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“And do not, do not try to lay this off on Gus, whoever he is, or Hank, or the weather gods. If this is your ranch, keeping the kitchen stocked is part of your responsibility!”
She was right. He knew it. But such fury! Such righteous indignation!
He wanted to laugh.
It was a feeling he hadn’t had very often as of late. Hell, he could probably count the number of times he’d just wanted to smile on the fingers of one hand.
“Do you hear me, Gentry? I am not a miracle worker. I cannot turn pearls into swine.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to go the other way round,” Nick said evenly.
“Hell, no! Not if you want to eat the result!”
There was an instant or two of silence. Then Nick gave up the struggle.
He laughed. And while he was still laughing, he leaned in, grabbed Lissa by the shoulders and took her mouth with his.
Lissa heard herself say mmf, or something close to it.
Nick held her tighter, parted her lips with his…
And she was lost.
The kiss changed.
No laughter now. Just heat. Just flame. The kiss became something wild. Out of control. It involved teeth and tongues and instead of pulling away, she leaned into him so that her body was plastered against the long, hard, wonderfully hard length of his, and now his hands were on her hips and hers were gripping his shirt, and the room was spinning, spinning, spinning…
“Woof!”
Brutus nudged his way between them.
They jerked apart. One long, endless, eternal minute of silence. Then Nick cleared his throat.
“I’ll give them your message,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Do that,” Lissa said, just as hoarsely.
Then she swung toward the table, he limped toward the door, and seconds later, the whispers from the dining room started up again.
* * *
It was amazing what you could do with Spam, onions, potatoes and—shudder, shudder—lard.
Lissa found a knife rack. She had her own knives, of course, upstairs in her suitcase, but all she’d unpacked was her toothbrush, shampoo, hairbrush, PJs, and a change of underwear.
There was no need to unpack anything else, and certainly not her beloved knives.
Still, the one thing in the Triple G kitchen that she couldn’t complain about was the knives. Well, the knife. The rack held six useless pieces of worn stainless steel and, to her surprise, one real knife. Someone had taken excellent care of the blade, and the knife itself balanced well in her hand.
And that was all she wanted to think about right now.
The feel of the knife in her hand and how well it did, dicing the Spam, slicing the onions and the potatoes.
Dice and slice.
Do not think.
Take out a skillet the size of a tabletop. Light one of the enormous burners on the old stove. Dump in some lard. Lard made for tender pasty, but it wasn’t made for healthful living.
