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smell his Obsession, and after working with perfumes and colognes for a year, Georgeanne knew her fragrances.
    “What’s this?” he asked, and turned his hand to show her a smudge of chocolate on his thumb.
    “My lunch,” she answered, and felt a little flutter in her stomach. Looking up into his deep blue eyes, she realized that he wasn’t frowning at her for a change. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lip and asked, “Better?”
    Slowly he lowered his arms to his sides and raised his gaze to hers. “Better than what?” he asked, and just when Georgeanne thought he might smile and show her his dimple again, he turned and headed down the hall. “Ernie wants to know if you want beer or ice water with dinner,” he said over his shoulder. The buns of his jeans were worn a lighter blue than the rest, and a wallet bulged one pocket. On his feet he wore a pair of cheap rubber thongs just like his grandfather.
    “Water,” she answered, but would have preferred iced tea. Georgeanne made her way to the bathroom and repaired the damage to her makeup. As she reapplied her burgundy lipstick, a smile curved her lips. She’d been right about John. He wasn’t a jerk.
    By the time she had arranged the curls about her shoulders and made her way to the small dining room, John and Ernie were already seated at the oak pedestal table. “Sorry I took so long,” she said, noticing that they were so bad-mannered as to have begun without her. She sat across from John and reached for a paper napkin stuck in an olive green holder. She placed it on her lap, looked for her spoon, and found it on the wrong side of the bowl.
    “Pepper’s right there.” Ernie motioned with his spoon to a red and white can in the middle of the table.
    “Thank you.” Georgeanne looked at the older man. She didn’t really care for pepper, but after her first bite of creamy white chowder, it became obvious that Ernie did. The soup was thick and rich, and despite the pepper, it was delicious. A glass of ice water sat next to her bowl and she reached for it. As she took a sip, she glanced about the room and noticed the sparse decoration. In fact, the only other thing in the room besides the table was a large china hutch filled with trophies. “Do you live here year-round, Mr. Maxwell?” she asked, taking it upon herself to start the dinner conversation.
    He shook his head, drawing her attention to his thinning white crew cut. “This is one of John’s houses. I still live in Saskatoon.”
    “Is that close by?”
    “Close enough to see my share of games.”
    Georgeanne set the glass on the table and began to eat. “Hockey games?”
    “Of course. I see most of ‘em.” He turned his gaze to John. “But I could still kick myself in the ass for missing that hat trick last May.”
    “Quit worrying about it,” John told him.
    Georgeanne knew next to nothing about hockey. “What’s a hat trick?”
    “It’s when a player scores three goals in one game,” Ernie explained. “And I missed that damn Kings game, too.” He paused to shake his head, his eyes filling with pride as he gazed at his grandson. “That candy-assed Gretzky rode the pines for a good fifteen minutes after you checked him into the boards,” he said, genuinely delighted.
    Georgeanne didn’t have the faintest idea what Ernie was talking about, but getting “checked into the boards” sounded painful to her. She’d been born and raised in a state that lived for football, yet she hated it. She sometimes wondered if she was the only person in Texas who abhorred violent sports. “Isn’t that bad?” she asked.
    “Hell no!” the older man exploded. “He went up against The Wall and lived to regret it.”
    One corner of John’s mouth lifted upward, and he smashed several crackers into his chowder. “I guess I won’t be winning the Lady Bying any time soon.”
    Ernie turned to Georgeanne. “That’s the trophy given for gentlemanly conduct, but screw that.” He pounded