Melt Into You (22 page)

“
You
look engrossed in something.” Carol stepped into the sunny kitchen with an armful of paperback books and an impish smile. She nodded flirtatiously at Damon, making her stylishly highlighted hair bob up and down. “Would you care to share these deep thoughts of yours, or are they strictly X-rated?”

Damon started. Carol grinned. She’d flirted with him earlier, too. Of course, he’d flirted right back—in the sense that all flirtation was really just connecting with people on an attentive and positive and open-minded level. But this time, Carol wasn’t merely flirting, he realized. She was asking him a question.

Deliberating how to answer, Damon propped the heels of his hands on the countertop behind him. He leaned back, then checked on Milo to make sure the boy was still busy eating his lunch. He was.

“I’ve been wondering ...” Damon began as he watched Carol sort her paperbacks. “What’s Natasha doing in the garden shed?”

Carol shot him a knowing look. “I saw you just now, remember?
That’s
not what you were wondering about.”

“I never said it was.” A grin. “So ... can you tell me?”

“Natasha probably wouldn’t want me to.”

“Hmmm. Okay.” No one ever got what they wanted by force. Not in Damon’s version of Life 101. He could wait until Carol felt ready. So Damon pushed away from the counter. “Are you hungry? I made sandwiches. That’s all I know how to make. This gluten-free sprouted bread isn’t half bad.” He held up the twist-tied package. “Right, Milo? ‘Food Allergies Rock’!”

That was the name of one of the songs that now resided, improbably, on Damon’s iPhone. At the table, the kid gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal in response. Then, still chewing, Milo went back to reading his heavily illustrated
Donkey Kong
hint guide. He was undoubtedly preparing to show up Damon’s paltry Diddy-operating “skills” later.

“Oh, and you’re out of sesame-seed butter, by the way,” Damon added, really getting into grown-up mode now. “I started a grocery list, because Milo said that’s what Natasha does.”

At Damon’s indication, Carol glanced at the pad of paper.

“Beets. Sesame-seed butter,” she read. “Gluten-free bread without high-fructose corn syrup or trans fat in it.” She quirked a brow at Damon. “Really?”

“My housekeeper says those things are bad for you,” Damon told her. “I can’t believe that information stuck with me.”

“Me either.” In a droll fashion, Carol put her hands on her hips. She gazed at him straight on. “Look, Romeo. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here. The last thing Natasha needs is another full-time man around this place. I can say that with authority, too, because she married
my
son!” Carol gave a good-natured laugh. “Sure, Natasha could probably use a good roll in the hay right about now. Who couldn’t? But that’s no reason to—”

As Carol chattered on, Damon couldn’t help wondering ...

Exactly how often did Pacey travel? Was he in Mexico—or elsewhere—a lot? Did he leave Natasha alone often? If he did, that would explain a great deal about Natasha’s eager and sweet (but bafflingly close to adulterous) response to Damon.

He knew she was an honest woman. He depended on that from Natasha. But lately she’d been giving him a lot of unmistakable go-ahead signals—like kissing him back, rubbing him all over, making provocative comments ... signals that didn’t go along with being devotedly married to Pacey.
Sure, she could probably use a good roll in the hay right about now
, Carol had said. But why?

Maybe, Damon thought, Natasha was simply feeling neglected by her husband—by the
real
“full-time man” around the place.

Did Pacey
not
see to her needs? The idea was unthinkable.

“... and I know I just told you I wouldn’t spill the beans about what my daughter-in-law is doing out there in her garden shed,” Carol was saying, “because Natasha really
wouldn’t
want me to. But if you’re going to go all Mr. Mom on her, making sandwiches and grocery lists and getting goo-goo-eyed over her in her own kitchen, then I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands this time.”

That piqued Damon’s interest. “‘This time’?”

“I was a little slow to see what was really going on with Natasha and Paul. You now,
before
,” Carol admitted, further stoking Damon’s suspicions that the two of them had experienced marital problems. “I felt a little guilty about it afterward, to tell the truth. I probably overcompensate with Natasha sometimes to make up for it—God knows, Paul didn’t exactly represent the Jennings family like a superstar. But can you blame me for not wanting to believe what he was doing? He’s my son! I didn’t want to admit he was acting like a jerk. He’s an
artist
. Artistic types can be difficult sometimes. But I don’t have to tell
you
that, do I? You’ve known Natasha for ten years now.”

