Star Dust (16 page)

After he’d shown her the house the other night, she’d left with a quick wave. Almost as if now that the sex was over, she was done. No kiss, no hug, no lingering—just
goodbye.
He could understand why some of the women he’d slept with before had been miffed at his quick escapes after.

In the end, he let the kids drag him to their back door, because it felt good. Good to be greeted by happy kids when he came home from work, good to step into a kitchen filled with the savory scent of pot roast. He could almost pretend that he and Anne-Marie were dating, walking into her house like this.

And the lady herself, wearing an apron, bustling about the kitchen—she was better than good. Dainty, flame-haired, and delectable.

She caught sight of him, her eyes widening. For half a moment, something hot sparked within them. Something that made his skin heat and his mouth go dry. And all he could think of was her expression as she climaxed, a sight he wanted to see again and again—

“Mom, Kit’s going to eat dinner with us. Is that okay?”

And that was why he didn’t want this first meeting to be in front of the kids.

“Um.” Her usual look of consternation came over her, the one that said,
Why don’t you just go away?

But she didn’t mean that look. At least, not if her reactions from two nights ago were any indication. No, then she hadn’t wanted him an inch away. Not until after, at least.

“I don’t mean to impose.” And he really didn’t. He should have given the kids an excuse, pulled his hands free, gone inside to his own empty house—

“It’s no problem.” She addressed her reply to the salad she was making, her voice carefully neutral.

Great. Now they’d have to stew in the tension all night. Maybe she was right—maybe a secret affair was all they could have.

“Yay!” Freddie shouted as he and Lisa began to hop up and down.

“You two,” Anne-Marie ordered, “go wash up.”

The kids left, chattering about something at school.

And he and Anne-Marie were finally alone. He started to reach for her, but he stopped himself. This wasn’t the place for that. He looked around. The table needed to be set.

He began opening cupboards. “Where are the plates?”

“You don’t have to—”

He gave her his superior officer look, which quieted her. If he was coming to dinner, he’d damn well do something to help. And he wasn’t going to make the mistake of asking her if he could, only to have her say no.

“Up here.” She tapped a cupboard above her head. He reached up to open it, and she moved slightly away. But only slightly, just enough so that he could arch over her.
 

He found the edges of the plates solely by touch, hard and cold, while keeping his gaze on the soft, warm line of her neck, her own gaze on her hand resting on the countertop. They breathed together, the moment more potent than the countdown to lift off.

Somehow, once they got close without an audience, the awkwardness evaporated, leaving only acute awareness. Thank God.

He exhaled, and the hair over her ear stirred. The cord of longing between them pulled taut and tugged him toward her. One night hadn’t been enough. The longing hadn’t abated. If anything, it had intensified.

Were they married, this would be the moment when he kissed her as he’d been wanting to all day—a kiss that said,
God, I’m glad to be home.

And then it would shift to say,
I can’t wait for the kids to go to bed
.

He’d give her that kind of kiss, after the stars rose and the kids were in bed and he slipped out her back door and into his bed—sadly alone tonight.

“Found them,” he said softly, pulling down four plates.

“Silverware is here,” she said just as softly, pointing to a drawer. But her gaze was hot and sharp as it found his.

“Thank you.” He pondered her, wondering if there was time to risk a quick kiss to take the terrible edge off their hunger.

“Freddie,” Lisa screeched from down the hall, “don’t!”

Nope. Definitely not time.

He filled his hands with silverware and headed for the dining room. The kids came barreling in as he was laying out the forks.

“We’ll get the glasses,” Lisa told him.

“Where are you sitting, Kit?” Freddie asked. “Mom usually sits here.” He pointed to the head of the table.

“I was thinking of that spot.” He pointed to the foot.

“Oh, good, then you’ll be between me and Freddie,” Lisa said.

Anne-Marie came in, holding a steaming platter of pot roast in her hands. “Okay, everyone, sit down.” She snuck a nervous, almost guilty, glance at Kit before setting down the platter.

Once they were seated, she reached a hand out to Kit. “Your plate, please.”

There was a flutter in her voice, and his stomach fluttered in return as he handed it to her. Their hands were linked by the plate for half a moment, and he suddenly remembered reaching across the distance in the dark to light her cigarette, the gesture only slightly more intimate than the one they were engaged in right now.

He released the plate, but their gazes held. Jesus, she was lovely.

One of the kids rattled something, and the moment was broken.

Anne-Marie jerkily scooped some food onto his plate, passed it back without looking at him, then started to dish out food to the kids.

“How was your day?” he asked.

She stilled as if surprised he’d even ask. “Um, good. Well… fine.” She handed Freddie his plate. “And yours?”

“All he did today was paperwork,” Lisa said with some disgust. “Can you believe that?”

Anne-Marie began to serve herself as she said, “Considering that my day was mostly paperwork, yes, I can.”

They shared a secret, half-second smile as she sat down.

“We had emergency drills at school,” Lisa announced. “Tornado, hurricane, bomb…”

“Will that actually save you if the Reds launch their missiles?” Freddie asked. This was pitched to Kit—because he was an expert on the Reds.

“Uh…” Kit caught Anne-Marie’s eye. She shrugged. “You’ve got to follow your teacher’s instructions if that does happen.”

A deflection from the original question, but he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to lie and say they’d be fine, but he also didn’t want to panic them.

The kids accepted his non-answer though, shooting off to talk about Bucky’s latest trick. Perhaps Kit hadn’t done so badly then.

He looked down at his plate, up at the kids debating whether to teach the dog to shake or speak, and then across at Anne-Marie. She was watching him evenly right back. It was a weighted silence of stillness and consideration.
 

