Chapter Seven
When Maribeth pulled her car into her garage, what Mo wanted most was to be alone with her. And yet there was Caruso to deal with. Glancing at the dog, who sat in the back looking out, he saw that the animal's coat was dry. Outside, it was still snowing, quite heavily now. “I'd hate to see Caruso go running off in the snow.”
“Oh no, he shouldn't be out in this,” Maribeth agreed. “Do you think he'd come in the house?”
“That'd be okay with you?”
“I like Caruso, and he seems to have good manners. We could keep him in the kitchen.”
He had his doubts that the dog would be amenable, but he said, “Let's give it a try. But roll down the garage door before we let him out.”
She used the remote to do so, and then they both climbed out of the car and Mo let the dog out. Caruso sniffed his way around the garage, which was neatly organized. Shelving along one side held lidded plastic tubs with labels, the other side had folded-up garden furniture as well as a cord or so of split-up firewood, and at the end opposite the roll-up door there were tools and gardening stuff.
Maribeth opened the door that led into the house. “Come on in, you two.”
Mo accepted the offer, but Caruso came only as far as the doorway. He glanced inside, then up at Mo and Maribeth, and then he backed away.
“Maybe we could make him a bed in the garage,” Maribeth suggested. “I could leave the door open enough that he could get out.”
In the car, she'd pulled off her hat and run a hand through her hair, getting rid of hat-hair and tousling the glossy red waves. She looked mussed, flushed, gorgeous, and desirableâbut at the moment more concerned about the singing dog than interested in flirting with Mo. Somehow that made her even more appealing.
“It's nice of you to want to look after him.”
“Of course I do. He's your dog.” Humor gleamed in her eyes. “Don't bother denying it.”
“We're . . .” He hunted for the right word. The concept of ownership likely wouldn't sit any better with Caruso than it did with Mo. “Kind of pals, I guess.”
“You know, I may have a better idea for your pal. There's a sun porch out back that would be cozier.”
Mo wasn't so sure that “cozy” was what Caruso was looking for, but the dog could make up his own mind. “Let's see if we can get him to give it a try.” He'd like to get the dog safely settled and be free to enjoy some one-on-one time with Maribeth.
She stepped through the door into the house and went down the hall, where she opened another door and clicked on a light. “Come on, Caruso, see what you think.”
The dog stared toward her, and then up at Mo.
Leaving him there, with the door to the garage open, Mo followed Maribeth. The sun porch was a glassed-in room running the length of the back of the house. A rattan couch and chairs had tie-on cushions upholstered in a faded green-and-purple striped fabric. He imagined Maribeth sitting here on a sunny day, maybe reading a book, drinking some girlie drink. Even with the snow coming down outside, the room looked welcoming. “Okay if we open the outside door a crack?” he asked.
“Good idea.” She stepped over to do it.
Mo turned back to the dog, who hadn't budged from his spot in the garage. “It's nice. Come take a look.”
Body radiating skepticism, Caruso stepped cautiously down the hall and into the sunroom. He went immediately to the door leading outside and stuck his head through the crack. Apparently satisfied that he could get out if he wanted to, he pulled his head back and explored the room. As he did, Maribeth took a colorful cotton blanket out of a rattan cabinet. She tucked it into one of the chairs and patted the seat. “How's that look, Caruso?”
The dog came over, sniffed the blanket, and then hopped onto the chair and curled up.
Maribeth beamed. “Good boy. Wait a minute and I'll bring you some water and food.”
In the hall, she closed the door to the sunroom, hung her and Mo's coatsâdry now, thanks to the car heaterâin a closet, and set her boots on a mat.
Mo pulled off his boots, too, and put them beside hers. Sock-footed, he followed her to the kitchen.
“I roasted a chicken yesterday,” she said, opening the fridge, “thinking it'd give me leftovers for lunch salads and sandwiches. Do you think he'd like chicken?”