Confused, Damon said, “Yes. Ten years.” Wow. No wonder he felt close to her. No wonder he trusted her and relied on her. “But what does that have to do with difficult artistic types?”

Carol peered at him. “You really don’t know?”

He shook his head.

“I thought Natasha would have told you by now. If not about her garden shed, then at least about ... Well, it makes sense, I suppose. She
did
take a job with you rather than follow her own dreams. She decided to be practical and supportive, and she put up with a lot of grief from
you
to do it, let me tell you.”

Aha
, Damon decided upon hearing her aggrieved tone.
This
was the mother-in-law Natasha had expected he’d meet.

“I’m sorry for all that,” Damon told Carol. “I’m trying to change.” He gestured at the paper. “I made a grocery list!”

“If you’re waiting for me to applaud ... don’t.” Carol grinned. “But yes, now that I’ve met you, several things are clearer to me about Natasha’s job—and about why she stuck with you.”

“I don’t know if I should take a bow or apologize.”

“It’s too soon to decide either way.” Calmly, Carol waved off his concern. “Anyway, just like my son, Natasha is an artist. A good one. She does metalworking, mostly jewelry, all of it exquisite and creative and delicate. All of it by hand, in the workshop she set up in the garden shed. She was an art major at UCSD until she met Paul. But not long after he had his first showing—at a gallery near Balboa Park—Natasha switched majors.”

“Let me guess: to business administration.”

“Right. Not long after
that
, she and Paul got married,” Carol said. “Natasha got a job at Torrance Chocolates to help support them both—her feckless artist husband included. Then Milo came along, and ...” She sighed. “Well, sometimes life steers you in unexpected directions.” Carol gave Damon an inquisitive look. “You didn’t actually think Natasha’s personal dream was to become someone’s administrative assistant, did you?”

Damon was ashamed to realize he’d never thought about it before. “I was just grateful for Natasha. Right from the start. I lived in fear of the day she’d leave me. Then it happened.”

Carol crossed her arms. “Was it as bad as you thought?”

“It was worse. Much worse.”

“Well, that makes sense. You probably deserved it.” With an air of conclusiveness, Carol picked up her dog-eared paperbacks. “Natasha always says that only one person is allowed to be irresponsible at any given time. For years, that person was Paul. Then it was
you
. This morning, it was Natasha.” Carol nodded at Milo, obviously referring to the fact that Damon had allowed Natasha to sleep in today. “You probably shouldn’t let her get used to that treatment, though,” Carol told him. “Once someone’s accustomed to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it, they find that habit almost impossible to break.”

It didn’t require a Mensa membership to figure out what she was getting at. Carol didn’t believe Damon could change.

Duly chastened—by a woman who knew how to do the job right—Damon grinned. “Natasha said you didn’t pull any punches.”

“Only when it comes to watching out for the people I love. Natasha is one of the few and the proud.” Carol tousled Milo’s hair. “And this little monkey is another one. I love them a lot. But
you
...” Here, she gave Damon a warning look. “The jury’s still out on you, Mr. Torrance. Don’t you forget—I’m watching you.”

“Hey, look all you want.” Damon winked. “I want to be seen.”

“I just bet you do.” Carol nodded at him, a girlish blush brightening her cheeks. “I don’t know if she’s realized it yet, but Natasha is playing with fire by having you here.”

“Not necessarily. I’m determined to change, remember?” Damon gave her another smile. “Speaking of which ... I have a project I hope you’ll help me with. Are you interested?”

“Am I
interested
? In a potentially devious project?” Carol perked up. “Do the neighborhood cats poop in my azaleas?”

Damon stared blankly. Azaleas were flowers, so ...

“Poop!” Milo repeated with a chortle, glancing up bright-eyed from his guide. “Poop, poop, poop! You said ‘poop,’ Grandma!”

This time, Carol’s grin matched Damon’s. “Yes, dear,” she told Damon in a patient, wholly
un
ambiguous tone. “Fill me in on your dastardly plans, and I’ll see what I can do to help.”

