Sweet Trilogy: Sweet Talk / Sweet Spot / Sweet Trouble. Сьюзен Мэллери
gathered potatoes, carrots, an onion, found the hamburger, although Claire was momentarily stumped by the different kinds. She bought the one that cost the most and hoped it was right.
“Your daughter is so pretty,” an older woman said as she walked past them. “She has your eyes.”
The comment surprised Claire, but she smiled. “Thank you. She looks a lot like her dad.”
“I’m sure he’s a handsome man.”
Claire thought about the last time she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been on the landing, in Nicole’s house. As usual, he’d been frustrated by her. She wasn’t sure why she pushed all his buttons; she certainly wasn’t trying.
“He’s pretty cute,” she admitted.
The woman smiled and moved on.
Amy touched Claire’s arm. “What did she say?”
“She thought you were my daughter. She said we had the same eyes.”
Amy studied her for a second, then raised her hand, fingers together, thumb across her palm. “Blue,” she said, wiggling her hand back and forth.
Claire repeated the sign. They did both have blue eyes, and they were blond, she thought. Amy was lucky—her beautiful color was natural while Claire’s required a touch-up and highlights every four weeks.
“My mom is gone,” Amy said. “She moved away.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire signed.
Amy shrugged, then looked at the list, as if it didn’t matter.
They continued their shopping. Claire found herself wondering about Amy’s mom. Who could have left this child behind? Who could have left family?
That’s what Claire wanted while she was here—to reconnect with Nicole and Jesse. To belong somewhere. She also wanted—hoped—she could find someone of her own to love. A man who would care about her, love her, want to marry her. What she couldn’t decide was whether or not she had a manageable goal or a stupid dream that was never going to come true.
THEY MADE IT BACK to the house by four-thirty. Amy helped Claire unload the car, then she dashed up the stairs to visit with Nicole. Claire set all the food they’d bought on the counter, turned on the oven and opened the recipe book. As the meat loaf took nearly an hour to cook, she would start with that.
She combined and measured and stirred until she had everything mixed together, then dumped it into a loaf pan and smoothed the top. She slid the meat loaf into the preheated oven and set the timer.
The potatoes were next, she thought as she pulled out the bottle of red wine she’d bought. Then the carrots. She’d even bought a little bag of brown gravy mix.
She was making dinner by herself. Something she’d never done in her life. This, after working at the bakery nearly eight hours, babysitting Amy, hitting the mall and going grocery shopping. It had been a regular day. Totally normal.
She found a corkscrew and opened the bottle. After pouring herself a glass, she held it up, as if toasting herself.
“To fitting in,” she whispered. “And being just like everyone else.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WYATT LET HIMSELF into the house. He was later than he’d expected to be, having spent the last two hours explaining why adding a window at this point in the construction wasn’t going to be as easy as they made it look on the home improvement channel. He was tired, he was pissed off and the last thing he wanted was to see Claire.
It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her help with Amy. He did. Nicole’s unexpected surgery had illustrated that he depended on his friend too much for babysitting. He needed a couple of backup plans. Claire had filled in during an emergency, which was great, but now he had to see her. And seeing her meant wanting her.
He didn’t know what combination of her chemistry and his made him so attracted to her, but there it was. An annoying need to claim her whenever they were together and way too much time spent fantasizing about her naked, wet and begging when they weren’t. It was worse than being a teenager again. Back then, his desire had been vague, due to his lack of experience. But now he was very specific with what he wanted and he could imagine it in high-definition detail.
He walked into the living room and saw Claire and Amy sitting next to each other on the sofa. Claire signed something and Amy laughed, then shook her head. Claire finger spelled mutant. Amy laughed again, then looked up and saw him.
She jumped to her feet and ran toward him. He caught her and pulled her up into his arms.
“Hey, baby girl,” he said. “How’s the best part of my day?”
They hugged, then he put her down and she began signing frantically. He watched carefully to follow the conversation.
“You got an A on your math test? Good for you. Uh-huh. Tacos for lunch sound good. The mall?” He glanced at Claire, then back at his daughter. “Yes, we can talk about new jeans.”
He signed as he spoke, watching the light in his daughter’s eyes, both pleased and grateful that she was so happy, so normal. He’d been terrified to be a single parent—sure he was going to screw up completely. But maybe not.
He watched as she told about meat loaf and cookbooks and how Nicole had moved to a chair, then Amy dashed off to tell Nicole that he was here.
Which left him alone with Claire and unable to ignore her much longer.
“Thanks for looking after her,” he said.
She smiled. “She’s wonderful. I had a great time. She’s a lot of fun to be with. So sweet and friendly. She’s very patient with my lousy signing.”
Claire moved her head as she spoke. Her long, blond hair fell over her shoulders, catching the light, making him think about burying his hands in that hair, of feeling the silky strands against his skin as she bent over him, took him in her mouth and—He swore silently and pushed the erotic image from his mind.
“You’re getting better at signing,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice his sudden erection. He took a couple of steps to the left so he was partially concealed by a club chair. “What is mutant?”
“Oh.” She looked at the floor, then back at him. “We were talking about my hands. They’re large, with long fingers. Freak hands, really. It’s good for playing the piano, though. I have a great range. Years ago, serious pianists would cut the tendons between their fingers to give themselves a greater range.”
“Nothing is worth that.”
“You’d be amazed what some people will do to be the best. It’s a serious business with a lot on the line.”
It was just playing the piano, he thought. How serious could it be?
“I bought a cookbook,” Claire said, changing the subject. “My very first meat loaf is in the oven. I’m not much of a cook, so this is a big deal for me.”
“Cooking isn’t that hard. You’ll get it.”
“We’ll see. When I went to use the oven, it was pretty complicated. There were three choices. Regular bake, convection bake and pure convection.”
“When Nicole remodeled, she had a convection oven put in. It cooks faster and hotter, with a fan circulating the heat. You get more even results. In a regular oven, you can’t stack cookie sheets and expect everything to cook evenly. In a convection oven, you can. You have to change the temperature and the cooking time if you’re using a conventional recipe and a convection oven.”
“How?”
“I don’t have a clue. Our oven is regular, so I bake the old-fashioned way. There are cookbooks that can help with that.”
“Maybe