Page 221 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Good.”

Beau had a skillet on the stove, potatoes roasting in the oven, and chicken marinating in something that smelled good enough to make my stomach growl.

“You did all this?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

I laughed. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No.” He was quick to decline.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m cooking for you.”

I leaned against the counter. “What am I supposed to do then?”

“Sit there and look pretty.”

Music played quietly from a speaker near the window while Beau moved around the kitchen. I watched him longer than I should have. There was something unfairly attractive about a man who knew what he was doing in the kitchen.

Maybe it was the rolled sleeves.

Maybe it was the concentration.

Maybe women had simply been right about this for generations.

Beau turned, blue eyes narrowing at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason.”

“Carson.”

“Cook your chicken.”

His smile told me he knew exactly what I was thinking.

I slid from the counter to get water. When I opened his refrigerator, I found a bottle of vanilla coffee creamer sitting on the top shelf. My hand stopped. It was the exact brand and flavor I kept at Marigold. “Beau.”

“What?”

I took it from the refrigerator. “Why do you have my coffee creamer?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Because you drink it.”

“I don’t drink coffee here.”

“You might tonight.” Then he turned back to the stove like it was no big deal.

I stared at him. He hadn’t said it suggestively. But Beau had bought my coffee creamer before I’d ever spent the night. Before I’d even been inside his house.

He had made room for the possibility of me without asking for anything in return. When I turned, Beau had abandoned the stove and stood a few feet away.

“What?”

“Come here.”

“Your chicken.”