Cherokee. Sheri WhiteFeatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” He held up a hand as if to fend off an expected protest. “A friendship dinner at my house. Just a casual meal.” He flashed that devastating smile. “What do you say?”
“You’re offering to cook for me?”
“Well, sort of.” His grin turned a little sheepish. “I’ll probably just throw some sandwiches together. Maybe a salad.”
Sarah laughed. “How can a guy who eats health food not know how to cook?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He lives on veggie burgers. The frozen kind you pop in the microwave.” He smiled at her again. “So, will you come over tomorrow night? Suffer through one of my bland meals?”
“Yes,” she said, charmed by his honesty. Besides, she thought, curiosity had gotten the best of her. She couldn’t help but wonder where he lived.
He lived in a guest house in Sherman Oaks, not too far from Sarah’s apartment. She smoothed her blouse, then knocked on the door. She had actually stressed about what to wear, then decided on jeans and a plain blue top. Everything she owned was simple, she supposed. Everything but the red satin dress.
Adam opened the door and stunned her senses. Classic rock played on the stereo, and his jeans were faded, the knees fraying just a little. She heard a loud “meow” and watched a black cat brush her leg as it darted past.
“Hey, Sarah. Come on in. Don’t worry about Darrin,” he added, apparently referring to the cat, “he’s allowed to go out.”
Sarah entered the house and took in her surroundings—hardwood floors, heavy oak furniture and tall, leafy plants in every corner.
The clean, masculine decor suited him. As always, Adam wore his long hair secured in a ponytail.
Handing him a small packet, she said, “It’s fresh honey. For your tea. I didn’t know what else to bring.”
“Thanks. I guess you’re not going to let me forget about that teapot, are you?”
“What?” She blinked and realized he was teasing her. “You’re an herbalist. You’re supposed to brew your own tea.”
She gave a start when something moved. Another cat, she told herself foolishly as a furry being pounced onto the back of the sofa. This one was white with big curious eyes.
“How many cats to do you have?” she inquired, petting the friendly creature.
“There’s usually five or six around here. Most of them are strays, so the number changes. Some just visit and others have decided to stay. Cameo is a permanent resident. She’s expecting a litter soon.” He nodded to the sturdy feline. “She showed up at my door pregnant. There wasn’t much I could do.”
But spoil her, Sarah supposed. Cameo looked pampered and well loved.
“Dinner won’t be long,” Adam said. “I was in the middle of fixing the salad, and the spaghetti is almost done.”
“Spaghetti? I thought we were having sandwiches.”
He shrugged. “I figured boiling some water and opening a jar of sauce wouldn’t be too hard.”
She laughed. “Can I help with anything?”
“Sure. The table still needs to be set.”
His roomy kitchen displayed a garden window filled with potted herbs. The appliances were white, the butcher-block table just big enough for two. She hung her purse on the back of a chair and inhaled the cooking aroma. Apparently he’d added fresh oregano to the store-bought sauce.
“Dinner smells wonderful.”
“I’m figuring it out.” He smiled. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Milk? Juice?”
His beverage selection pleased her and so did the fact that she didn’t see a bottle of wine breathing on the counter. She avoided alcohol, even with dinner. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
The CD on the stereo shifted from classic rock to vintage country, and she realized his taste in music was as diverse as her own. Stray cats and eclectic songs. She couldn’t help but like him.
He pointed out the appropriate cabinets and drawers, and she set the table, feeling surprisingly relaxed. His plates and bowls were heavy stoneware, his silverware stamped with a geometric pattern. She turned and spotted the dragon sitting on a cluttered oak shelf. Its jeweled eyes glowed back at her.
Adam removed the pasta from the stove and dumped it into a large serving bowl.
And then he winked, jarring her composure with a perfect white smile. She had to tell her woman’s heart to behave. It flipped in her chest, forcing her to catch her breath. He was just too handsome for his own good.
“Dinner’s ready, sweet Sarah.”
Sweet Sarah. Stunned, she stared at him, her jittery heart flooding with emotion. Her mother used to call her that.
“Lemon?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you want lemon?” He poured her a glass of carbonated water, held it up.
“Yes, thank you.” She told herself it was coincidence. It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t know about her nickname, didn’t know that it made her ache for childhood dreams and fairy-tale wishes. The beauty her father had destroyed.
They sat across from each other, a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead.
Refusing to focus on her jumbled emotions, Sarah started a conversation. “Didn’t you just move into this house about a month ago?”
Adam nodded. “About the same time I started working at the clinic. Regardless, I’m due for a vacation. I haven’t had any time off in years.”
“So did they agree to give you some time off even though you’re new?”
“Yeah. A couple of weeks in August.”
“I was thinking about taking a vacation this summer, too. Sleep in and be lazy. Sometimes it feels good to do nothing.” She placed her napkin on her lap. “So what made you decide to switch jobs anyway?”
“The new facility has more to offer. There’s a yoga studio and a natural pharmacy in the building. There’s also a masseuse and a variety of practitioners.” He poured dressing on his salad, then glanced up. “I would love to open a wellness center someday. Of course, there are some things I would do differently.”
Sarah understood. She often thought of opening her own skin-care salon. She tasted the spaghetti, alternating bites between her salad.
“Adam, why is it so important for you to find your biological mother? Why would you want to replace your parents with the woman who gave you up?”
“I never said I was trying to replace them. But damn it, I don’t understand why they didn’t tell me that I was adopted.”
So he was hurt, she thought. And confused. “Maybe they were protecting you.”
He made a face. “From what? Come on, Sarah. I had the right to know.”
She sighed. “I hate to say this, but there’s a good chance that your biological mother won’t want to see you. She might feel as though you’re interfering in her life.”
He lifted his water, took a sip. “Then that’s a chance I’ll have to take. Besides, I think most women give up their babies because they’re unable to care for them, not because they don’t want them.”
“It was a closed adoption.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. My mom could have been forced to give me up. She could have been too young or too poor. Or it could have been one of those tragic-type love stories. It’s obvious my father was white. Maybe the difference in their cultures kept them apart.” He reached