“I'd bet on it.”
Working together, they filled one bowl with water and another with scraps of chicken. The meat smelled so delicious, Mo couldn't resist sneaking a few bites himself.
When they took the meal out to the sunroom, Caruso first lapped water eagerly and then set in to devour the chicken.
Mo looked from the dog to Maribeth, who leaned against the door frame smiling at the animal.
She caught Mo looking and turned her smile on him. “He can stay here tonight if he wants.” She took a step toward him. “It's shaping up to be nasty out there.”
Listening to the snowâmore like sleet nowârattling against the roof, he said, “It is.”
“Seems like a pity for any warm-blooded creature to go out in it.” There was a sexy purr in her voice. “If he doesn't have to.”
Did she mean him? Was that an invitation to spend the night? Throat dry, he said, “It does seem like a pity.” It wasn't so much the thought of walking home through a snowstorm that was on his mind, but the image of curling up in bed next to Maribeth's warm curves. Of waking in the middle of the night to the sound of sleet against the window, and rolling into her for some slow, thorough lovemaking.
He wasn't a guy who spent the night. He was always out of bed and on his way long before dawn. It avoided giving the wrong impression; avoided complications. But like he'd told her earlier, with Maribeth everything was different.
She captured his hand and tugged him out of the sunroom, closing the door behind them. “I turned the stove on. I'll put the lasagna in, and then I'm going to swap my outdoor clothes for something more comfortable.”
Lingerie? That was often what women meant when they said “something comfortable.” The red-blooded male part of Mo hoped it'd be lingerie, but to his surprise another part of him vetoed the idea. For once, he wasn't in a blazing hurry to skip the obligatory chitchat and get to the sex. With Maribeth, he found something appealing about anticipationâabout having dinner, conversation, and then some lazy foreplay, perhaps in front of the fireplace. “How about I get a fire going?” he asked.
“That would be great.” Standing in the hallway, she squeezed his hand. “I have a sense that you're pretty good at lighting fires, Mo Kincaid.”
Taking that as a hint, he leaned down and kissed her, tasting welcome and eagerness on her full lips. Heat surged through his blood, a dark urge to abandon any thought of anticipation and to drive toward the goal, right here and now in this hallway. He forced himself to pull away and say lightly, “I'll give it my best shot, Ms. Scott.”
Laughing, she walked down the hall and turned into the kitchen.
With a grin on his face, he headed down the hall in the opposite direction, passing a half-open door to the dining room and a couple of closed doors.
“Oh,” her voice followed him, “I forgot to say, there's a powder room off the hall.”
“Thanks.”
In the living room, he saw the flowers he'd brought over a few nights ago sitting in pride of place on the center of the coffee table, holding up pretty well. Maribeth had filled the wood box on the hearth, so it was an easy matter to set a fire and get it going. He brought in more wood, then washed up in the powder room and pulled off the heavy navy sweater he wore over a plaid shirt made of lightweight flannel.
He was checking out the books on her shelvesâmostly romance novels and travel storiesâwhen she returned.
No, she wasn't wearing lingerie, but she looked plenty sexy in clingy black leggings with a slim-fitting shirt worn loose over them. The shirt was a deep purple, shiny and silky-looking. Her dangly gold earrings had sparkly purple stones. On her feet were the puppy-dog slippers. “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “There's a sparkling orange drink that I find really refreshing.”
“That sounds good. By the way, if you want to drink beer or wine, don't stop on my behalf.” Any time he craved the taste of an ice-cold beer, he remembered all the times that drinking had been coupled with anger and violence, and that killed the urge.
“Thanks, but I don't.” She returned with two glasses of something orange and fizzy, and handed him one.
He took a swallow. “This is good.”
She kicked off her slippers and curled up on the sofa beside him. The polish on her toenails and fingernails was pink today.
