"Bad time?" Jared
asked.
She scowled at the flowers lying beautifully against the green protective paper. "I'm busy, if that's what you mean."
"Then I won't keep you. I thought you might like to bring Bryan over to the farm for dinner tonight."
Still frowning, she reached into the box, took out a single rose. It didn't bite. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"For starters, I've already got sauce on for spaghetti." She waited a beat. So did he. "I suppose you expect me to ask you to come here to dinner."
"Yep."
Twirling the rose, she tried to think of a good reason not to. "All right. But Bryan has baseball practice after school. I have to pick him up at six, so—"
"I'll pick him up. It's on my way. See you tonight, then."
Something seemed to be slipping out of her hands. "I told you all of this wasn't necessary," she muttered. "The flowers."
"Do you like them?"
"Sure, they're beautiful."
"Well, then." That seemed to settle the matter. "I'll see you a bit after six."
Befuddled, she hung up. After another long stare at the roses, she decided she'd better dig up a vase.
At six-fifteen she heard the sound of a car coming up her lane. Carefully she finished a detail on the illustration of her wicked queen for a reissue of traditional fairy tales, then turned away from her worktable. Bryan was already clattering up the steps by the time she walked from her small studio into the kitchen.
"... then he popped up, and that klutzoid Tommy couldn't get his glove under it. His mom had two cows when the ball came down and smacked him in the face. Blood was spurting out of his nose. It was so cool. Hi, Mom."
"Bryan." She lifted a brow at the state of his clothes. Red dirt streaked every inch. "Do some sliding today?"
"Yeah." He headed straight to the refrigerator for a jug of juice.
"Tommy Mardson got a bloody nose," Jared put in.
"So I hear."
"His mom was really screaming." Excited by the memory, Bryan nearly forgot to bother with a glass— until he caught his own mother's steely eye. "It wasn't broke. Just smashed real good."
"We're going to work on that grammar tonight, Ace."
Bryan rolled his eyes. "Nobody talks like the books say. Anyway, I got a B on the spelling test."
"Drinks are on the house. Math?"
Bryan swallowed juice in a hurry. "Hey, I gotta clean up," he declared, and dashed for the stairs in a strategic retreat.
Recognizing evasive action, Savannah winced. "We hate long division."
"Who doesn't?" Jared handed her a bottle of wine. "But a B in spelling's not chump change."
Neither, she thought, was the fancy French label on the bottle. "This is going to humble my spaghetti."
Jared took a deep, appreciative sniff of the air. It was all spice and bubbling red sauce. "I don't think so."