The Trouble With Valentine's Day (17 page)

“Can't have a good time without good equipment.” Rob reached for his wine, but kept his gaze on Kate. “Maybe I'll show you mine sometime.”

“Good equipment is important no matter what you do in life,” her grandfather joined in, as oblivious as Grace. “I buy the best saws and knives money can buy. And you have to make sure your equipment is always in good working order.”

A side of Rob's mouth turned up, lifting one corner of his Fu Manchu. “Amen.”

Kate crossed her legs and removed his touch from her knee. “Did you know that Americans consume seventy-six billion pounds of red meat and poultry a year?” she asked, purposely changing the subject.

“Well, isn't that interesting?” Grace said.

Rob raised his wine to his lips. “Fascinating.”

“I don't know about all that, but I do know this is the best meal I've had in a long time,” Stanley complimented the cook.

What
? Kate cooked for him all the time. She was a good cook
and
a people person.

“Thank you, Stanley. I know a very good butcher.” Grace took a bite, then spoke the words that struck terror in Kate's heart. “I thought that after dinner, I'd read everyone my newest poems.”

“I'd love to hear them,” her grandfather said. And Kate felt like kicking him under the table. She glanced at Rob, whose fork was paused in midair. He looked like a deer in a spotlight.

“I wish I could stay,” he said at last and placed his fork on his plate. “But I have too much work to do.”

Grace smiled. “I understand.”

Since it had worked for Rob, Kate gave it a try. “Yeah, I have some work to do, too.”

“Like what?” her grandfather wanted to know.

Crap
! “Like . . . making stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff . . . for the store.”

“What stuff?”

She glanced around the room, and her gaze landed on a basket of dinner rolls. “Bread.” Her answer sounded so lame that she doubted anyone would believe it.

“Oh.” Stanley nodded. “Your grandmother used to bake bread and sell it in the store.”

“I remember that,” Grace said through a genuine smile. “Melba always made the best bread.”

“Well, I guess Katie and I can't stay and hear your poetry tonight.”

Grace's smile fell. “Oh, that's too bad.”

Shame weighted Kate's shoulders, and she was just about to say she'd stay when Rob took the matter into his hands.

“I'll take Kate home,” he volunteered, and Kate didn't know which would be worse: staying for a poetry reading or riding alone in a car with Rob Sutter.

Eleven

Riding alone in Rob's HUMMER was
worse. The vehicle was huge, and yet he seemed to take up so much space—and not physically, although he was a big guy. It was the deep texture of his voice filling the shadows as he answered her questions about his vehicle. It was the smell of his skin and the starch in his shirt mixed with the scent of leather seats. The lights from the dash lit up the dark interior with so many digital displays that she couldn't even guess what half of them were for. According to Rob, the HUMMER had heated seats, a Bose stereo, and a navigation system. If that wasn't enough, it also had OnStar.

“Do you know how to use that thing?” she asked and pointed to the blue navigation screen.

“Sure.” He took one hand from the wheel, pushed a few buttons, and the city display of Gospel popped up. As if a person could get lost in Gospel.

“Do you need it to find your way home?”

He chuckled and glanced across the vehicle at her, one side of his face washed in blue light. “No, but it comes in handy when I travel to places I've never been before. I used it a lot this past February when I went skiing with my buddies.” He turned his gaze back to the road. “I've been meaning to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Do you really have a tattoo on your butt?”

Her fingers on the hors d'oeuvre plate in her lap tightened. “You need to forget that night ever happened.”

His quiet laughter filled the space between them. “Right.”

“I know you probably won't believe this, and it's a waste of breath, but that was the one and only time I've ever propositioned a man. I always wanted to pick up a boy toy in a bar, but I'm too inhibited. I'm sexually repressed.”

“You weren't inhibited or repressed that night.”

“I was drunk.”

He made a scoffing sound that made Kate want to hit him. “You weren't that drunk. You had a nice buzz going, but you knew exactly what you were doing.”

True, but there was no way she was going to admit it. “I just wanted to live out a fantasy for one night. One night, that's it. Is that so horrible?” The collar of her peacoat brushed her chin as she looked out the passenger's window at the dark silhouette of pine trees. “All I wanted was to pick up a man and use him bad. Twist him into a sexual pretzel, then kick him out the door when I was through and never see him again. But look what happened.” She'd been turned down flat, then given a moral lecture a few weeks later. “Why are women considered promiscuous when we take charge of our own sexuality? Why is society threatened by strong women who go after what they want? Men proposition women in bars all the time, and they're just being men when they do it.”

She turned her gaze to the front. The head beams lit up the road, and she paused a moment to think about the injustice of it all. “Why is it different for women? We have control over our own fertility, but we still must conform to some archaic moral code. Even in the twenty-first century, women can't be as sexually aggressive as men. If we are, we're sluts. Why is it
so
wrong for women to admit that we think about sex like men do?”

Rant over, Kate sighed and leaned her head back against the seat. Silence filled the vehicle for several long moments, and she began to think he hadn't been listening.

He had. “You planned to twist me into a sexual pretzel?”

“Yeah,” she said through a sigh. “But we both know how it turned out. You ran away as fast as you could.”

“I didn't run.”

“Practically.”

He reached for the navigation system again, pushed a few buttons, fiddled with the stereo, then shut it off. He glanced over at her, and his brows were drawn together as if he were hard at work thinking about something important. He returned his attention to the road, and when he spoke, his voice was a little lower than before. “How were you going to twist me into a sexual pretzel?”