Chapter 17

As was typical for every busy parent on the planet, Natasha realized too late that just because she’d taken on a new project—namely, Damon—her existing responsibilities didn’t exactly shuffle aside to make room.

The day didn’t offer up a bonus twenty-six-hour cycle just for her. The laundry didn’t leap into her Maytag on its own. The traffic didn’t part like the Red Sea. The groceries, despite her wishing they would, weren’t planning to purchase or cook themselves.

That’s why, after a long and illuminating talk with Jimmy at Torrance Chocolates, Natasha found herself parking her Civic on a tree-lined neighborhood street, grabbing a handful of reusable canvas bags from her backseat, and heading toward the parking lot of a nearby school to visit the farmers market.

She wasn’t the only one. The festival atmosphere created by the weekly market drew locals and tourists alike. The vendors awaited at their colorful, awning-covered produce stands, which stretched in multiple rows across the temporarily repurposed lot. Banners flapped at the entryway; balloons bobbed on the breeze. Near the entrance that Natasha chose, a cluster of local musicians played an acoustic set, lending even more ambiance to the proceedings.

It might have been more practical to push a cart down the aisles of the neighborhood mega-mart, but it wouldn’t have been more fun—and by now, Natasha knew many of the growers and bakers and artisans who brought their wares to the market. She bought as many things as she could there. Because of Milo’s needs—

Just as Natasha thought of her son, he seemed to appear.

Squinting into the crowd, Natasha fought for another look. She could have sworn she’d glimpsed a towheaded boy of about Milo’s age, walking hand in hand with a dark-haired man ... and a leashed black dog. It
had
to have been Finn, Damon, and Milo.

But
here
? Why?

Damon was about as likely to hang out at a farmers market as he was to grow his own rutabagas. And Natasha had left Milo in Carol’s capable hands—not Damon’s. Although she
had
taken pains to give Damon that food-allergy briefing first, just to be safe, she hadn’t asked him to babysit. So what was going on?

In the distance, the trio wandered past a stand featuring piles of vibrant citrus. It was
definitely
them, Natasha saw.

As she headed toward them, the woman behind the makeshift counter of the farm stand spotted them, too. She did a double take at Damon, spied Finn, then utterly melted over Milo. The whole scenario was obvious: She thought Damon was a single dad out for a day at the farmers market with his son and puppy.

Natasha couldn’t help taking umbrage at that. That was
her
adorable son! That was
her
fluffy black puppy! That was
her
—

Well, Damon wasn’t
hers
exactly, Natasha reminded herself with deliberate, painstaking accuracy as she slung her canvas bags over her shoulder and picked up speed. Damon was free to do as he pleased. Technically. But that didn’t mean Natasha was going to let some marketplace floozy get all giggly and hot-to-trot with him right under her nose. Especially with Milo standing there.

There was ... farmers market decorum to think of! There was common decency to be considered, Natasha told herself indignantly. There had to be standards of behavior, or else ...

Or else frisky farmers market employees would seize on any opportunity to squeeze Damon’s biceps like under-ripe melons—and then coo and laugh as though they were heirloom-quality fruit.

At this rate, Natasha realized, that farm-stand employee was going to rub off all the sunscreen
she
had so meticulously applied. That simply couldn’t be allowed to happen, she decided as she marched onward through the throngs of people. Otherwise ...

Otherwise, Damon might need even
more
sunscreen when he got home.
Hmm
. Tentatively, Natasha slowed her pace. That was tempting. After all, Damon would require
her
to apply it, so—

The woman leaned forward to show Damon some grapefruits—in the literal (as in, she sold grapefruits) and the figurative (as in, she flaunted some
Penthouse
-worthy breasts) sense of the word—and Natasha quit thinking altogether. She just marched faster. This had gone just about far enough for her.

People at the farmers market were so
friendly
, Damon mused as, for the fourth time that afternoon, he found himself surrounded by smiling, chattering, down-to-earth fellow marketgoers. They were so talkative and helpful. He’d never been to the farmers market before (his housekeeper did all his shopping during those rare times when he was at home long enough to require groceries). But so far, he liked the place. He liked the stalls and veggies and music. He liked the arrays of freshly baked bread, the samples of jalapeño jelly and locally produced preserves, and the fact that, if you wanted, you could have lunch at a food cart right there, and watch someone fix you a tamale on the spot.