For the next little while, they talked about how the town had changed over the past couple of decades. It seemed that she, like him, was in no hurry to push things along. If she'd meant what she'd hinted, about him staying the night, they had hours and hours to work their way toward the endgame.
Still, he was totally aware of her. Of each time she shifted position, of the way her shirt draped her breasts, of that row of buttons down the front, of the fresh, herbal scent that drifted his way.
When a timer went off down the hall, she gracefully unfolded her legs and stood, sliding into her slippers again. “I'll take the lasagna out, and it should sit for a few minutes. That'll give us time to throw together a salad.”
Clearly she expected him to help. He had no issue with that. It was the least he could do, considering that she'd prepared the lasagna that scented the kitchen with a rich, meaty aroma.
Following instructions, he ripped lettuce and chopped tomatoes and yellow peppers while she put oil, vinegar, and dried herbs in a bottle and shook them up. She snipped some leaves from a basil plant growing on the windowsill and cut them up into the salad.
“We could eat in the kitchen or dining room,” she said, “but it's so nice by the fire.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They set everything out on the coffee table, and while he put another log on the fire, she turned on some music. When he heard instrumental light jazz, he said, “I was expecting country music.”
She shrugged. “I likeâ”
He held up a hand, cutting her off. “Variety. Yeah, I get it.”
They sat side by side on the sofa and dished out the food.
They didn't talk a lot while they ate, which was fine with Mo. He'd never been a big conversationalist, and he was busy enjoying the wonderful food. Riding in the snow had whetted his appetite. He liked it that Maribeth seemed content with his company and didn't feel the need to babble about herself or to probe him with questions. The jazz felt a little sophisticated for him, like it should be playing in a club where people were dressed up, drinking fancy drinks. All the same, it danced seductively in his ears, kind of intriguing compared to the country music and classic rock he was more familiar with.
After he had seconds of the lasagna and Maribeth finished off the salad, they put the leftovers in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher.
“Raisin pie?” she asked.
“Thanks, but I'm stuffed.”
She refreshed their drinks and then they settled back on the sofa. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. Her head on his shoulder felt so good, as did her hand on his thigh. She'd turned the lights off, and firelight flickered off the glass of the framed photographs. “You take holidays to all those places,” he said, “and you read travel stories. Yet you seem happy living here in Caribou Crossing.”
“I am. I was born here and have never wanted to live anywhere else.”
“Your parents were natives, too?”
“No. Mom was from Vancouver and Dad from Victoria. They met at university and dated while she studied dentistry and he got his doctorate in civil engineering. They got married, looked for jobs, and he got an offer with the township of Caribou Crossing. They moved here, she set up a practice, and they fell in love with the place.”
“Why do you enjoy travel? Is it your thing about liking variety?”
“I guess. It's fun to see other places and learn about them. To get a different, broader perspective. I learned that from my parents.”
“You go to those places alone?”
“Sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend.”
A man friend? That idea shouldn't bother him, yet somehow it did.
“Are you into travel?” she asked. “You said that when you and Brooke were married, you moved around a lot.”
“I had a restless nature and Brooke complained about every place we lived. I'd lose a job or we'd get kicked out of a rental place, or the police would nab us for being drunk and disorderly, and it'd be time to move on. Since then . . .” He tilted his head, gazing at the fire and reflecting. “I wouldn't say I have the travel bug. I've never been anywhere other than L.A. and Canada. I wouldn't mind, but I never felt the need. But I also never lived in a place that I really liked. The longest I've stayed anywhere was in Regina, and that was because I had a good job.”
“How long were you in Caribou Crossing, before?”
He thought back. “Three or four years. That was a record for us, and it happened because of Brooke. The first year Evan was in school, we moved a couple times. Then Brooke said he needed stability. We couldn't keep picking up and leaving whenever the fancy took us. She was a better parent than me.” He shook his head, remembering. “It sure wasn't that she liked the town. Called it Hicksville. Evan picked that up from her. I still find it hard to believe that she stayed here.”