Debbie Macomber - Navy Blues

He followed her into the kitchen and brought the bottle of rum down from the top cupboard while she put water on to boil.

“When did you cut your hair?” he asked unexpectedly.

Absently Carol’s fingers touched the straight, thick strands that crowded the side of her head. “Several months ago now.”

“I liked it better when you wore it longer.” Gritting her teeth, she managed to bite back the words to inform him that she styled her hair to suit herself these days, not him.

* * *

Steve saw the flash of irritation in his ex-wife’s eyes and felt a little better. The comment about her hair wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear; she’d been waiting for him to tell her how beautiful she looked. The problem was, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her from the moment he entered the house. The wisecrack was a result of one flirtatious curl of blond hair that swayed when she moved. He hadn’t been able to look past that single golden lock. Neither could he stop staring at the shape of her lips nor the curve of her chin, nor the appealing color of her china blue eyes. When he’d met her at Denny’s the other night he’d been on the defensive, waiting for her to drop her bombshell. All his protective walls were lowered now. He would have liked to blame it on the Christmas holidays, but he realized it was more than that, and what he saw gave him cause to tremble. Carol was as sensuous and appealing to him as she’d always been. Perhaps more so.

Already he knew what was going to happen. They would spend half the evening verbally circling each other in an anxious search for common ground. But there wasn’t one for them … not anymore. Tonight was an evening out of sequence, and when it had passed they would return to their respective lives.

When Carol finished mixing their drinks, they wandered into the living room and talked. The alcohol seemed to alleviate some of the tension. Steve filled the silence with details of what had been happening in Lindy’s life and in his career.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Carol admitted, and there was a spark of pride in her eyes that warmed him.

Steve didn’t inquire about her career because it would involve asking about Todd, and the man was a subject he’d sworn he would avoid at all costs. Carol didn’t volunteer any information, either. She knew the unwritten ground rules.

A half hour later, Steve helped her carry their meal to the table.

“You must have been cooking all day.”

She grinned and nodded. “It gave me something to do.”

The table was loaded with sliced turkey, creamy potatoes, giblet gravy, stuffing, fresh broccoli, sweet potatoes and fruit salad.

Carol asked him to light the candles and when Steve had, they sat down to eat. Sitting directly across the table from her, Steve found he was mesmerized by her mouth as she ate. With all his might he tried to remember the reasons he’d divorced Carol. Good God, she was captivating—too damn good to look at for his own peace of mind. Her hands moved gracefully, raising the fork from her plate to her mouth in motions as elegant as those of a symphony director. He shouldn’t be enjoying watching her this much, and he realized he would pay the price later when he returned to the apartment and the loneliness overtook him once more.

When he’d finished the meal, he leaned against the shield-back dining-room chair and placed his hands over his stomach. “I can’t remember when I’ve had a better dinner.”

“There’s pie …”

“Not now,” he countered quickly and shook his head. “I’m too full to down another bite. Maybe later.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

Carol carried their dishes to the sink, stuck the leftovers in the refrigerator, and returned with the glass coffeepot. She filled both their cups, returned it to the kitchen and then took her seat opposite him. She rested her elbows on the table, and smiled.

Despite his best intentions through a good portion of the meal, Steve hadn’t been able to keep his eyes away from her. The way she was sitting—leaning forward, her elbows on the tabletop—caused her breasts to push together and more than amply fill the bodice of her dress. His breath faltered someplace between his lungs and his throat at the alluring sight she made. He could have sworn she wasn’t wearing a bra. Carol had fantastic breasts and Steve watched, captivated, as their tips beaded against the shiny material. They seemed to be pointing directly at him, issuing a silent invitation that asked him to fondle and taste them. Against his will, his groin began to swell until he was throbbing with painful need. Disconcerted, he dropped his gaze to the steaming cup of coffee. With his hands shaking, he took a sip of his coffee and nearly scalded the tender skin inside his mouth.

“That was an excellent dinner,” he repeated, after a moment of silence.

“You’re not sorry you came, are you?” she asked unexpectedly, studying him. The intent look that crowded her face demanded all Steve’s attention. Her skin was pale and creamy in the muted light, her eyes wide and inquiring, as though the answer to her question was of the utmost importance.

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’m glad I’m here.”

His answer pleased her and she smiled, looking tender and trusting, and Steve wondered how he could ever have doubted her. He knew what she’d done—knew that she’d purposely destroyed their marriage—and in that moment, it didn’t matter. He wanted her again. He wanted to hold her warm and willing body in his arms. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside her that she would never desire another man for as long as they both lived.

“I’ll help you with the dishes,” he said, and rose so abruptly that he nearly knocked over the chair.

“I’ll do them later.” She got to her feet as well. “But if you want to do something, I’d appreciate a little help with the tree.”

“The tree?” The words sounded as foreign as an obscure language.

“Yes, it’s only half decorated. I couldn’t reach the tallest limbs. Will you help?”

He shrugged. “Sure.” He could have sworn that Carol was relieved, and he couldn’t imagine why. The Christmas tree looked fine to him. There were a few bare spots, but nothing too noticeable.

Carol dragged a dining-room chair into the living room and pulled a box of ornaments out from underneath the end table.

“You’re knitting?” Steve asked, hiding a smile as his gaze fell on the strands of worsted yarn. Carol had to be the worst knitter in the world, yet she tackled one project after another, seeming oblivious of any lack of talent. There had been a time when he could tease her about it, but he wasn’t sure his insight would be appreciated now.

She glanced away as though she feared his comment.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tease you,” he told her, remembering the time she’d proudly presented him with a sweater she’d made herself—the left sleeve had been five inches longer than the right. He’d tried it on and she’d taken one look at him and burst into tears. It was one of the few times he could ever remember Carol crying.

Carol dragged the chair next to the tree and raised her leg to stand on it.

Steve stopped her. “I thought you wanted me to do that?”

“No, I need you to hand me the ornaments and then stand back and tell me how they look.”

“Carol … if I placed the ornaments on the tree, you wouldn’t need the chair.”

She looked at him and sighed. “I’d rather do it. You don’t mind, do you?”

He didn’t know why she was so determined to hang the decorations herself, but it didn’t make much difference to him. “No, if you want to risk your fool neck, feel free.”

She grinned and raised herself so that she was standing on the padded cushion of the chair. “Okay, hand me one,” she said, tossing him a look over her shoulder.