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“Thanks,” British said with a half smile, which exposed her dimples.
“How long were you married?” Are you prying? You’ve just met. And why do you feel like some adolescent kid with a crush? “You don’t have to answer me. It’s none of my business. I came here for peace and quiet, and here I am.” Donovan pressed his lips together. Why was he rambling? He hadn’t done so since middle school.
“You’re fine, it’s been five years since Christian passed away,” she murmured. “We were married for three years but we had been together ever since middle school.”
Donovan’s eyes widened at the idea of being with someone that long. Tracy had been the longest and that was barely six weeks. “Wow.” He couldn’t remember who he’d taken to his high school prom. Math being his favorite subject, Donovan calculated her age. “You’re, like, twenty-three.”
“I’m twenty-eight—” she coughed and laughed “—but thanks.”
“Country life must suit you.” Donovan inclined his head, not realizing until she blushed that he was flirting. When did he flirt? Women flirted with him.
“Is that what you’re doing in Southwood, Mr. Donovan? Trying to find the fountain of youth?”
Donovan clutched his heart. “How old do I look?”
British leaned her head to the side and studied him. “Thirty-five.”
“Tell me you worked at a carnival,” Donovan joked. He touched his chin and wondered if the gray was beginning to show.
“I know.” British beamed and curtsied. Sadness disappeared from behind her eyes. “It’s a gift I have.” She finished the sandwiches and slid them onto a tray and into the broiler. “So is my tuna melt. You’re going to be thanking me in a minute or two.”
“I can’t wait.” Donovan rubbed his hands together. When was the last time he’d shared a meal with a woman who didn’t want to hit up the latest hot spot?
“But to answer your question, I don’t cook full-time. I am a teacher.”
“What?” He held his hand in the air. Though she’d said her age, Donovan had a hard time picturing her in a classroom. Okay, maybe kindergarten. “How did you start off?”
“Well—” British inhaled deeply “—if you can believe it, I started out as a home economics teacher.”
“They’re still around?”
British rolled her eyes. “You’d be amazed at how many need to learn basic life skills.”
“Sorry, it’s just I remember there being one at my school and she was eighty and smelled like oatmeal cookies.”
“I can smell like cookies if you’d like,” teased British. And then, as if remembering her manners, she covered her mouth. Her eyes widened in shock, then she blinked, fanning her long lashes. “I can’t believe I said that. I promise I’m not some flake.”
“Of course not,” Donovan said. “Most people I know get trapped by their own sweatshirts.”
British tried not to laugh but did so with a crimson tint spreading across her cheeks. She moved her hands to her hips. “See, and here I thought we were becoming friends.”
“We are,” replied Donovan. “Fast friends. We even might go out for some roadkill barbecue while I’m in town.”
“Speaking of you being in town...” British said as the timer went off. “Hang on a sec.”
No gawking or flinching at his scar, lunch, and now a show. Donovan mused over his luck while watching British bend over in front of the stove to retrieve her masterpiece. And a masterpiece it was. Cheddar cheese bubbled on top; presentation was a part of her dish. She glanced around the kitchen and reached for one of the half dozen potted plants sitting in the windowsill. She dropped a leaf on the plate and set it in front of him.
“This looks delicious,” he said honestly. His stomach grumbled.
“It’s also hot. Give it a minute.”
Once the heat from the food subsided, Donovan took a quick bite. His mouth savored every morsel while his stomach cried out
for more. He stood from the barstool and began to do a little happy dance. “Damn that’s good.”
British beamed at his compliment.
“Explain to me what it is you do as a home economics teacher?” Donovan inquired as steam rose from his plate. He craved another bite.
