One of those home improvement shows, he identified. The woman loved HGTV.
And there she was, in baggy shorts, a baggier T-shirt, standing at the counter she’d littered with bottles, whole and juiced-out lemons and oranges. His grandmother’s big cut glass pitcher glowed a deep, almost purple red with whatever she’d mixed in it.
Now, with one eye on a bunch of people ripping out ugly, shit-brown kitchen cabinets, she sliced an orange.
“What’re you doing?”
Still slicing, she glanced over. “Morning. Why, I’m waxing my surfboard, of course.”
“Ha.”
He went straight to the coffee maker.
“I’m making sangria. The flavors need time to blend. I was going to make it when I got home last night, but you had other ideas, so I’m getting it together now so it’ll have blending time.”
He looked over his shoulder as he reached for a mug. “I had other ideas this morning.”
That got a smile as she dumped the orange slices in the pitcher. And picked up a lemon. “That’ll have to wait. We have a dinner party to prep for.”
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee, he thought as the scent of it brewing made him yearn. “It’s not a dinner party.”
She’d said the same, she remembered. But now she embraced her ladies’ definition.
“We’re having people over for dinner, that we’re making. Hence, dinner party. And I know I’m more wound up about it than you are, but I don’t get to do this kind of thing often. Mostly at all. The last time…”
She slid the lemon slices in, started on the lime. “The last time was when Nina and I made dinner for Sam and the man I thought was Luke Hudson. Today’s going to wipe that one right off the books.”
It mattered, he thought. What he considered just a casual summer evening with family mattered to her. For so many reasons.
He stepped away from coffee, stepped to her, wrapped his arms around her.
“Is that the biggest pitcher you could find?”
He felt her laugh, felt her relax.
“You’re thinking that while Nell may have one glass out of solidarity, the guys are going to stick with beer, because your balls may shrivel up if you drink something you consider too fussy and girlie.”
“That wasn’t my exact thought.”
“Sangria’s neither fussy nor girlie, but a perfect summer adult beverage. And in a few hours, you’ll learn my sangria’s exceptional.”
He stroked a hand along her spine before going back for coffee. “Not fussy says the woman who’s decimated a decent-size orchard and has multiple bottles on the counter.”
“One of the many secrets of my sangria is fresh juice.”
When the doorbell rang, Morgan put down the knife.
“I’ll get it,” Miles told her.
“I’m fully dressed; you’re fully not.”
He held up a hand to stop her before picking up the remote and changing the channel to security.
“It’s my mother. Why the hell is she knocking?”
He switched the channel back and started out of the kitchen as Morgan looked down at herself. And said, “Shit.”
When he opened the door, Drea lifted her eyebrows. “Sleeping in?”
“Why didn’t you just come in?”
“In case you were sleeping in or otherwise occupied.” She handed him a basket of peaches. “The Millers are up from Georgia.”
“How many bushels this time?”
“Two. So I’m divvying up. I know you’re seeing Liam and Nell later. You can share.”
“Maybe. Jesus, come in, come back. We’re in the kitchen.”
“I don’t want to get in your way.”
“In the kitchen,” he repeated, and started back. “Morgan’s making enough sangria for Barcelona. We have peaches,” he said as he set the basket on the counter. “You can’t possibly want to stuff them in there, too.”
“I went red wine and citrus, but if I’d known.” Morgan plucked one out, lifted it to her face, and drew in the scent. “They’re gorgeous. Thanks, Drea.”
“Thank the Millers. Second cousins on my side. They grow peaches in Georgia. And your sangria’s what’s gorgeous.”
“I’d offer you some, but it hasn’t had time to blend, and wouldn’t be right. How about an iced cappuccino?”
“I—that sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“It’s really not.”
While Morgan carried the pitcher to the refrigerator, Howl raced in from the mudroom, wagged his way to Drea for a greeting.