“Not unless you stocked up on frozen pizzas and you’re willing to sell them to me for a small profit.”
He laughs, catching the back of his neck with one hand. The underside of his bicep grabs my eye and a flash of dark hair peeks from inside the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Breath halts. Neurons stall.
I drag my gaze away from the ivory skin over startling muscle and focus on the lettering of his T-shirt.Certified Rock Hound.The words hover over a blue hunk of rock. It’s not lost on me that the T-shirt seems to stretch over a hunk of rock too.
“Sorry. No frozen pizzas,” he says easily. “But I’m okay in the kitchen. Whatcha got to work with?”
I can’t process the muscles and skin and underarm hair AND his words at the same time, so I pivot to the shelf with Nanna’s recipes. “Ground beef,” I mutter, pointing my finger along the row of index card boxes until I reach the one that saysMeat Dishes.
This box is one of the lucky ones. Fully intact and never been washed. I flip through the stack, looking for something basic and good. Not burgers. We don’t have any buns. Not meatloaf. Tyler and Maisy would mutiny. Not stuffed peppers for the same reason.
“Aha!”
Salisbury Steak with Smothered Onions.
Pausing on the card, I scan the ingredients. Ground beef. Check. Seasoning. Check. Onions and mushrooms. Check-check. The only thing I’m missing is white wine and beef broth for the gravy, but I think I can improvise with red wine and chicken broth, and no one will notice.
Nanna used to make this with mashed potatoes, but that is also not happening tonight. Rice will just have to do. But who doesn’t like rice and gravy?
“Salisbury steak. Good choice.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. The man is reading over my shoulder.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
I glare at him. “You seem to do that a lot.”
He shrugs. “Old habit. I’m one of seven kids. If I didn’t learn stealth, I would have been followed by a handful of rugrats every time I walked out the door.”
I’m still stuck on the one-of-seven part.“Seven?”Too many questions surface. “Are you the oldest?”
Larks lips purse with a dismissive grin—as though being born first is for suckers. “No way. Second to oldest.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
His blue eyes brighten and at this close range, I confirm that they are definitely not colored contacts. “Oldest sibs are cautious Type A’s. Second-borns can take it easier.”
The irony is too much. “That’s rich. I’m second-born.”
A line forms between his brow. “Really? I would have thought Tyler was younger.”
I give him the stink eye. “Thanks a lot.”
“No, no.” He raises his hands, shaking his head. “You don’tlookolder. You just act—I mean you just seem—Were you always the responsible one?”
I have to admit, his facial acrobatics during this little speech have been pretty amusing to watch, but my answer still comes out dry as sand.
“Yes. Even before the accident. Even as kids.”
Mystified, Lark studies me. “Huh.”
“Ask Pen if you don’t believe me.”
His brows draw together. “Oh, I believe you,” he says, but it’s clear he’s mulling over something else. “I just feel bad that you got cheated out of your birthright.”
“My birthright?” I laugh at the words.
