Felicia Mason - Sweet Harmony

Yes!

But instead of kicking him out, she heard herself say, “The dishes are over there.”

Marcus set the table with a skill that surprised her.

She brewed two cups of tea. “I’m trying to wean myself off coffee,” she said. “I had a six-cup-a-day habit. But I can make a pot, if you’d like.”

He grinned. “I only drink green tea.”

“It figures,” she muttered.

“Is that a slam against Californians? Another stereotype, maybe?”

“Not at all.” She didn’t want to admit they had something in common. “You’re in luck, then, song man. I happen to have some green tea.” She tried to grab a canister of tea leaves without him seeing her extensive collection of teas, greens in particular.

“Song man?”

Kara blushed. Had she really said that? “I’m sorry. It’s what I always used to call you when my sister rhapsodized about you. She drove me crazy. She thought the sun rose and set for you.”

The telephone rang. Kara sighed. “Who now? The phone has been ringing nonstop all morning. I’ll never get any work done.”

“Would you like me to answer it?”

Horrified, she jumped up. “No.” She snatched up the cordless phone from the base. And a moment later she relaxed and sent a bright smile his way. “Hey, Patrice. I was just talking about you.”

That genuine smile, filled with affection and a hint of teasing, rippled through him the way the notes of a new song did. He relished the feeling, even though the chances of anything developing with the very attractive Kara Spencer were nil. She’d made that abundantly clear.

“Yeah, you left them over here. I put them in your room. Okay.”

She rang off and rejoined him at the table.

“Grace?”

Marcus bowed his head and said grace over their meal.

When was the last time he’d done that? He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal at a kitchen table. Anybody’s table.

This felt so good.

“I’m glad you recommended the inn. It’s great.”

“I told you.”

“But I’m not staying there. I’m looking for a house to rent while I’m here,” he fudged.

Kara nodded as she chewed. After washing her food down with orange juice she said, “There are several mansions over on Cherryville Drive that are available for lease. The paper did an article about them a couple of weeks ago.”

Something told Marcus that the hospitality and truce they were enjoying would end the moment he told her he’d actually found a house, next door, not one of the mansions. So he kept quiet. She’d find out soon enough. And she’d bite his head off then. No need to spoil a good breakfast.

A knock at the back door did that before he had a chance to.

Before Kara even moved, the door burst open and a whirlwind blew in wearing jeans and a cropped T-shirt, a riot of corkscrew curls cascading down its back.

Kara groaned. “I’m sorry about this,” she told Marcus.

“Sorry about what?”

“Oh, my gosh. It’s really you!”

Marcus put down the forkful of breakfast casserole and stared up at the young woman. Then, remembering his manners, he rose.

“Patrice, Marcus. Marcus, this is Patrice Spencer, my sister. Your number one fan.”

“Well, hello. It’s always nice…”

She grabbed his arm, then let it go as if she’d been burned. “I have every one of your CDs.” To prove it, she plopped a gold tote bag on the table and then upended it. CD cases clacked against the table, and several of them hit the floor.

Marcus reached for them at the same time as Kara. The two bumped heads and then hands. A jolt of electricity ran up Kara’s arm. Her gaze connected with his and she felt again that sense of awareness, an inexplicable bond.

“I…”

“I’ll get them,” he said.

Kara nodded and rose. “Have you eaten?”

Patrice pulled out a chair and sat gazing at Marcus, a dreamy smile filling her face. “I just can’t believe.”

Kara waved a hand in front of her sister. “Hello. Earth to Patrice.”

“Here you go.” Marcus handed the CD cases to her.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. Right at my kitchen table.”

He glanced up at Kara. “Your kitchen table?”

Patrice blushed prettily. “Well, you know what I mean. What’s mine is hers, and vice versa.”

Kara set a plate in front of Patrice.

She helped herself to apples and some of the casserole. “There’s a mob over at the B and B. I think they’re looking for you.”

Marcus winked at her. “That’s why I’m over here.”

Kara thought her sister might swoon. A playful wink from Marcus Ambrose would provide at least six to eight months of quality retelling.

It was easy to see why Patrice was so infatuated with him. Marcus was easy on the eyes. But a relationship needed more than smoky eyes and a playful smile. Kara, while not actively looking for companionship, wanted more substance than style, more commitment than flash and dash. That’s why she and Howard Boyd made a great team. Howard didn’t upset her equilibrium.

With intense dark looks that radiated sex appeal both from his album covers and on the big screen, Marcus Ambrose was definitely the flash-and-dash type. Then there was that smile. Kara studiously ignored the little flip in her midsection when that smile—that Tom Cruise, Denzel Washington, Mel Gibson melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hands smile—was aimed her way.

Since at the moment Patrice found herself the lucky benefactor of that gift, Kara figured it was time to make her getaway. Something akin to jealousy flickered through her. Patrice could get cozy with her hero, and Kara could get back to her laundry and then work on the grant application, without distractions.

She had to remind herself that she liked confident men, not cocky ones, and he’d definitely been full of himself last night.

As if on cue, Patrice asked, “So what’s this challenge between you two?”

“There is no challenge,” Kara said. “It was just hype for the television cameras. Mr. Ambrose was merely drumming up attendance and support for the film and music festival.”

“Actually,” he said, the word a slow drawl that Kara found oddly disconcerting, “I was serious. And so were you, Dr. Kara. You were quite passionate in your belief that those in the entertainment industry are a bunch of selfish, self-serving prima donnas.”

Kara winced. “I never said that.”

“But that’s how it came across. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?”

“She’s our resident headshrinker,” Patrice said.

“I am not a psychiatrist.”

Patrice tossed her head, and curls spilled over her shoulder and down her back. “She’s a psychologist. But lately she’s been spending more time cooped up with books than with patients.”

“I don’t maintain an active practice. You know that, Patrice.”

“So you’re writing a book?”

Flattered that he’d think she had the skills to write a book, Kara smiled. But the smile and the good feeling toward him disappeared in the next moment.

“I hope you’re not doing one of those female empowerment books.”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Ambrose, are you afraid that a thinking woman will see beyond the veneer?”

He smiled. “No, Dr. Kara. I’m looking forward to one who has the guts to try.”

Something in his tone—a real challenge, perhaps?—put Kara on alert. She sensed he spoke of more than what he actually said. He’d surprised her last night, and he seemed to have more surprises at the ready. “Forewarned is forearmed, Mr. Ambrose.”

“Let the games begin,” he said.

“See, that’s his problem,” Kara told her best friend a few hours later. She and Haley Cartwright Brandon-Dumaine sat at an outdoor table on the patio café at Pop’s Ice Cream & Malt Shoppe. “Everything’s a game.”