Build Me Up (10 page)

“Listen, I’ve been invited over to the Crenshaws’ for Thanksgiving dinner. Why don’t you come along? There’s plenty of food to go around.”

“I’m not crashing your friends’ party,” Kristen rolled her eyes and flung her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.” Then, before he could say another word, she was out of the trailer and half-jogging towards the town center.

She could have gotten herself a car for the duration of her stay, but with the severe absence of gyms in Greenport, walking most places had become her favorite workout. It also allowed her time and space to think.

It was during these walks – and jogs – that she’d come to realize keeping her distance from Ford was in everyone’s best interest. That, and that she should always carry around an extra set of underwear and change of clothes for when she had a clumsy moment.

Spending Thanksgiving with Ford was a definite no-no. No, she was better off with Breezer’s cats, trying to get some work done on her laptop. Maybe she could Skype with her friends if they were around. Probably not, as most of her friends had families of their own to spend time with over holidays and such.

Still, she could just hang out and read a book or two. She wasn’t a big book reader, but Mrs. Breezer was sure to have a couple of novels she could dig into.
Cat in the Hat
,
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
,
Catching Fire
… Okay, maybe not. But she’d be fine on her own. Really.

Ford glanced at the clock on the wall in the Crenshaws’ dining room for the third time since they’d sat down to dinner. It didn’t seem right that he should be here, surrounded by people, a fire roaring in the fireplace, and a table overflowing with food fit for kings, while Kristen was sitting alone in a darkened house fearing the cats would claw her eyes out if she moved an inch outside her room.

Okay, so maybe he was being a little overdramatic in his thoughts, but he still had the unsettling feeling that he needed to check on her to make sure she was all right.

“Ford? More sweet potato pie?” Mary offered, jolting him out of his reveries.

“Thanks, I’m full,” he said and passed the dish along.

“Are you thinking about Annabelle?” Mary asked, sounding all sympathetic. “We all wish she could be here, too, you know.”

“Thanks, Mary. Yeah, I’m looking forward to seeing her next month. The house feels pretty empty in between her visits.”

“I can imagine,” Mary nodded, then surveyed the table. “Everyone done with dinner? Ford, will you help me clear the table, please? We need to make room for dessert.”

A couple of groans followed by popped jeans buttons could be heard amidst the little crowd gathered around the Crenshaws’ dining room table and Ford smiled as he rose from his seat to help Mary clean up.

He should have seen the ruse for what it was – an ambush to get him alone to grill him about his impatience. As soon as the kitchen door swung shut behind them, Mary launched her mild-tempered assault.

“So what’s really going on, Ford?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, don’t give me that innocent boy look, Ford Hamm,” she chided him and snatched the plates from his hands. “I know you weren’t thinking about Annabelle. At least not
just
about her. What gives?”

“Were you always this perceptive?” Ford asked, frowning at her.

“Spill.”

“It’s the woman I’m working with…”

“Oh…?” Mary’s eyebrows almost reached her hairline.

“Not like that,” he said with a sigh. “She’s not from around here, and her family doesn’t want to spend the holidays with her, and I know she’s sitting at the
Breeze Inn
all alone tonight, probably eating cereal or something…”

A slap upside the head cut him off. “What the hell was that for?” he demanded as he looked down at Mary Crenshaw’s pinched face and sturdy arms planted firmly on her matronly hips.

“Why didn’t you invite that poor girl over here? There’s plenty of food – we could have fed ten strays and still have leftovers.”

“I
did
invite her,” he pointed out, rubbing the back of his head gingerly. “She declined.”

“Well, of course she declined! She doesn’t know us, and if
I
know
you
, you probably made it sound like she could tag along, not as if we actually wanted to get to know her.”

“I didn’t want to push.”

“Oh, Ford,” Mary sighed. “You may be close to 40, but sometimes I think you’re still stuck as an awkward teenager.”

“Sorry?”

“You like this girl, don’t you?”

“That’s not… We work together, that’s all.”

“Right. And you’re staring at the clock thinking about how to get over to see her before she goes to bed and maybe bring her some leftovers because she’s just another co-worker.”

“You’re the hospitable one, Mary. You think it’s so wrong of me to care whether she eats or not?”

