Locked In Temptation. Brenda Jackson
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it?”
A huge smile touched her lips. “Yes, it was worth the wait. Thanks again for everything. You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“You deserve it, and if you recall, I told you at dinner that you were special.” He had a feeling that she didn’t take compliments well. As far as he was concerned, the best solution to that was to keep on giving them.
“Need any help?” he asked.
“Umm, you can set the table for me. It’s such a beautiful day, I thought it would be nice to eat out on the patio. It’s screened in, and on nice days it’s one of my favorite places to eat and spend time reading or lounging around.”
“No problem.”
“The dishes are in that cabinet. The eating utensils are there. And the mugs for the coffee are there,” she said, pointing the location of everything out to him.
“Thanks.”
He opened the cabinets and took out two of everything. But he couldn’t stop his gaze from roaming all over her, thinking she definitely looked good in that dress. And she smelled good, too.
“Just so you know, I can cook,” he said as he opened the drawer to get out the eating utensils.
She glanced back over at him. “Can you?”
“Yes. I’m no Chef Emeril, but I can hold my own.”
“What’s your favorite meal you like to prepare?”
“Lasagna.”
“I don’t know too many men, including my brothers, who like being in the kitchen near a stove. Who taught you?”
“Mostly my grandmother, but my mom taught me the basics.” He moved across the room. “Can you get that door for me?”
“Sure.”
She moved ahead to open the door that led to the screened-in patio. Honestly, even with his hands full he could have opened it himself, but he enjoyed seeing her legs in motion. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Everything should be ready in a few.”
“Okay.” He watched her leave and thought that was another thing he could get used to. Seeing her gorgeous legs in a dress instead of the slacks she usually wore.
* * *
JOY RETURNED TO the kitchen, thinking that she wasn’t used to having anyone, especially a man, in her home this early in the morning. This was definitely a first. It was also a first for her to sleep with a guy on their first date, but she’d done so with Stonewall by convincing herself it was long overdue. Had they gone out six months ago as planned, they probably would have shared a bed by now. And it wasn’t as if they’d just met and hadn’t kept in contact.
She noticed him opening the door to come back inside. “So, how do you think I did?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.
Although she knew he was asking her opinion about the table he’d set, she was thinking about his performance last night. “You did a great job. Now you can help carry everything out.”
He looked at the filled platters. “It looks and smells good, but do you expect us to eat all that?”
She chuckled. “Yes.”
They sat down to eat and piled the food on their plates. “At least let me pour the coffee,” Stonewall offered when she reached out to do so.
“Okay.”
Moments later she watched him dig in, take his first mouthful, close his eyes and moan. “These are great-tasting pancakes, Joy.”
“Thanks. While in high school I worked at a café where I learned how to flip eggs and make all kinds of breakfast meals. Pancakes were my specialty. I seldom prepare a meal like this for myself—usually I operate on doughnuts and coffee.”
“What do you eat for lunch?” he asked her.
“I rarely eat lunch. Most days I work through it.”
“What about dinner?”
She took a sip of her coffee and then answered. “Usually I grab a salad from someplace on the way home, but that could be anytime of night. I have no set time to leave work.” No need telling him that she’d pulled an all-nighter more than a few times.
He nodded. “How are things going for you at work?” Stonewall asked while spooning more eggs onto his plate. She was glad he seemed to enjoy the breakfast she’d prepared.
“Hectic as usual. Got at least fifteen homicides I’m working.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Tell me about it. Most of them didn’t get the attention they deserved when everyone was focused on the Erickson case. One in particular involves a woman who froze to death one night under suspicious circumstances. I guess you can say Murphy Erickson messed things up in Charlottesville in more ways than one.”
Murphy Erickson was infamous. The mobster had promised to kill everyone who’d been in the courtroom the day his sentence had been read, including Margo. Ten people had been killed before the assassin Murphy had hired was taken down by Striker while on the job, protecting her.
“Still no new leads on that? The authorities still don’t know who killed Erickson?”
“Not that I heard. It’s a federal investigation now and the Feds aren’t telling us anything.”
Her eyes lingered on him. He was finishing off the last of his pancakes. He’d eaten every single one. Knowing it was rude to stare, she picked up her cup and took a sip of her coffee, diverting her attention to the mountains that could be seen over the rooftops of the homes behind hers. On some days she wished she could see more of them but was grateful for the view she had.
“Breakfast was delicious, Joy,” Stonewall said, reclaiming her attention.
“Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it,” she said, standing to start clearing the table. No need telling him that she’d enjoyed preparing it for him, as well.
“So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asked, standing to help her.
“I don’t have any. It will be one of those rare do-nothing days for me. What time will you be leaving town today?”
“Around five. I’ll check on Granny Kay and Mellie before taking off.”
“You don’t have to help me with the dishes if you’re pushed for time.”
“Who said I’m pushed for time? Besides, it’s the least I can do after you cooked such a delicious breakfast. Next time, I’ll fix breakfast.”
He’d said it like he was certain there would be a next time. That assumption from any other man would have bothered her, but from Stonewall it had the opposite effect. Made her feel good and gave her something to definitely look forward to.
When they reached the kitchen, she told him her dishwasher was broken and gave him the choice to wash or dry. He wanted to wash the dishes and tossed her the towel. “Don’t freak out at all the bubbles,” he said, squirting more dish detergent than she thought was needed into the sink. “I like bubbles.”
She rolled her eyes. “I like bubbles, too, but in my bathwater, Stonewall. Go easy on that stuff.”
He chuckled as he began washing the dishes. She watched, fascinated by the strategy he used in separating everything into stacks. He smiled over at her when he saw how she was watching him. “Anything wrong?”
“Why not just throw them all in together?”
“Not on my watch. My plates will never share the same water with my cups or eating utensils.”
She rolled her eyes. “First of all, those aren’t your plates, and I don’t care who shares water with who