“You’d think they’d learn,” she said to Tim, waving her arms. “Some women aren’t meant to get married.”
She carried the box of toys to the small outbuilding she’d converted into a pottery studio. Returning to the kitchen, she slung Tim under one arm and grabbed the playpen with the other. “This is going to be great, kiddo. I’m going to teach you how to make a teapot.”
At six – thirty Megan let herself into Pat’s house on Nicholson Street and took an unhurried tour. The small cottage was part of the historic area. It wasn’t one of the eighty – eight buildings still standing from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but it had been accurately reconstructed from its original eighteenth century foundation. The exterior shell was precisely as it would have been in colonial times, and the interior had been adapted only slightly to modern living.
Megan wondered how Pat had been lucky enough to get the little house. The private residences in the historic area were occupied, for the most part, by employees of Colonial Williamsburg, and the houses were at a premium.
She knew this particular house had originally been an outbuilding, an eighteenth – century kitchen, and it still maintained that warm, country – kitchen feeling. The downstairs floor was wide plank, the walls creamy white with dark wood cupboards. One entire wall was devoted to the large brick fireplace and step – up hearth. A small pewter – and – candle chandelier hung directly over the front entrance. A larger chandelier had been placed in the middle of the room.
The room was partially divided by the mahogany staircase leading to the upstairs. The small nook it created had been converted into a modern kitchen. A plump couch covered in a brick red and creamy white check faced the fireplace. A red braid throw rug covered the living – room – area floor, and a rocking chair sat invitingly close to the fireplace. Houseplants had been set in copper pots and wooden tubs. Megan thought it was the perfect Thanksgiving room. It practically shouted pumpkin pie and roast turkey.
She tugged Timmy out of his new snowsuit and selected a dog – eared book from the diaper bag to read to him. She struck a match to the kindling in the fireplace and settled herself in the rocking chair with the baby on her lap.
“You’re going to like this,” she said to Timmy. “It’s about a little red hen. You like little red hens?”
Timmy sucked his thumb vigorously and watched her with big blue eyes.
“Good. Me too. When we’re done with the book I’ll give you some juice and then it’s bedtime.”
More than two hours later Pat found Megan in his kitchen up to her elbows in pie dough. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans, white sneakers, and an aquamarine sweater with a loose turtleneck, and the sleeves were pushed high on her arms. Her hair curled in wiry tendrils around her flushed face and cascaded over her shoulders in lush waves. Flour smudged her face and her jeans.
She turned to him and smiled and laughed, and he heard his heart give one great thud. She was a perfect snowflake, a summer sunset, a wave breaking on virgin sand. She was exquisite, with a beauty that defied age and fashion. She was a woman, filled with life and vitality. The sexiest strumpet ever created, he thought, feeling a smile tug at his mouth.
He draped his jacket over a kitchen chair and peered into a big stainless – steel bowl on the table. “What’s this brown stuff?”
“Pumpkin. I’m making a pumpkin pie!”
He stood as close as he could without touching her and tried not to smile too broadly. “You’re a mess.”
“I’ve had some problems.” She took a step back and bumped into the counter. Suddenly the kitchen was very small and much warmer. “The pumpkin stuff was easy, but the pie crust… Have you ever made pie crust?”
He took off his tie and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. Little black hairs curled from the open V. “Nope. I’ve never made pie crust. Do you think it’s warm in here?”
“I have the oven on, and the fire is going, and…” And her heart was racing, she thought. If he didn’t kiss her she was going to tear his shirt off and pin him to the kitchen floor. No! she shouted silently. That was wrong. That was not what she was going to do. Remember the bag? Remember Dave? She hit herself on the head with the wooden spoon.
Pat’s eyes widened. “Why’d you do that?”
“I deserved it.” She waved his question away and returned to her pie crust. “This is the third crust I’ve made. The first one had too much water and got slimy. The second one I rolled out too thin and it stuck to the rolling pin and my shirt. This one is going to be perfect. Look, it’s almost round!”
Pat moved the pie plate closer to the dough, and together they maneuvered the crust into the pan. “Damn!” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “You did it. You made a pie crust.” He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m proud of you.”
Their gazes locked for a moment while they each pondered taking the kiss a step further.
“No,” Megan said. “Yes,” Pat said. He pressed himself against her, snaking his arms around her waist. “I’m serious.”
“Me too. Want to get married?”
“No!”
“Want to go to bed?” She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “You want to get conked with my wooden spoon?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Hmmm.” Of course she wanted to go to bed with him, she thought. If her attraction to him continued to grow, she might even want to marry him. Unfortunately, it was all impossible, and what she really didn’t want to do was fall in love with him. That would be totally painful.
“Hmmm?” he repeated. “That’s encour aging.” He brushed his hips lightly against hers.
She wanted to be encouraging, she thought. She also wanted to erase the threat of nuclear war, eliminate hunger from the face of the earth, and find a cure for cancer. Unfortunately, none of those things was within her power.
She placed the palms of her hands on his chest and pushed firmly. “I’m going to finish my pie, and you’re going to do the dishes, and then we’re going to sit down and talk.” He was much too lovable, and she was far too susceptible to his charms. She didn’t want to bare her soul to him, but he had to be made to understand that this was a working friendship, not a love affair. They were briefly bound together by Timmy and Thanksgiving. She didn’t want to jeopardize either of those things, but she was not going to bed with him.
She fluted the edge of the crust, just as the cookbook showed, and poured the filling into the shell. Turning toward the oven, she allowed herself a moment of sexist ogling as she watched Pat, his back to her, rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher. His shirt sleeves were rolled to above his elbows, displaying strong, muscular arms. Despite the rigors of med school, he’d managed to keep in shape. He was nearly perfect, with broad shoulders, trim waist, a hard, flat stomach, and slim hips. His faded jeans clung to the world’s sexiest buns. She tried to picture him naked, but there were a few details beyond her imagination. She sighed wistfully and put the pie in the oven.
Pat stowed the last bowl in the dishwasher and dried his hands on a kitchen towel. “Okay, what are we going to talk about?” he asked, reaching for her.
She sidled away, putting the kitchen table between them. “Us.Mostly you.”
He leaned against the counter and lazily folded his arms across his chest. His expression was serious, but his eyes were glinting with pleasure as he gazed at her. “What about me?”
“You’re very attractive.”
“And?”
“And I like you. You’re fun, and you’re great with Timmy, and you’re nice to me.”