Sharon Swan - Home-Grown Husband

“Having a good time?” his hostess, all decked out in something pink and gauzy, asked as she walked up and inspected his efforts.

“Yes,” he said, and it wasn’t just to be polite. The whole flock of Harmony residents present this evening, from the youngest to the oldest and every stage in between, were clearly enjoying themselves. And so was he. How amazed would they be, he wondered, if he told them he’d never attended a friendly neighbor’s party before this very night?

Rowdy parties, yes. Plenty of them in his younger, wilder days. But none like this one.

Sally took a hefty whiff of the spicy aroma rising from the grill. “Smells great. You must be an expert.”

One corner of his mouth slid upward. “Could be.”

“Sorry I had to rush away this morning.” Brown eyes sparkled as they met his. “I’m glad you and Tess decided to come together.”

The other edge of his mouth rose in the same slow slide. “I figured you would be.”

A fleeting smile surfaced. “Ah, yes. I won’t pretend I didn’t meddle. I did. But I only meant to help. Sometimes these things need a little nudge. Trouble is, I think Tess would like to nudge me flat off my feet and on my rear.” Sally aimed a wary glance around her. “Uh-oh. Here she comes. Gotta go. I’ve managed to keep two steps ahead of her since she arrived packing a razor-sharp gleam in her eye.” With that, Sally whipped around and fled.

The gleam was there, all right. It had been trained on him just a week earlier, so he had no trouble recognizing it as Tess approached. She halted beside him, eyes narrowed and fixed on her friend’s retreating back.

“She can run, but she can’t hide. Not forever.” Tess blew out a breath. “I’m getting some good exercise, at any rate. Along with an appetite. When will the ribs be done?”

“Soon,” he replied, figuring that was a safe enough guess.

As she looked his way, her gaze took on another gleam, this one of amusement. “I like the outfit.”

He dropped a glance at the black cotton apron his host had urged on him, its bib top sporting flaming red letters that declared Real Men Do Their Smoking On The Grill. “It’s a fashion statement, all right.”

The wry remark won him a quiet chuckle. “How did you wind up cooking?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. It just sort of happened.”

She nodded wisely. “Ben wanted to make you feel comfortable, so he put you to work. Are you?”

He cocked a brow. “Working?”

“Comfortable.”

He wasn’t, not entirely. Seeing how her fine-textured skin glowed under the flickering light of a tall metal torch staked nearby had his mind bent on wandering to forbidden places. And it would take some effort to keep it in check. But he could hardly say anything of the sort.

“Comfortable enough,” he replied, and firmly returned his gaze to the task at hand. “My stomach could use some food, though. Once these ribs are ready, I plan on doing them justice.”

THEY BOTH DID their dinner justice as they sat at one end of a long pine picnic table, sharing it with several other people. Jordan had chosen to sit opposite Tess rather than beside her, and as the meal progressed, he gave silent thanks for his foresight. He didn’t need their thighs touching, that was for sure, no matter how briefly or casually. Just watching the woman across from him lick sauce off her lips with a delicate pink tongue had his wayward thoughts considering the private merits of being licked himself…and not by a dog.

What he did need, he decided as he finished the last of his ribs, was a distraction.

“How about some music?” one of the men at the table asked, raising his voice over the low buzz of conversation.

“Yeah, Floyd,” another chimed in. “When you and the boys are done stuffing yourselves, let’s hear a few tunes.”

That suited Jordan to a tee. Whatever he might have imagined would follow, though, it wasn’t an impromptu performance by a barbershop quartet. Yet that’s what he found himself listening to minutes later, when three men with varying amounts of graying hair gathered to stand shoulder-to-shoulder behind a much younger man of about twenty seated in a wheelchair.

Jordan clapped along with the rest of the crowd at the end of “Down By The Old Millstream.” “They’re good,” he told Tess, leaning in her direction over the table. “Where did they come up with the idea to get together?”

“In a barbershop.” She smiled at his suddenly blank look. “And that’s the truth. Floyd Crenshaw, the tall man in the middle, owns the only genuine, old-time barbershop left in the downtown area. The two men standing beside him are longtime customers. My dad used to be the fourth member of the group. Now Brady, Floyd’s youngest son, has taken over.”

“He won the horseshoe toss.” Jordan studied the sandy-haired young man, who seemed fit enough, despite the disability. Probably not illness-related, he decided. An accident of some kind, most likely. It was a damn shame, but there it was. “The guy’s got an arm made for throwing, and a deadly aim.”

“Brady’s tough to beat,” Tess agreed as the opening strains of “Lida Rose” began. “He’s competitive. Even more so, I’d say, than before the wheelchair entered the scene three years ago. And he’s a darn good singer. My dad’s baritone was hardly missed, though no one would wound his ego by telling him so.”

The song ended in another lively round of applause moments later, and once again Jordan leaned toward his companion. “What did your father do here before he moved?” he asked, both to further the conversation and because he was curious about how people earned a living. As pleasant as Harmony was, there was no major industry in the immediate area to produce jobs.

