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‘We had s-staff when I was little, and I went to boarding school.’
She stumbled over the word ‘staff’, because she’d never thought of Angela as her father’s employee. Angela Doyle had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother. Which was why she had been devastated when her father had let her go—as well as Ash.
But Luke didn’t need to know any of that. Playing the privileged spoilt princess made her feel stronger, somehow, than the truth... That she’d been a needy, lonely child, looking for affection from people who had been paid to care for her. Angela had never made it seem that way, but that was the reality.
‘You had staff...’ he said, cursing softly under his breath. ‘That’s the excuse you’ve got for not learning a basic life skill?’
‘Well, it can’t be that basic if I’ve survived perfectly well without it,’ she said.
‘Until now,’ he said, sounding exasperated with her incompetence. ‘I mean, damn. What about your mama? Didn’t she teach you something? Anything?’
‘No, I was only four when she died.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. Because his eyes darkened and what she saw on his face, instead of distrust or anger or even heat—which seemed to be his go-to emotions where she was concerned—was pity.
‘That’s tough, cher.’
It was the first time he’d used the endearment since discovering Ash’s text, and to Cassie’s horror the growled condolence had an effect she couldn’t mitigate or guard against, brushing over her skin and making her heartbeat slow and her ribs squeeze, cutting off her breathing.
She stiffened and re-inflated her lungs with an effort.
‘You’re weak, Cassandra, that’s your problem.’
Her father’s voice slashed across her consciousness. She forced herself to keep breathing past the pain in her chest and the boulder in her throat.
Don’t you dare cry—not in front of him. You’re just tired and stressed. This is not a big deal.
‘Not really. I don’t even remember her,’ she lied. ‘And, anyhow, that’s a little sexist, isn’t it? To assume my mother would teach me how to cook?’ she added, trying to regain at least some of her self-respect and the fighting spirit she’d worked so hard to create over all the years of her father’s indifference.
Men like Luke Broussard saw a weakness and exploited it. That was what they did.
Luke shrugged, but his expression didn’t change, his clear mossy-green eyes still shadowed. ‘I guess it could have been your papa,’ he said, the French inflection on the word sounding strangely intimate. ‘I just asked because my mama taught me. She always said I needed to know the basics...’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Gumbo, Jambalaya, crawfish étouffée and pancakes.’
‘I only know what one of those things even is,’ Cassie supplied, stupidly relieved as the knot in her stomach loosened a fraction.
As much as she might want to stand up to him, handling confrontation head-on had never been her strong suit—just ask her father.
Luke swore again, but she felt the knot release a little more. Maybe he despised her, but at least she wasn’t going to have to fake any cordon bleu cooking skills now.
Always an upside.
‘Well, we’ve both gotta eat tonight. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do it all. If you want, I can show you how to cook my mama’s Jambalaya?’
Warmth blossomed in the pit of her stomach alongside a burst of astonishment. But then she got a grip and saw the pity still shadowing his eyes.
The off-hand offer wasn’t really meant as an olive branch—she totally got that. He was quite possibly only doing it to demonstrate to her exactly how pathetic she was. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tell him where he could stick his offer.
Unfortunately, she was fairly sure her inability to tell him no wasn’t just because she was so hungry she was more than ready to eat anything—even humble pie—but also because darkness was closing in outside the window, and spending the evening with him without having to argue with him would be better than spending it alone in the guest room.
‘I think I could probably manage that,’ she said cautiously, hating herself a little bit for folding far too easily, but deciding she could always go back to standing up to him tomorrow. Tonight, she was too stressed and exhausted and famished. ‘If you tell me exactly what to do.’
The quirk of his lips took on a wicked tilt—and suddenly she was fairly sure he wasn’t thinking about cooking any more. Because neither was she.
‘Don’t worry, I’m real good at giving orders.’
Don’t I know it? she thought, but didn’t say. Because with the thought came a blast of unhelpful memories about the orders he’d given her the night before, and how much she’d enjoyed obeying them without question.
Way to go, Cassie. Why not turn a catastrophe into a sex-tastrophe? Because this isn’t already awkward enough...
