“Ja, Papa,” said Cain, standing from the warm leather chair beside his father’s. He took the two empty bottles from the table between them. “I’ll get us two more.”
The tack room apartment smelled of roasted chicken and vegetables that would be ready in about an hour, and though it wasn’t the traditional American Thanksgiving menu that his mother would be serving today, Cain had decided he’d prefer to spend the holiday with his father. The idea of Aunt Sophie’s vitriol, however contained, would have made his mother’s table uncomfortable. Plus, his mother had her husband and sister. His father had no one, and Cain was perfectly happy watching football with cold beer and pretzels. It was relaxed and companionable.
As he threw the empties in the recycling bin and grabbed two more bottles of Grolsch from the refrigerator, he was surprised to hear knocking at the tack room door. His father turned from the TV, his eyebrows furrowed in question.
“You expect someone?”
“Nein, Papa,” said Cain, handing his father one of the two beers, then heading for the door. And damn if his heart didn’t roar to life to find Ginger on the other side.
“Hi,” she said, her voice considerably warmer and softer than it had been a week and a half ago, when he’d dropped her off after the wreath laying.
“Hi,” he said, taking in the pretty wave of her shiny blonde hair, the glossy bit of pink lipstick that drew his attention to her mouth.
“My, uh . . .” She cleared her throat, her big brown eyes holding his captive. “My father asked me to bring down a pie.”
“Wunderbar, Ginger! Danke!” said Cain’s father, hopping up from his chair with his arms outstretched. “Bitte sch?n!”
“He’s so excited for the pie, he’s forgettin’ his English,” said Cain, chuckling good-naturedly at his father’s wide grin. “Wonderful, thank you, and come in.”
Ginger handed the pie to Klaus with a small smile, then looked up at Cain, her lips flattening just a little, the warmth in her eyes cooling just a bit, like she didn’t trust him, like she wasn’t sure of him.
He raised his bottle. “Can I get you a beer?”
“Umm,” she hummed, and two spots of crimson suddenly popped out on the apples of her cheeks. He watched her for a moment, the way she lowered her eyes and looked at her shiny tan high-heeled shoes. And then he remembered—the last time she had beer, she’d vomited on the firehouse floor.
His father, however, only knew Austrian hospitality, nothing of Ginger’s erstwhile overindulgence. When he returned from placing the pie safely in the fridge, he was holding another bottle of open Grolsch and offered it to her.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” said Klaus, clinking her bottle with a cheerful grin.
She laughed softly and nodded, putting the bottle to her lips and tilting it up to take a sip as she grinned at Klaus.
And Cain, who watched her, felt his own rising arm still. For just a moment—a short, perfect moment—she looked happy. She looked young and lovely and open, without any sorrow weighing down her small shoulders. His breath caught, softly, without incident—his father and Ginger both oblivious—and his heart thundered inside its cage at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life.
Almost in slow motion, her stunning face turned, and as her eyes met his over her bottle, he raised his own quickly. The cold glass connected with the warm flesh of his lips, and the beer sluiced down his throat as he watched her lower hers and say, “Yes. Happy Thanksgivin’, Klaus.”
Klaus looked back and forth between his son and Ginger. “You know? I need to water the horses and check on . . . things. I be right back?”
Before they could respond, Cain’s father slipped out the door, leaving them alone.
“Do you like football?” Cain asked her, squelching a wince, feeling—for the first time in more years than he could remember—young and self-conscious around a woman.
“Um, honestly? It’s not my favorite.”
He gestured to the chairs. “You came all the way down here. Stay a few minutes. You have to finish your beer.”
She looked wary for a moment, then grinned at him. “Sure. Just for a few minutes.”
They sat down side by side, but Cain was so aware of her—of her slight citrus scent, her plum-colored dress, her pretty shoes—he couldn’t help but notice her transformation. Besides, the last time he’d seen her, she was spitting mad at him, and today she seemed much more gentle, like her old self, like the girl he’d once loved so desperately.
“You look nice, Gin,” he said, forcing his glance away from her. He stared at the TV and took another sip of beer.
“Thanks,” she said. “I, well, if you want the truth, an old friend of mine told me to stop feelin’ sorry for myself.”
“Sounds like a total bastard. I’ll beat him up for you.”
She burst into a small laugh, shaking her head at him.
“I’m sorry, princess,” he said, wincing to recall the harshness of his speech.