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He refused to believe that she was a chef.
What did he think she was, then? What was it he’d accused her of being? Some blond ditz hoping for stardom?
The dog blew out a noisy sigh. His head dropped to his paws.
“Really,” Lissa told him, “your Mr. Gentry started the whole thing by not believing that I am a cook.”
Which was, she supposed, a kind of compliment.
Not the ditz part. The part about his assuming she was a wannabe actress. Didn’t that mean he thought she looked more like an actress than a cook? No, wait. All it meant was that he was foolish enough to think women chefs were unattractive. Idiot. Still, it was a kind of back-handed compliment if you figured it meant that he thought she was, well, attractive.
Brutus yawned again. So did Lissa.
Not that she wanted him to think that. Why would she care what he thought about her looks? Just because a man who spent his time surrounded by beautiful women would see her as attractive…
Brutus’s big brown eyes blinked once. Twice. Then they shut. Lisa yawned.
“A fine idea,” she told him.
It was mid-afternoon and she’d been up since dawn She had plenty of time for a nap, then a shower, then a trip to the kitchen to discover, no doubt, cans of beans and chili and boxes of mac and cheese and—and—
Her lashes drooped.
Seconds later, she and Brutus were both snoring.
CHAPTER FIVE
Montana was one of those places that drove meteorologists crazy.
One of the wranglers his father had employed when Nick was a kid used to sit in a rocker on the bunkhouse porch in the early evening, his hands busy with a pocket knife and a piece of wood, his rheumy eyes fixed on the mountains. He was an unending source of fascination for Nick, mostly because the old guy could whittle a stick into damn near anything, but also because he chewed tobacco and unerringly spat into an old tin can between offering bits of homegrown philosophy.
One of the favorites had been that old saw about changeable weather.
“If’n you don’t like the weather in these parts,” he’d say between chews and spits, “jes’ wait a while and it’ll change while you’re lookin’ at it.”
Nick, seven or eight at the time, had been amazed at what he’d thought was the brilliance of the remark. It had taken years before he’d realized that the statement was true of lots of places though time and travel had taught him that up here, in the high mountains, the weather really could change in the blink of an eye.
This day had dawned cold and clear, but it had devolved quickly when gathering clouds had brought snow and wind.
By now, the weather was close to blizzard conditions.
Seated at his desk in what had been his old man’s office, Nick looked out the window at a thick wall of steadily falling white flakes.
Visibility was close to zero. The temperature had to be close to that, too. Thankfully, it was warm inside.
The house was old and creaky, sure, but the walls were sound. Nick had, during his Hollywood days, bought enough houses to make him something of an expert on what real estate agents liked to call the bones of a house.
This one had good bones.
Fireplaces in the
living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the office and the master bedroom. Beamed ceilings. Hardwood floors. Big windows that gave expansive views of the forest and mountains.
Sometimes he thought it was too bad his father had let the place deteriorate.
Mostly, he didn’t care.
He had, when he was a kid.