“He worked for Arizona Electric for years,” Tess said, “first as a lineman, then as foreman of a large crew. Now, from what I’ve been hearing lately, he’s mixing the joys of part-time work as an ace electrician with the hardships of watching television while sprawled in a recliner.”

The last came out so dryly Jordan’s mouth curved. “What about your mother?”

“She was, and is, a full-time homemaker.”

Jordan nodded. “I don’t suppose homemakers get to slow down much.”

“Probably not as much as they’re entitled to in most cases,” Tess agreed. “Still, I was pleased when my folks decided to move to San Diego. My mom wanted to give life by the ocean a try, and I’m glad she got her way. She deserved it.” Tess propped her elbows on the table. “The house I’m living in now was theirs. I sold a smaller place not too far from here and took over their mortgage. Which made my folks happy, because I’m their only child, and they loved the house and wanted it to stay in the family.” She paused for a beat. “How about your family?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a lot. Only an older brother I haven’t seen in years.”

A frown formed, sobering her expression. “Your parents are gone?”

“Yeah.” And it would have been nice to say he truly missed them. But he didn’t, Jordan had to admit. Somehow he doubted they’d ever wanted to be parents. Certainly they’d never gone out of their way to show affection to their children. His brother had packed up and left the Trask homestead—a drab apartment in a dust-clogged town on a flat stretch of southern Nevada—as soon as he could manage it, and Jordan couldn’t blame him. He’d done exactly the same when he’d got his chance.

Another tune started up at that point, and Jordan again welcomed the distraction. Dwelling on his family had never been one of his favorite pastimes. He returned his gaze to the performers, already having noted a change in the music even before he saw that Brady Crenshaw now strummed an acoustic guitar to blend in with the smooth vocals, while a second young man—another Crenshaw by the look of him—tapped a rhythmic beat on a set of bongo drums.

The song was an old Sinatra standard, a bluesy ballad, and several people apparently judged it danceable enough to stand up to give it a try, including the host and hostess, who had been seated clear across the yard.

“If Fast-Foot Sally glides by anywhere near me, she’s mine,” Tess declared with grim intent.

“If your friend is smart,” Jordan muttered under his breath, “she’ll stay well out of reach.”

The woman in question seemed to heed that advice as she and her husband drifted closer and came to a halt on Jordan’s side of the table. They separated, smiling at each other. And then Sally was pulling Jordan to his feet. With the element of surprise in her favor, she managed it with little trouble. They were headed toward the middle of the makeshift dance floor in the center of the grassy yard before he could issue a protest.

“I’m not much good at this,” he said, which was no less than the truth. He enjoyed listening to music. Moving to it had never been his strong suit.

“It’s a slow one,” his hostess pointed out. “Practicing will only make you better.”

Jordan gave in to his fate with the thinnest of sighs, placed an arm lightly around his partner’s waist and began to move, shuffling his feet.

She grinned up at him. “There, you see. You’re doing fine.”

“If I stomp on your toes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Gazing over her head, he saw that Tess and Ben had joined the dancers. It gave him some satisfaction to note that the big Texan wasn’t demonstrating any fancier moves than he was. At least he had that small comfort, he thought.

But not for long.

Midway through the second chorus, Ben closed the gap between them and executed a quick spin. Legs braced to halt his own momentum, he launched his partner straight at Jordan and Sally, then reached for the hand his wife suddenly freed to extend his way, and tugged her toward him in the next breath. Tess landed in the vacant spot an instant later, completing a swift switch of partners worthy of a Broadway musical production.

Jordan couldn’t help but admire it, even though the outcome left him holding a somewhat breathless and thoroughly disgruntled woman. “Sally put him up to it,” she grumbled, hauling in air. “I know it. And after that little performance, it’ll look ridiculous if we don’t continue dancing.”

“So we will.” Jordan resumed his slow shuffle. “It won’t be hard to keep up with me,” he told her dryly.

Keep up? With him? Tess drew in more air as realization dawned. All at once every inch of her zinged to full awareness of just how close they were at that very moment. Almost chest-to-chest close.

Or, rather, chest to breast.

Somehow her feet kept moving and her lungs kept working. Somehow her gaze remained steady as she aimed it beyond a broad shoulder and looked up at a moonlit sky. Basic instincts had assumed control. Which was a good thing, because most of her brain seemed to be on hold.

She might tell herself it was silly, that she’d shared many a dance with numerous men in the past, and they hadn’t all been longtime friends and neighbors. Parties during her early college days in the Phoenix area had produced a variety of young and attractive partners, and she’d kicked up her high heels on more than one occasion.

But she had to admit that she’d never encountered anyone quite like the man who held her now, never been so physically reminded of the fact that she was female. Not even marriage and motherhood had prepared her for her body’s total and undeniable response. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, Jordan Trask made her truly feel like a woman.

“Sorry I’m not more of a dancer,” he said, his voice a rough whisper at her ear. “You’ll probably be glad when this song is over.”