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“Fancy shoes,” Tawny explained.
Hot shoes, Luke amended silently.
Just about everything on Jordan Carpenter was
hotter than sin, but those ridiculously impractical shoes had resulted in some very dirty thoughts the past few nights.
Luke shoved the memory aside and set a pan on the stove, flicking on the burner.
The guys at the firehouse all rotated kitchen duty, and breakfast was Luke’s least favorite. Yeah, sure, eggs were simple, but they weren’t like lasagna or sub sandwiches, which could be made ahead of time and left in the fridge. No decent breakfast food was make-ahead. Unless you counted quiche, and Luke absolutely did not.
“Rumor has it she’s also gorgeous,” Tawny said. “Very big city.”
“Who?”
She threw a mushroom at him, which he caught and popped in his mouth. “Be useful. Grate some cheese.”
Tawny narrowed hazel eyes that matched his own. Actually, everything about Tawny matched him, except smaller, more feminine. Same greenish eyes, same light brown hair—or dark blond, depending on whom you asked—same straight nose, stubborn chin.
His sister was one of his best friends, as was her husband, Bill, but if she kept talking about Jordan Carpenter and the damn TV show, the status would be short-lived.
“If I grate this cheese, will you tell me what the heck you said to the TV girl that made her sign a monthlong lease on the Buckley house?” Tawny asked. “Did you goad her? What am I even saying—of course you goaded her.”
Luke froze in the process of pouring eggs into the hot pan and turned to face her. “She rented a fucking house?”
“Yup. Signed the lease yesterday afternoon, and you know what that means.”
“That I need to join the witness-protection program?” he muttered, irritably dumping the eggs in the pan and tossing the metal bowl and whisk in the sink with a clatter.
“It means that not only is she here to stay for a while but she’s met Stacey.”
“Stace won’t talk,” he said, giving the eggs a swipe with the spatula.
“But—”
“Tawny,” he said, before pointing his spatula at her. “Grate faster; the eggs are nearly done.”
“Seriously? You need more?” She used the back of her hand to push back her sandy-blond bangs, as her other hand pointed the grater at the mound of cheese. “That’s, like, half the block.”
He made a rolling more motion with his finger.
“Maybe I should start running five miles a day if it’ll help me eat like this,” she muttered.
“Six. I run six miles a day.”
“I hate you. Everyone does. Just thought you should know.”
He merely grinned at her, and a minute later he flicked off the burner, stirred in the cheese and mushrooms, and pulled out the plate of toast and bacon he’d cooked earlier and left to warm in the oven.
“Do I even want to know how many loaves of bread are on that plate?” she asked, taking a triangle from the top of the stack and nibbling the corner.
“Doesn’t Bill feed you?” he asked.
“No, I feed him. Although don’t tell him you guys eat like this here, or I’ll never get him to continue choking down the turkey bacon I’ve been pushing lately.”
Luke set the food on the table, along with a stack of plates and a roll of paper towels to serve as napkins, before pushing open the kitchen door and ringing the bell that served as the Food’s up notice.
“You have less than a minute to tell me what you’re after before the wolves descend.”