“I didn’t say that. But you’re in denial, Ford. You’ve spent how many years moping around because your wife left you? And you’ve turned down how many women because you didn’t want to risk getting your heart broken again?”

“I haven’t been celibate since Suzy left, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ford muttered. “But I don’t want Annabelle to suffer more than she does already.”

“You think Annabelle is happy that you’re wasting the best years of your life on being grumpy and denying yourself another chance at happiness?”

“Okay, how did we get from me worrying about a friend spending Thanksgiving alone to me needing to start a relationship with someone?”

“Oh, so now she’s a
friend
, not just a co-worker?” Mary raised her eyebrows knowingly.

“I spend the most of my time working, so yeah, I usually consider my co-workers my friends.”

“No, you don’t, Ford. You forget I’ve known you since you were a boy. I know who your friends are, and you don’t work with any of them. You certainly don’t spend your time worrying about co-workers or employees unless they’re on the job.”

“Did you have a point somewhere in there?” Ford asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Yes. Go bring your friend some leftover dinner and dessert before she locks up that dreary old house and falls asleep. Old lady Breezer should be out of town all weekend long, so no point in hurrying back here tonight.”

“Mary Crenshaw!” Ford said, feigning outrage. “I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“If the thought entered your head just now, you have your answer right there,” she said smugly and took out a couple of plastic containers from her cupboard. As she filled them with generous servings of turkey, sweet potato pie, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, she hummed some romantic little ditty to herself and Ford wondered how he was going to explain all this to Kristen.

NINE

Kristen was drying her hair after a much-needed shower – she’d splashed herself with cat food when she was trying to feed Frank Sinatra and Charlie Chaplin. They’d both been so eager to stick their slithery pink little tongues and sharp pointy teeth into the bowl that she’d pretty much turned the cans upside down and splattered the kitchen floor and herself with unidentified meat juice. She dreaded the point in time when she’d be forced to clean it up, but figured she’d let the feline population of Casa Breezer do most of the job before she broke out the cleaning supplies.

She’d just pulled on a pair of sweats – she owned way too many pairs at this point – and some wool socks to keep the cold out, when the doorbell rang. She heard hissing and screeching – Frank Sinatra was getting ready to serenade, it seemed – and hurried down the stairs, not even bothering to close the door to her room.

The house was cold – she had failed to figure out how to work the furnace and the only heater that worked properly was in Mrs. Breezer’s room, where Frank and Charlie napped – and probably Humphrey as well, even though she’d yet to see him. Maybe he was dead and old lady Breezer had him stuffed and mounted on her bedroom wall to keep her company during those long, lonely nights…

Kristen shuddered from both her twisted thoughts and the actual chill in the house. At least
her
room was semi-comfortable, as she’d invested in a fan heater last month, but it wouldn’t last that way for long if she didn’t get back up there to close the door again. She flung open the front door, prepared to tell whoever it was to either get lost or start a fire for her, but the words got stuck in her throat.

The howling wind and cold blowing in from the sea only made Ford appear more like a weathered man who’d trekked through snow to bring her supplies. It wasn’t snowing yet, but she had imagination enough to pixel in the snowflakes in his salt and pepper hair.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted rudely.

“I come bearing food and drinks,” he said, holding up a paper bag with unidentifiable content. “Can I come in? It’s a bit chilly out.”

“It’s a bit chilly inside, too, but yeah, come on in.” She stepped back, letting him pass. He almost filled the entire doorway. She and Mrs. Breezer must be tiny people for her never to have noticed how low the entrance was.

“Thanks,” he said and brushed himself off. Again, no snow in sight, so maybe he was just brushing off the cold. “You’re right, it
is
cold in here.”

“Furnace doesn’t work,” she shrugged. “Not much to do about it.”

“Is it broken?” he frowned. “Can I take a look?”

“Knock yourself out,” she jerked her head in the direction of the basement door.

“I’ll be back,” he said and disappeared, leaving her with the paper bag in her arms.

She peered into it and could spot several containers of food and another, slimmer, paper bag hinting that the content was alcoholic. She set the bag down on the kitchen table and fished out the bottle. Port. Yeah, that would warm just about anyone up real quick.

Warmth. Right. Kristen hurried up the stairs and shut the door to her room. No point in letting all the heat out, even
if
Ford could get the furnace working.

