Secret Ingredient: Love. Teresa SouthwickЧитать онлайн книгу.
suffering from second-son syndrome. In the Middle Ages, the first son inherited the castle and son number two played second fiddle, twiddling his thumbs because he had nothing to do. Nick took Marchetti’s into the fast lane and you’re saying, ‘Hey, notice me, too.”’
Alex frowned. “There’s only one thing wrong with that theory.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m the third son.”
“Ah. Any sons after one and two get paid to do nothing. That makes the syndrome twice as acute.”
Why did she feel this absurd desire to tease him? Maybe because he was so serious. A side effect of the glasses. But mostly because she found her almost instant attraction to him disconcerting. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t resist the urge to loosen him up a little.
“Did you say I’m twice as cute?”
Mission accomplished, she thought, watching him struggle to hold back a grin. “No. I said the syndrome is acute times two for son number three. You’re competing with two brothers for approval, affection and your rightful place in the castle dynamics.”
Alex watched as she dunked her tea bag. She wouldn’t blame him if he grabbed it away and stuffed it somewhere. Like in her mouth. This wasn’t the first time her mouth had gotten her into hot water. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last, either.
She put her soggy tea bag on her saucer. Then she stirred some sugar into the steaming liquid while she waited for him to respond to her last verbal barb.
“I think your theory is interesting,” he finally said. “And there may be a grain of truth to it.”
“Really?” she asked. She’d expected him to bristle and get angry. Not to semi-agree with her.
“If second-son syndrome means that I want my parents and brothers to be as proud of me as I am of them, then I’m guilty as charged.”
“Hmm.” She could relate to that. She felt the same way. Only in her case it wasn’t likely to happen. She wrapped her hands around her mug and blew into the steam to cool off the liquid. “Good luck with your goal,” she said.
“Do you have siblings, Fran?”
“Do I have siblings?” She laughed. “Do four older brothers qualify?”
The corners of his very attractive mouth turned up. “No wonder you and Rosie hit it off.”
She nodded. “We did bond over the trials and tribulations of having a father and four stand-in bodyguards.”
“So you’ve been able to observe second-son syndrome firsthand,” he commented.
“Among other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like marriage and kids. For women, it’s not much evolved from a feudal society.”
“How do you figure?”
She sipped her tea, then said, “Think about it. The woman works her fingers to the bone fetching for her husband and sons, and all she gets is a place to live, food and clothes.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” he asked. “My mother and sister seem to find family, especially motherhood, very rewarding.”
“I’m exaggerating a little. But from my firsthand observations, it seems more servitude than satisfying. I keep after my mother to get a life, but she insists that she has one, thank you very much. But I don’t see that she’s receiving enough personal fulfillment for me to follow in her footsteps. Much to my father’s annoyance.”
“Why annoyance?”
“He believes a woman’s place is in the home. Her fulfillment is taking care of a husband and children. He even wanted me to be a teacher.”
A shadow crossed Alex’s face, and she wondered what she’d said to put it there.
“Why teaching?” he asked, the sad look chasing away the warmth in his dark eyes.
“Good career for a mom, because when you’re finished with work, your children get out of school. Same vacations.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“For starters, it was his idea, not mine. And—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “This sounds like a long, yet interesting story. Would you mind if we sat down?” he asked.
“Of course not. How thoughtless of me.”
She wasn’t usually so rude. But apparently her brain was on overload, filled as it was with good-looking Alex Marchetti. After that, there wasn’t a whole lot of room left over for rational thought, not to mention manners. Then she’d climbed on her soapbox, something that usually followed when the subject of her family came up. Everything else went out the window. Including courtesy.
She waved her hand toward the living room. “Please.”
He turned away and she couldn’t help peeking at him from the rear. For a while now, Fran had wondered about the hoopla, hype and hyperbole associated with men’s backsides. Movies, magazines and other media were full of it. And she didn’t get it. At least she hadn’t until this very moment. It was sort of comforting to know she wasn’t immune.
He filled out a pair of slacks in the best possible way. She would bet he was something of a phenomenon in a pair of worn jeans. Alex Marchetti probably sat behind a desk all day, and it wasn’t fair that he showed not a single hint of secretary spread. More proof that God was a man.
He sighed as he settled his very attractive rear end in her big, overstuffed chair. Her want ads still rested on the ottoman in front of him. “This is comfortable,” he said.
“I think so, too. It was my grandmother’s.” Fran sat on the sofa at a right angle to him. “She died a couple years ago.” She smiled sadly.
“I guess she was very special to you.”
Fran nodded. “My father’s mother. She visited all the time. We were very close. She financed my rebellion.”
“Rebellion?”
“Culinary school. My father refused to pay for it. He said that if I liked to cook, I should get married and prepare meals for one man instead of a bunch of strangers.”
“Hmm,” was his only comment. “Where did you go to school?”
“San Francisco.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Chalk one up for your grandmother. And you still miss her.”
“Every day,” Fran agreed. “But that’s why I love that chair. It’s nice to have something to remind me of her.”
“Do you want me to give you my amateur psychological take on that?”
“Nope. And I won’t practice armchair psychology if you won’t.”
“You already have,” he said wryly.
“Okay. No more cracks about second-son syndrome.”
He held out his hand. “Deal.”
“Done,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.
A tingle of awareness skittered through her. If she had foreseen the magnitude of disturbance caused by the warmth of his large hand, she would have kept hers to herself.
She removed her fingers from his, hoping he didn’t notice her abruptness. It smacked of attraction. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Nothing personal. But after her disaster, she wasn’t interested in a flirtation or anything more serious with any man. Especially one in the food service industry. If only Alex didn’t look so darn cute sitting in her grandmother’s chair. What in the world had possessed her to look through that peephole in the