Free The Ninth Step by Barbara Taylor Sissel Page B

correctly. He’d moved out of Houston, too. They’d talked about that, how neither one liked city life. Something lingered in her mind about a Christmas tree farm. Joe owned one or was buying one . . . it was all so hazy.
    He tapped on the window and she jumped, feeling her cheeks flame.
    “Are you all right?” he called through the glass.
    She cracked the car door. “No,” she said. “I’m dying of embarrassment.”
    “Because of the other night? But that was a mistake.”
    “I know,” she said miserably.
    “No! It was my mistake. My bad.” He patted his chest. “I acted like a jerk, pushed you--when I knew--”
    “I was drunk.” She met his gaze. His eyes were dark, the color of chocolate. His longish hair was dark too, but sliced with gray. It didn’t look as if he had it cut regularly, or even professionally. It was kind of loose and windblown and long enough in back to curl over the collar of his blue work shirt. Livie could admire the look, but her mother would be dismayed. She’d have been dismayed at Livie’s behavior the other night as well, not that she’d have any right to be.
    “I’m not usually such a party girl,” Livie said. “I don’t ordinarily drink so much, or do sex--”
    “On the first date. You told me.”
    “I did?” It kept getting worse.
    “Afterward.” His glance glimmered briefly, teasing her, as if he were recalling a joke he’d shared with party-girl Livie. He probably wouldn’t like tee-totaler, old-maid Livie. Joe widened the car door, held out his hand and after a moment’s hesitation she took it, because she didn’t want to appear rude. His grip felt warm and strong. His palm was calloused and she had a sudden inane image of him wielding an ax, strongly chopping down Christmas trees. In a Santa hat. Snow swirling. Red socks. Ridiculous. God, the man had seen her naked. She didn’t know his last name, but he knew she had a mole near her left nipple. She took her hand back, pushed a hairpin more tightly into her chignon.
    He said, “I’ve felt terrible ever since.”
    “It wasn’t your fault.”
    “But I took advantage--”
    “Groceries,” she said, faintly, walking away from him, opening the hatch. “There’s sherbet.”
    He took the sack from her and the two other bags as well, while she got her satchel, and together, they brought everything into the house.
    “I’ve called several times.” He stowed the sherbet in the freezer and unpacked a jar of mayonnaise, holding it up, raising his brows.
    “Pantry,” she said indicating the door adjacent to the refrigerator. She set the pint of blueberries she’d bought at the farmer’s market in the sink. “You didn’t leave a message.”
    “I didn’t know what to say.” He closed the pantry door.
    She looked down at her hands.
    “Pretty flowers.” He indicated the filled vase that stood on the marble-topped island between them. “They’re irises, right? Japanese. . . ?”
    Livie said they were. “You know flowers?”
    “I remember you said they were your favorites. You said something about them meaning hope, is that right?”
    “Hope, yes, or the gift of them might convey a message.” Like the promise of love. Was that why Cotton had left them for her? Livie wondered. Did he remember what they symbolized?
    Joe held her gaze. “I wonder if we could start over.”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” She got down a colander from a cabinet, upended the carton of blueberries into it and rinsed them.
    “We could pretend the other night never happened.” He was at her elbow, searching her face.
    Maybe you could . “I don’t know your last name,” she said aloud and her cheeks warmed.
    “Bolten,” he said. “Joe Bolten and you’re Miss Saunders, Miss Olivia Marie Saunders.” He extended his hand, but withdrew it when she showed him that hers were wet. “Will you go out with me, Miss Saunders?” he asked after a moment. “Will you let me take you to dinner? Give me a chance to redeem