She’d done something with her hair. It was down, the dark waves brushed soft rather than pulled back in the field-ready ponytail she usually wore. Instead of an oversized flannel, she wore a deep green sweater that accentuated her slim, curvy figure almost as spectacularly as it highlighted her eyes.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She held out a handled bag with the name of the local liquor store on it. “I know you said not to bring anything, but…”
He accepted the bag, peeking inside and finding a bottle of red wine and a bottle of white.
“You didn’t have to, but thank you. Please, come in.”
She stepped inside and he took her jacket, hanging it up just inside the door. Inhaling deeply, he brought the scents of coolautumn air and a softer, feminine fragrance that was uniquely Morgan into his lungs.
“Something smells fantastic.”
He led her into the kitchen. “Everything’s just about done. Just need to dish it out.”
She looked around, seeing the remains of his prep on the counters. “You cooked?”
“What did you think? That I’d invite you to dinner and order takeout?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve never met a man who can cook.”
“Then clearly, you haven’t been meeting the right men.”
He grinned and extracted a small cooler from a large pantry, then grabbed half a dozen trays of ice and emptied them into it. “Sorry, I know it’s not a proper ice bucket, but it’ll do. You can put the wine in here.”
“Which one? The red or the white?”
“The red.”
She did as requested while he pulled a warming pan out of the oven.
“Shall I get plates?”
“No need. I’ve got everything set up in the dining room. Too much traffic in the kitchen.”
He felt her pause at the entry to the dining room, taking everything in, much like Declan had. She seemed surprised. Surprised, but not disappointed. That was a start.
He pulled out a chair and held it for her. She hesitated, as if no one had done that for her before, then sat down. He took the seat perpendicular. Close, but not crowding.
Her eyes traveled over the faded wallpaper they hadn’t yet scraped and replaced. At the hardwood trim and decorative crown molding. At the leaded glass windows that looked out over the side yard.
“Is the rest of the house like this?” she asked softly.
“Old and dated, you mean?”
“Beautiful,” she countered. “I know it needs some work, but the craftsmanship is incredible.”
He felt oddly pleased by her assessment. “That’s what we thought, too. My uncle?—”
“Another uncle?” she interrupted with a mischievous smile.
“My uncle Johnny,” he continued with a quirk to his lips, “runs a construction and renovation business over in Birch Falls, and my cousin Garrett—who also lives here—is in charge of bringing the house up to par.”
“Just how many uncles do you have?”
Patrick did a quick mental tally. “Six, not including in-laws, though there are three more that I call uncles but are really first cousins once removed. And more that are close friends of the family.”