He returned after a few minutes, during which time Kristen had decided to act the gracious recipient and hostess and dug out a set of plates and glasses, which she’d put on a tray. It was too darn cold to be sitting in the kitchen, and she had a desk in her room. And a fan heater. And throw blankets.

“It should be generating heat within the hour,” he said, walking over to the sink to wash his hands clean of soot. “At least you won’t have to go to bed clattering your teeth.”

“Thanks. Do I have to do something with it?”

“You should add more wood just before you go to bed to make sure it holds up through the night.”

“Mm-hm,” Kristen managed. She definitely needed to get some food in her – she was starting to feel lightheaded.

“Well, I should get going… I just wanted to drop off some food for you, and…”

“You’re leaving?” Kristen was surprised at how disappointed she felt. Well, not really that surprised, given that she was bored stiff hanging out with just herself and the evil cats.

“I just figured you’d want to be alone.”

“You can stay if you want. I mean, I can’t eat all this on my own.”

“I’ve already had dinner. Those are leftovers. I doubt I’d be able to eat another bite.”

“Not even of the dessert?” she asked and held up the container with pumpkin pie like a piece of cheese in front of a mouse she hoped to lure into the house so that Frank Sinatra would shut up for five minutes.

“Well… I guess if I wait a little while, I might be able to squeeze some in. I didn’t eat any at the Crenshaws’, after all.”

“You missed out on dessert because you had to come over here with leftovers?”

“I
wanted
to bring you leftovers. It’s not like it was a big chore or anything.”

“Well… thanks. It’s only fair that you stay to enjoy it, then. Meanwhile, you can help me with the bottle. I doubt I should have fortified wine on an empty stomach.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

“It’s too cold down here. Don’t take this the wrong way, but my room is the warmest, next to Mrs. Breezer’s. I have a fan in there. And no cats.”

“Okay. Show the way,” he said, grabbing the bottle and the glasses.

Kristen picked up the tray and headed for the stairs. She used her elbow to edge down the handle and her hip to push open the door.

“Tada!” she announced as she walked in and put the tray on the desk, putting her laptop on the floor to make room to unload the tray.

“Nice. Very… homey,” Ford commented as he walked into the room and looked around.

“Right. It’s a place to sleep, that’s it.”

“What’s your place like back in California?”

“Gorgeous,” Kristen sighed. “I have a kitchen/living room open floor plan, walnut paneling in the kitchen section, soft leather couches, a king size bed with fluffy covers and pillows, a balcony overlooking the Pacific...”

“I take it you miss it.”

“I miss being able to entertain. I miss going out late and coming back home to my amazing bed. I miss taking long baths in my Jacuzzi. I miss going out for brunch. Oh, I miss my bed,” she sighed again. Mrs. Breezer’s queen size bed with the quilted covers and the scratchy sheets couldn’t hold a candle to her Egyptian cotton sheets and soft pillows back home.

“You have a great view here, though,” he said, walking over to the French doors.

“Yup. Front row seats to when the waves roll in and drag this house out right along with them.”

“You’re a glass-half-f kind of girl, aren’t you?” Ford said, clearly amused.

“I didn’t use to be,” Kristen frowned, thinking it over as she cut a piece of turkey. “Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me.”

“Hm. Well, what were you like before you landed on our shores, then?” Ford said and sat down on the edge of the bed, which creaked a little under his weight. He seemed to consider the risks of breaking old lady Breezer’s bed and having to pay the piper for it, and rose again, walking over to sit on the chair by the desk.

“I was…” Kristen bit her lip while pondering how much to reveal. She poured them each a glass of port to buy herself some time. “Are we talking college years or just before I flew out here?”

“Your choice.”

“Well…” Kristen started, sitting down on the spot on the bed Ford had vacated, “I liked to party. I would get dressed up and go out and I’d dance until my feet hurt, then I’d drink until my feet didn’t hurt anymore, and I’d keep on dancing. People liked me, so I got invited to all sorts of places. I had fun.”

“But?”

“Why do you assume there’s a ‘but’ coming on?”

“Isn’t there? Were you really happy all the time?”

“Not all the time. No-one is. But I had fun. I was popular. I didn’t want for anything.” Kristen took a large gulp of the fortified wine, disregarding the fact that she hadn’t yet swallowed any food. “What about you, Ford Hamm? What counts as fun in your book?”

