you make a big breakfast?”
Georgeanne shut the cupboard and turned to face him. The silky black belt at her waist came loose. “Of course,” she said as she tightly retied it into a bow. “But why would you want breakfast when you have all that wonderful seafood in your refrigerator?”
“I can have seafood anytime,” he answered with a shrug.
She’d accumulated a variety of culinary skills from years of cooking classes and was eager to impress him. “Are you sure you want breakfast? I make a killer pesto and my linguine with clam sauce is to die for.”
“How about biscuits and gravy?”
Disappointed she asked, “You’re kidding, right?” Georgeanne couldn’t remember being taught how to make biscuits and gravy, it was just something she’d always known how to do. She supposed it had been bred into her. “I thought you wanted oysters.”
He shrugged again. “I’d rather have a big, greasy breakfast. A real southern artery clogger.”
Georgeanne shook her head and opened the refrigerator again. “We’ll fry up all the pork we can find.”
“We?”
“Yep.” She placed a summer ham on the counter, then opened the freezer. “I need you to slice the ham while I make biscuits.”
His dimple creased his tan cheek as he smiled, and he pushed himself away from the doorframe. “I can do that.”
The pleasure of his smile sent a flutter to the pit of Georgeanne’s stomach. As she placed a package of sausage links in the sink and ran hot water over them, she imagined that with a smile like his, he’d have no problem getting women to do anything he wanted anytime he wanted it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, as she turned off the water and began pulling flour and other ingredients out of cupboards.
“How much of this do I slice?” he asked instead of answering her question.
Georgeanne glanced across her shoulder at him. He held the ham in one hand and a wicked-looking knife in the other. “As much as you think you’ll eat,” she responded. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“Nope.”
“Why?” She dumped flour, salt, and baking powder into a bowl without measuring.
“Because,” he began, and hacked off a hunk of ham, “it’s none of your business.”
“We’re friends, remember,” she reminded him, dying to know details of his personal life. She spooned Crisco into the flour and added, “Friends tell each other things.”
The hacking stopped and he looked up at her with his blue eyes. “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”
“Okay,” she said, figuring she could always tell a little white lie if she had to.
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
For some reason his confession made her stomach flutter a little more.
“Now it’s your turn.” He tossed a piece of ham in his mouth, then asked, “How long have you known Virgil?”
Georgeanne pondered the question as she moved past John and took milk from the refrigerator. Should she lie, tell the truth, or perhaps reveal a bit of both? “A little over a month,” she answered truthfully, and added several splashes of milk to the bowl.
“Ahh,” he said through a flat smile. “Love at first sight.”
Hearing his bland, patronizing voice, she wanted to clobber him with her wooden spoon. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” She settled the bowl on her left hip and stirred as she’d seen her grandmother do a thousand times, as she herself had done too many times to count.
“No.” He shook his head and began to slice the ham once more. “Especially not between a woman like you and a man as old as Virgil.”
“A woman like me? What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” she said, even though she had a pretty good idea. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on.” He frowned and looked at her. “You’re young and attractive and built like a bri-like aaa…” He paused and pointed the knife at her. “There’s only one reason a girl like you marries a man who parts his hair by his left ear and combs it over the top of his head.”
“I was fond of Virgil,” she defended herself, and stirred the dough into a dense ball.
He lifted a skeptical brow. “Fond of his money, you mean.”
“That’s not true. He can be real charming.”
“He can also be a real son of a bitch, but being that you’ve only known him a month, you might not know that.”
Careful not to lose her temper and throw something at him again, and in turn damage her chances of receiving an invitation to stay for a few more days, Georgeanne prudently placed the bowl on the counter.
“What made you run out on your wedding?”
She certainly wasn’t about to confess her reasons to him. “I just changed my mind is all.”
“Or did it finally dawn on you that you were going to have to have sex with a man old enough to be your grandfather for the rest of his life?”
Georgeanne folded her arms beneath her breasts and scowled at him. “This is the second time you’ve brought up the subject. Why are you so fascinated by my relationship with Virgil?”
“Not fascinated. Just curious,” he corrected, and continued to cut a few more slices of ham, before setting down the knife.
“Has it occurred to you that I might not have had sex with Virgil?”
“No.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“Bullshit.”