Free Desert Exposure by Robena Grant Page B

hadn’t meant to be suggestive, but somehow in her relief, her voice had switched to happy because Grandpa really might be alive. Darn it, she’d sounded flirtatious. Working in a bar she’d become used to being flippant, sharing a joke, and teasing, even though her staff and customers knew not to overstep boundaries, and so did she.
    “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said, as heat flushed her face. She smothered a laugh. “I guess I was relieved about…you know…the floor. Grandpa.”
    “No problem.” Michael leaned his back against the countertop, hands in his pockets.
    Rachel sensed he tried for casual, but the expression in his eyes had gone to super alert like an animal that had gotten the scent of something interesting. She squashed the thought, and waved a hand in the direction of the rear of the cabin.
    “Grandpa’s bedroom is down the hall, at the end. There’s a dresser full of stuff, but nothing fancy. Go see what you can find,” she said brusquely, and turned away. “I’ll make coffee.”
    ****
    Michael walked back into the kitchen a few minutes later.
    “The sweats aren’t going to cut it,” he said. She would never find him hot in this get up. And he scowled at that. Why the hell did he care what Rachel thought of his attire? Or his hotness factor? He looked like farmer Joe. Well, he would if he had a straw hat and a corncob pipe.
    “And look at these jeans.”
    Her eyebrows flicked upward as she traced his frame.
    The tight jeans left nothing to the imagination. Grandpa wore smaller sized pants than he did. Hell, he doubted he could even do a knee bend in these things. “I’m waiting for the flood.”
    “What?”
    “The jeans are two inches too short.”
    She looked down at his feet and laughed. “Yeah, and the dress shoes…now that’s a good look. But hey, the t-shirt fits you okay, and I like the red and green checked flannel shirt.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Good choice there.”
    Michael ran a hand over the green t-shirt with its white letters that claimed birders were awake at sparrow fart. He’d tried to cover it with the flannel shirt. Kill me now.
    “Anyway, nobody will see us,” Rachel said, smothering her laughter and opening the cupboard. She grabbed a couple of coffee mugs. “We’ll be on the boat that’s tied up out back. Grandpa has his own jetty.”
    “The sea is right behind us?”
    “Duh.” She poured a mug of coffee, and then slid it toward him. “There’s sugar and powdered creamer.”
    “Thanks. I’ll take it black,” he said, with an exaggerated shudder.
    “Yeah, me too. I hate powdered stuff. You know his pantry is really empty. I was lucky to find coffee.”
    Michael shuddered again when he tasted the potent black brew. He carried the mug to the small window set above the single cracked enamel sink, and pulled aside the faded yellow curtain. The huge expanse of the Salton Sea gleamed in the sun, and tied to a small jetty bobbed an old motor boat. It had been a long time since he’d been in one of those, and this one looked like it had weathered one too many storms.
    He looked down at his new shoes. “The land is kind of marshy.”
    “Yeah. You could borrow Grandpa’s rubber boots. Tuck those short jeans into them.”
    “What size?”
    Rachel shrugged, blew on the coffee, and pulled a chair up to the table. Took a quick sip of the liquid and didn’t even flinch. “Eleven, I think.”
    “Where are they?”
    “I’ll get them. They’re in the darkroom.”
    “Stay there,” he said, waving her back onto the chair. Things were looking up. At least he and Henry wore the same size shoe. “Enjoy your coffee. Ralph and I’ll get them, right boy?”
    He slapped his thigh, and Ralph came running like he’d said cookie. They went down the hall and sure enough the boots were there. He grabbed them, and hurried back to the kitchen. He sat and pulled out a thick woolen sock from each boot, and then tried to force his foot into