Free Cypress Nights by Stella Cameron

conversation nook.
    Bleu couldn’t have much money to play with. He’d never thought about that before, but on the kind of salary she would draw from a little parish like St. Cecil’s, she would have to spend carefully—unless she had another source of income. He doubted she did.
    â€œOrange juice?” she said, taking a jug from the refrigerator.
    â€œPlease,” he said. Making sure she never had to worry about money again would bring him a lot of pleasure.
    She put a glass in front of him and stood to drink from her own. With her head tilted back, her throat moved visibly. He wanted to touch her there so badly.
    Go home, Roche, before you blow it.
    Bleu finished her juice. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, then giggled at herself. “Sorry, I’m so used to being alone I forget my manners sometimes. The coffee won’t be long. Do you take anything in it?”
    His throat constricted. “Just black, thanks.”
    Mugs clattered on a tiled counter. She moved rapidly, no longer looking tired. In fact, she appeared luminous.
    Deliberately, Roche looked away from her. He wasn’t dealing with the two of them being alone together without experiencing physical reactions of the dangerous kind. Thank God she couldn’t see inside his head, or rest her fingertips on his nerves.
    His nerves must have the power to electrocute her.
    â€œI don’t have much furniture,” she said. “But I like living here. It’s kind of nice not to be dragging too much baggage around.”
    â€œDid you ever carry a lot more baggage around?” He kept the question light, but still wished he hadn’t asked it.
    â€œYou might say that, I guess. Time passes, things change, and you learn what matters most to you.”
    Roche glanced at the Rolex watch he couldn’t care less about. But could he say what mattered to him, really mattered—apart from his work?
    Carrying two coffee mugs, Bleu approached. She set them down, returned to the kitchen and came back with a plate of pastries and a basket of apples and pears. She slid the food onto the table and whipped two plates from underneath at the same time. Napkins and silverware stuck out of the fruit basket.
    â€œIf I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been a waitress,” he said.
    â€œI have been. Several times.” She sat opposite him.
    She offered the pastries, and he took one.
    â€œHow could you be a waitress?” he said. “You’re a teacher and you’ve got whatever qualifications you need to be a fund-raiser and planner.”
    â€œI worked to put myself through school. No big deal.”
    He knew it could be a big deal for some students, holding down a couple of jobs and trying to do well in school at the same time. “You said you were a waitress several times.” He grinned and she narrowed her eyes. “Did you keep getting fired for puncturing the fruit with the silverware?”
    â€œNope. Never got fired—not as a waitress.”
    â€œSo, why so many jobs? And what else were you fired from?”
    â€œYou’re nosey, maybe even rude. In fact, yes, you are rude. One day I may answer all your inappropriate questions,” she said.
    She had a point. “You’re right. It’s an occupationalhazard. I spend so much time asking personal questions, I sometimes forget it’s not always appropriate.”
    â€œYou’re forgiven,” she told him.
    â€œI got fired from a job as a beach photographer,” he said. “I chopped off heads, or feet. Couldn’t manage to get the whole enchilada in at one time. It was the camera’s fault. See—I’m not afraid to share my failures.”
    â€œHumility is always touching,” she said. “Now eat.”
    He did, and he drank some of the best coffee he’d had in a long time—and said so. Waving a cheesecake-filled pastry, he indicated the Coca Cola tribute.