Free Grady's Wedding by Patricia McLinn Page B

got in the fridge and we need a salad and rice. Then we need the table set and the wine poured. Sound about right?”
    Everybody murmured agreement with Bette’s assessment, happy to let her organize.
    “Okay, how about if we divide up into teams. One team gets the fire going, then sets the table and pours the wine. Another team threads the kebabs and cooks them. And the third team makes the salad and cooks the rice.”
    “Sounds good,” said Grady over the general assent. “Leslie and I will be team one, with the fire and stuff.”
    Even if Leslie wanted to object, which would have been making a big deal out of nothing, she didn’t have a chance.
    “Okay,” said Michael. “Tris and I’ll do the kebabs.”
    “Rice and salad, it is,” agreed Paul. “C’mon, Bette, let’s get to it.”
    A few minutes later, Leslie watched Grady place charcoal briquettes in the bottom of a grill by the back door.
    “Here are the matches.”
    “Good.” He splashed on lighter fluid and lit a match. He didn’t pull his hand back from over the grill until long after she would have.
    “Hey, be careful!”
    “It’s all right. You have to start the fire at the bottom or it takes forever to get going.”
    “I’m a firm believer in light the match and toss,” said Leslie, the vision of those flames so close to his arm uncomfortably vivid. “If the choice is burning your arm like a marshmallow, I’ll settle for a slower starting fire.”
    He grinned at her. “Nice to know you care.”
    “I just don’t want to delay dinner by having to take you to the emergency room,” she said tartly. “I’m hungry.”
    “That’s why I went with the quick-starting method.”
    She gave him a disapproving look before going to the wooden kitchen steps to sit down. As she sat, she slid her hands under her shorts to smooth them.
    “Ow!” She instinctively put the side of her finger to her lips.
    “You okay?” He sat next to her and drew her hand down from her mouth, turning it palm up and bringing the side of her index finger close to his face so he could inspect the damage. Stretching her skin between his thumbs he examined it. “You’ve got a splinter. It’s not deep. If I had fingernails, I could pull it out.”
    “Oh. I better go in and get tweezers— What are you doing?” He’d bent his head over the finger he still held fast. His breath across her palm sent shivers up her arm. “What are you— Oh!”
    He released one of his hands from hers, took something from between his teeth and threw it away, then smiled.
    “You didn’t—?”
    “Sure I did. No fingernails, but I do have teeth.”
    She shook her head, unwilling to acknowledge that her reaction was anything other than amused disbelief.
    “Better?”
    “Yes, thank you,” she said solemnly. She tried to ease out of his light grip, but he didn’t release her hand.
    “Good. You should be more careful with your hands.” Her eyebrows rose at his admonition. Was he kidding? “You have beautiful hands.” He took a hand in each of his and spread them over the warm, soft denim just above his knees. He wasn’t kidding. “I remember thinking that the day we went shopping for a housewarming gift for Paul and Bette—that your hands are remarkable. Delicate and capable.”
    She wished he was kidding.
    He rested his hands on hers, his palms warm against the backs of her hands. Then he lightly drew his fingertips from her wrists to her spread fingers, interweaving with them while his thumbs stroked the tender arch between her index finger and thumb.
    Sensation centered in her hands, in the few inches from wrist to fingertip that Grady’s touches cherished. Every other part of her was left with only the memory—no, the imagination—of sensation. But imagination was plenty.
    Unwelcomed and unstoppable came the question of what it would be like to be Grady Roberts’s lover, to have all this sensual concentration on areas beyond her hands. Equally unwelcomed and unstoppable