She didn’t seem uneasy or apprehensive about the scene: her, him, the kids all gathered together in this family dinner. It might be what she said she didn’t want, but here in the moment, she seemed content with it.

The warmth spreading through Kit’s chest was more than contentment, more than pleasure. Because they were all sitting together, cozy, comfortable, intimate—and Kit couldn’t imagine going back to Kraft dinners with only Bucky as a companion again.

To Tell the Truth
blasted in the den, punctuated by the occasional crackle of Freddie and Lisa’s laughter. Usually she’d want to know what was so funny, except Kit was helping her with the dishes, which made concentrating on anything else tricky.

“Boss, you missed a spot.” Kit tapped the platter and raised a brow. “I expect more from the management.”

He clucked his tongue and handed it to her. She glared. It wasn’t really a spot, but she dabbed at it with her sponge, rinsed the platter again, and passed it back to him.

“You know, I think the problem isn’t with the washing but with the drying.”

“That so?” His eyes crinkled as he took the platter and pulled her closer to him along with it. “I guess I just need more practice.”

Except that he didn’t. He’d cleared the table over her feeble objections and then started helping her wash the dishes with the confidence of a man who did this a lot. As a bachelor she knew he must, but it was like seeing a dog do back flips. She couldn’t quite believe it. Her father had never cleared the table or washed a dish.

Doug was marginally better, but he’d almost never been home for dinner. Maybe on the weekends, but even then, they’d usually had people over. Then it had been entertaining, and she’d always handled every detail—including the cleanup.

Having a man for a weekday dinner was odd, even before he set the table and picked up a towel.

She pulled back and handed Kit another glass.

“What’s the matter? Am I not doing it right?”

She looked up into his face. “No, you’re—”
Perfect
. He was perfect. Except that she stumbled on the word.

“Mom, can Kit help me with my math homework?” Freddie skidded into the kitchen on stockinged feet. “I have about a million fraction problems.”

She startled away from Kit, aware for the first time they’d been touching from ankle to hip. “You go,” she told Kit. “I just have to wipe down the counters. But thanks. For helping me.”

He held her eyes for a long moment. As it had all night, everything around them went indistinct. An inconvenient attraction had buzzed between them from the start—but it was supposed to get better, not worse, now that they were lovers. She didn’t like feeling attuned to him.

He gave her a warm nod and followed Freddie out to the den. She dragged a sponge across the counters slowly and listened to the conversation.

Over the din of the television she could hear Kit say, “Hmm, let’s look at this one again.”

“It isn’t right, is it?” Freddie replied, some anxiety in his voice.

Freddie was doing fine in school, but something—the move, the divorce—had him doubting himself. He’d always been a thoughtful kid, but the constant worrying from him was beginning to make her worry.

“Well, how about you tell me what you did?” Kit sounded warm. Encouraging.

Freddie said, “I multiplied across. The top with the top and the denominator with the denominator.”

Wait, was that correct? It seemed right. She’d been so good at fractions once, but now she couldn’t remember how to multiply them. It just didn’t come up in her daily life. She could cut a recipe by a third or double it and estimate how much meat she’d need per guest, but she couldn’t describe the details. And how did you divide fractions? Didn’t you have to switch the top and bottom? Which one was the denominator? Maybe she was a terrible mother.

“Good,” Kit said. “But let’s look at your answer.”

There was a pause. When Freddie answered, the doubt was gone from his voice. “Oh, I didn’t simplify.”

An eraser squeaked and then a pencil scratched. Freddie asked, “How’s this?”

“Good job. How about you try those next two? What about you, Lisa? What are you working on?”

Lisa launched into an explanation about a project on cursive handwriting that Anne-Marie had never heard of. She looked at the sponge in her hand and pushed it absently across the counter.

What were she and Kit doing? Was this a good idea?

She’d told him that she didn’t want to have a relationship because she didn’t want him to hurt the kids unintentionally. But when he’d showed up tonight—which she was confident was the kids’ fault—all she’d been able to think about was how happy she was to see him. She’d missed him.

All day her body had hummed, imagining his hands on it. She wanted to see him, to see if he’d blush when he saw her. And he had. She wanted to see if he’d be pleased to see her. And he had been.

But this? Him helping her kids with their homework? It felt familial. It felt like danger. It felt like everything she’d wanted to avoid but now couldn’t deny that she liked.

She stayed in the kitchen, cleaning minute things she didn’t do on a typical Monday and listening to the goings-on in the den until it was bedtime.

She strolled in. “Okay, you two,” she said to her kids, hoping she sounded normal. “Time for your bath. I’m sure Kit wants to go home.” The kids made faces. “Don’t start with that. Scoot.”

Freddie, in typical fashion, broke first. “Night, Kit!” he called, bolting toward his bedroom.

Lisa started to dash from the room, but then stopped and turned. “Can you come to dinner every night?”

Kit chuckled. “Um, probably not.”

“Too bad. Goodnight!” Lisa followed her brother.

Noises filtered down the hall—of the kids jockeying for position in the bathroom, replaying their dinner with an astronaut, and attempting, somewhere in between, to get clean.

She watched the man she’d gone to bed with. And he watched her back. Kit filled up the armchair he’d claimed as if it were his. His den. His house.

The look in his eyes as he considered her was hot and proprietary. She held her ground and his gaze.

“If I didn’t say it, the roast was delicious.”

She swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry to have imposed,” he said, some of the lust leaving his face. “The kids—”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m grateful, though. All that was waiting for me was cold cereal.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Kit, you’re headed to space. You need more nutrition than that.”