“Duncan?”
“Baby, until you decide you can’t keep Cookie waiting a second longer, my ass is right here and not going anywhere. So…what?”
God.
God.
He really wanted the chance to get beyond our shit and get to know me again.
Me.
Genny.
I’d never be Imogen Swan to Duncan.
I’d always just be…
Me.
“Thanks for making my daughter a martini. I would say I don’t know where she got that bossiness, but you’ve met my mom.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was thinkin’ something was familiar.”
“They were thick as thieves. Chloe was in mourning for over a year when she died. I had to get her counseling.”
“Fuck, baby. How’d she go?”
“Dad died, and she threw a clot. It wasn’t even a year after. She always got what she wanted, and she missed him so much. So I suspect she told her body to get with the program, it complied, making it quick and painless, so at least I’m thankful for that. And it got Chloe home from France, though I would have obviously preferred a different impetus.”
That was indeed her impetus.
That and her father and I divorcing.
But that could wait for later.
Maybe.
“I always loved that dame,” he muttered, letting me go and moving away.
But not far away.
“Mom was a dame, wasn’t she?” I asked.
“I would say Marilyn Swan was the last of her breed, if I hadn’t met your daughter.”
I shot him a smile.
He watched me do it for a while.
And then he shot one back at me.
Chapter 10
The Omelet
Chloe
* * *
She checked the clock on the microwave when she heard him coming.
And she was ready with a bright smile aimed his way when he strolled into the great room, headed her way, wearing pajama pants and a tee that was snug at his broad chest.
Yes, it’d be cool when her mom got to wake up to that.
The messy hair especially.
“Bonjour!” she cried.
His eyes were moving around the kitchen, taking in the various animals, three of whom were clamoring for his attention, those canine, one of whom was sitting on the counter where Chloe was, that one feline, and one that was bouncing around, that was leporidine.
What they were not doing was clamoring for food, since Chloe had already fed them.
He also checked out the coffeepot and the various bowls Chloe had on the counter.
“It’s six o’clock in the morning,” he stated.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“I thought you young people slept until eleven,” he remarked, moving to the coffee at the same time giving his dogs some rubdowns.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead and not before,” she replied.
Duncan pulled down a mug and noted, “We try not to let Tuck up on the counters.”
“I regret to inform you of the fact that Tuck has claimed me, and as his minion, I do as he says, and he wants up on the counter to observe my work and pass judgment. In his service, I cannot deny him.”
Duncan was shaking his head, grinning and pouring coffee.
But he said no more on the issue of her new darling, Tuck.
She turned and winked at Tuck.
The svelte tuxedo cat with his upside-down triangle face and wicked eyes who currently owned her heart blinked at her languorously.
“I’m making omelets to order,” she shared. “Your choices are cheese, chives, mushrooms, bits of turkey sausage patties and salsa.”
“All of it,” Duncan ordered.
“À votre service,” she declared and turned to the skillet.
“Honey, you can calm down,” he said in that deeper, richer gentle voice of his. “Your mom and I had a good talk last night and she’s coming over today at ten to do more of it.”
It seemed every muscle in her body released.
She made a mental note to take a bath in Epsom salts later.
For then, she just murmured, “Good.” She pulled it together, swirling heated oil in the pan, and finished, “Though, I guessed that since you were home way past curfew.”
He chuckled.
She wanted to start crying.
She pulled it together again and continued her work.
After a bit, he spoke.
“It’s like this with us, Chloe. Genny and me. We’re connected. But there’s a lot to go over and we’re both very different people now. And I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to get hurt along this process should things take a nosedive.”
And wasn’t that just the killer?
That she’d hid it, had her back to him, and he’d sensed it.
“My friends call me Coco,” she informed him.
“And my friends call me Bowie,” he informed her right back.
She turned to him.
He was sitting at the island and Killer was in his lap.
Hot guy and little dog.
Man, she needed this to work.
“Why are you called Bowie?” she asked.
Coffee mug lifted to his mouth, he tipped his head at the range, and said, “Finish the omelets and I’ll tell you. You need any help?”
She shook her head.
“You makin’ one for you?”
She faked being utterly aghast.
“Food passing my lips before eight in the morning? That’s positively barbaric.”