“Forget it.”

“Will you tell me if I beg?”

“No.”

“I'll pay you.”

“No. You already think I'm a slut.”

He glanced at her then back at the road. “I don't think you're a slut.”

“Yes, you do. You grabbed my hand and shoved it on your crotch. That pretty much says to me that you think I'm a slut.”

The lights from the dash accented the outline of his mustache and the scowl turning down the corners of his mouth. “I shouldn't have grabbed your hand.”

“No,” she said. “You shouldn't have.”

“I was provoked.”

Maybe.

Again he was silent for a few seconds. “Do you really believe women can think like men when it comes to sex?”

“Yes,” she answered, although she'd never had the opportunity to try. The guy across the HUMMER had killed her only chance.

“You think women can just have a good time and that's enough?”

“Yes.” At least in theory. “Don't you?”

“I used to, but I'm not so sure anymore.”

They entered town and drove past the big red Texaco sign. “Why not?” she asked, although she figured she knew the answer.

“Sex can make women psycho,” he said.

“That's ridiculous.” Yep, that was pretty much the answer she'd thought he'd give. “Sex doesn't make a person psycho. They're psychotic before the sex.”

“Yeah, but you can't tell by looking. A woman can look perfectly normal until she shows up at your house with crazy eyes and a .22 Beretta.”

“Psycho men can look perfectly normal, too,” she said, thinking of how normal Randy Meyers had looked the day he'd walked into her office.

“Yeah, but a man is less likely to freak after a one-nighter when he doesn't get hearts and flowers and a marriage proposal.” They drove past the courthouse and Hansen's Emporium. “But you give a woman some good sex, and she's more likely to go postal.”

Which was patently absurd. “Are you saying that if the sex is
bad
, a woman won't go all postal?”

He glanced at her as if she'd asked the obvious. “Why would anyone stalk a lousy lay?” He turned onto her grandfather's street. “Do you like to fly-fish?”

“What?” How had the conversation turned from psycho women to fishing?

“Fly-fishing. Do you like it?”

“Ah . . . I don't know. I've never been fly-fishing.”

He pulled the HUMMER into Stanley's driveway and parked behind Kate's Honda. “I'll take you sometime. It'll be good for your nerves.”

“My nerves are fine,” she said and grabbed the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

He reached across and grasped her arm. “Hang on.” When she looked at him, he added, “I'll get your door.”

“I can get it myself.”

“I know you can,” he said and was halfway out of the HUMMER. The grill lights were as big and obnoxious as the rest of the vehicle, and for a few brief moments they lit him up like he was on stage. He opened her door and took the hors d'oeuvre plate from her. His hand once again grasped her arm as he helped her out, which was ridiculous, because she was perfectly capable of getting out of a car by herself.

“We should start over.” His palm slid to her elbow then dropped to his side.

But, she did have to admit, there was a part of her that liked the old-fashioned male attention. “Start over? You mean forget the night we met?”

“That's not going to happen.” He followed close behind as she moved up the dark sidewalk, the soles of his loafers drowned out by the sound of her boot heels. “Maybe we can be friends.”

Wow, that's a first,
she thought as she stopped beneath the porch light and took the plate from him. She usually heard those words right before she was dumped, and Rob wasn't even her boyfriend. “Have you ever had a friend who was a girl?” she asked and hunched her shoulders as the cold night air seeped down the front of her coat.

“No. Have you ever had a guy for a friend?”

“No.” Porch light made the white of his shirt almost fluorescent, while the edges of night outlined him in black. He towered over her and managed to make her, a woman of five eleven with size ten feet, feel small. “Do you honestly think we can be friends?”

“I have my doubts, but if my mother and your grandfather are going to be friends, we're probably going to be seeing more of each other.”

She was freezing her behind off, while the cold didn't seem to affect him. “Probably.” Maybe the cold didn't affect him because he ate so much. She'd never seen anyone eat as much as Rob had tonight. The man should be fat, but he wasn't. The night he'd kissed her she'd felt his chest muscles and hard, flat stomach. He had to do a couple hundred sit-ups a day.

“It would be nice if you weren't always pissed off at me,” he said.

She reached into her pocket with one hand in search of her keys. “I'm not
always
pissed off at you.” Her pocket was empty and she remembered that no one in Gospel locked the doors to their cars or houses. “But you keep bringing up that night in Sun Valley. Obviously it doesn't hold the same pleasant memories for me that it seems to hold for you.”

He rocked back on his heels and looked down at her. “How about I don't mention that night, and you don't walk around mad.”

She opened the door behind her. She had her doubts whether he could control himself. “We can both try.”

“Should we shake on it?”

She held onto the plate with one hand and stuck out the other. His palm pressed into hers, calloused and so warm that her wrist tingled. She tried to pull her hand from his, but his grasp tightened.

“I guess this means I never get to hear about the sexual pretzel.”

She tried not to smile. “No.”

“Damn.” His thumb brushed across the heel of her hand, back and forth, scattering the hot tingles in her wrist.

“Good night.” This time when she pulled her hand away, he let her go.

“Good night, Kate.”

She moved into the house and shut the door behind her. She felt a little flushed as she set the tray on the counter and hung up her coat. A frown pulled her brows even as the hot tingles settled in her stomach.