“I don’t know much about ‘fun’. I’ve enjoyed life for the most part. I’ve experienced the joy of becoming a father. I’ve built a business I take pride in; I can come home from a day’s work and feel good about what I’ve achieved. I have friends to talk to, to spend time with.”

“You’re so… grown up,” Kristen sighed in frustration and took another gulp of her wine.

“I’m old, you mean,” Ford flashed a crooked smile.

Kristen shrugged.

“I thought you said you hadn’t eaten,” he said and grabbed a plate, filling it up with food.

“I haven’t.”

“Here.” He walked over and sat down next to her on the bed, dipping a piece of turkey in cranberry sauce before bringing it to her lips. “Have a taste.”

Kristen watched him with wide eyes, opening her mouth as if on cue. His fingers brushed against her lips as he fed her the little piece of meat and she felt her body rouse in awareness of how close he was and how nice he smelled.

“Now chew,” he instructed with a smile that said he knew he was making her all dazed and confused. She obliged, but only because she couldn’t object with her mouth full.

“Good, isn’t it? The perks of being friends with the best cook slash baker in town.”

While she chewed, he speared a piece of sweet potato pie with a fork and dipped that in cranberry sauce, as well, and when she opened her mouth to speak, he slipped it in.

“Two more bites and you can have some more wine,” he said and her temper flared. She wasn’t a little girl that had to be force-fed. So, the next time he went to pick up a piece of turkey meat, she beat him to it and stuffed it in his mouth, smearing him with sauce in the process.

Ford coughed and grabbed a napkin to wipe his face clean. Amused, Kristen watched him while she dipped her finger in the sauce and provocatively licked it off.

“Mm. Tasty. Want some?”

Before he could formulate an answer, Kristen had dipped her finger in the bowl again and was painting his lips red with the sauce.

“Oops.”

Ford licked his lips and held her eyes. Any laughter died on her lips as he dipped his own finger in the bowl and brought it up to her lips. He hesitated, as if he couldn’t decide whether to return the favor or simply walk away, and Kristen decided to make it easy on him. She closed her hand around his finger and swirled her tongue around the tip before sucking lightly on it. When she met his eyes, they were darker than she’d ever seen them before. She let go of his hand and turned her face away.

“Sorry. I guess I’m not that much of a grown-up,” she mumbled and reached for her wine glass.

Ford’s hand stilled her movement and when she turned toward him, his hands travelled up her arms and cupped her face. His thumbs stroked her cheeks and brushed against her bottom lip. Spellbound, she watched him, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“Being a grown-up is overrated,” he said in a low voice just before he brought his face close to hers.

Kristen closed her eyes as his breath fanned her face and his lips brushed up against hers. He wasn’t claiming her or anything, more like testing the waters before diving in. She opened for him and her bottom lip was the first part of her to be tasted by him. He sucked on it gently, and then his tongue stroked the inside of it and found hers. Kristen moaned in approval and pressed herself closer. Or maybe he was the one pressing her close? One of his hands was on her back, after all. The other was stroking her hair.

It was a bad idea. A supremely bad idea, in fact. Next week, they would have to work together again and pretend like they’d never locked lips. She’d have to pretend she didn’t remember how good he tasted, or how his muscles flexed when she grabbed on to him.

But her body wasn’t paying attention to what her head was telling her was the right thing to do. Instead, she let her hands map out every inch of Ford’s strong chest, let them slip under his sweater and T-shirt to feel his burning flesh underneath her fingertips.

“You’re so hard,” she murmured in awe as he kissed her neck.

“Like you wouldn’t even believe,” he groaned in response and she realized he was referring to a different part of his anatomy than his abs. She didn’t feel the need to correct him, though. Instead, she pushed up his sweater and T-shirt, encouraging him to help her by lifting his arms. He got the message and complied.

“Wow. Just wow…” she breathed and pulled her hair back so she could feel his taut skin under her lips. She’d dated – or hooked up with – a couple of guys with washboard abs in the past, but those came from rigorous workouts at the gym and – sometimes – supplements. These muscles were all man, carved out by hard labor and a healthy, hearty diet. She gingerly traced the scars he had – one on his left side not far below his pectoral muscle and one further down on the opposite side.