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Present day, Kintyre Mansion, Scotland
It had been two long, painful weeks since Duncan had ordered Donna to fire their second cook—this time for whistling while he worked. Although, Donna thought the lord of the manor had been more annoyed by what the man had been whistling than by the noise itself. Apparently, ABBA wasn’t ‘proper music,’ according to her boss. When she’d explained to him that he might want to put up with the whistling because decent cooks were hard to come by, he’d upped her salary and told her she could do the job until she found a replacement.
Although Donna appreciated the extra cash, as her bank account was being drained dry paying off all the poor people Duncan fired, having her cook was a decision they’d both come to regret. Because Donna was famous for three things—her talent for killing plants, her non-existent cooking skills and her inability to say no. It was her non-existent cooking skills that were slowly killing them off. If it wasn’t a ready meal or a sandwich, then whatever she produced was inedible, and the frustration of trying to make it otherwise was driving her insane. If the new cook didn’t start the next day, as promised, she was going to snap and beat her boss to death with a spatula.
“What the hell is that racket?” Duncan stormed into the kitchen, because Duncan stormed everywhere. It was his default mode.
“What does it sound like?” Donna was standing on a chair, on top of the table, reaching for the smoke alarm over her head. If she stood on tiptoe, she just might make it.
“Are you trying to break your neck?” he growled at her.
“Shh,” she hissed. “I’ve nearly got it.”
Her fingertips skimmed the alarm, but she couldn’t get a grip. She stretched further. And lost her balance. Her arms windmilled. She squealed. And fell from the chair.
Straight into two strong arms.
Her fingers curled into the soft cotton of one of his many blue tartan shirts, and she held on tight. If he hadn’t been there, she would have broken something for sure. Possibly her neck.
“That was the stupidest thing I’ve seen in quite some time,” he said as he effortlessly cradled her against his chest. His broad, strong, muscular chest.
Ever since he’d stopped drinking, he’d been spending his time in the first-floor gym. All those hours working up a sweat had bulked him up, and he showed no sign of strain from holding her. He felt solid, strong—sexy. Her cheeks flushed at the thought. These were things she tried very hard not to notice about her boss. Along with the way his shoulders seemed to grow with every hour he spent working out, the way his jaw always had a hint of stubble on it, and how his eyes were so intensely black when he looked at her that she still hadn’t figured out their colour. Aye, things like that. Those were the things she didn’t dare notice. Instead, what she forced herself to notice, was that he was still very much in love with his dead wife.
“Put me down,” she said, a bit more forcefully than she’d intended.
With a reprimanding glare, he put her on her feet. While she steadied herself, he jumped up onto the table and removed the alarm. Of course, he didn’t need the chair for extra height. Sometimes being short sucked.
At last, blessed silence filled the house as Duncan frowned down at her. “Why didn’t you get the handyman to remove it?” He put the alarm box on the table and righted the chair that had toppled along with her.
“Because you fired him months ago and I haven’t found a replacement yet. Help me open these windows. We need to get the smoke out.”
“What happened?” He swung the back door wide open.
“What does it look like?” She pointed to the stove. “I was making breakfast.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Her eye twitched, and her fingers itched to reach for the knife block. “Nothing’s stopping you from feeding yourself.”
“I don’t have a talent for cooking.”
“And I do?”
Wisely, he didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the smoking frying pan. “What were you trying to make?”
“Fish.”
“For breakfast?”
“There wasn’t any cereal.”
She looked at the charcoal lump and dared him to say anything more. How was she supposed to know that the heat should have been on low? She thought everything that went in a frying pan got cooked on high. Isn’t that what frying was all about? High heat? Cook it fast?
“Aren’t you a vegetarian?” he said.
“Sometimes,” she snapped. Was this the time for an inquisition? Really?
“Did you put oil in the pan first?”
