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Something was shuffling. Something was making quick movements and then stopping, then starting again. Something was clinking. Where was his Glock? Or was he hunting? Grant’s eyes blinked open, saw white vaulted ceilings. No, not hunting. Definitely no Glock. The “something” was a captive woman named Melinda, and by the sound of it, she was awake before he was. Damn.
From the couch, Grant swiveled his head and sought flames or hot coals through the stove’s darkened glass door. Neither presented themselves, though the room was above freezing. Not great. Could be worse. Grant rolled into a seated position and muffled a groan so as not to alarm his hostage. And love interest. No, too soon, too soon. Lust interest. He groaned again.
Grant crawled around the coffee table and cranked open the stove to add wood to the coals. He breathed a sigh of relief that they were still hot and he didn’t need to start from scratch. He revived the fire and gently closed the door to track down his sweater.
Grant checked his phone. Seventy-nine percent battery and 8:21 a.m. Not bad on both counts. Now that they had another hour’s worth of heat, it was time to check on Melinda. Get her to trust him. Sure, that seemed probable. He rubbed a hand across his tight jaw.
Grant walked quietly toward the kitchen and saw Melinda. When he’d seen her at the airport there had been something strong about her, but also something—he searched for the words—on alert. Or fearful. Not fearful of something specific. A wisp of something akin to condemnation veiled her like mist. But in the kitchen, she moved with ease, even through Paul’s thick jacket. The more she stacked, opened, and drummed her fingers, the more she gained momentum until she looked as if she might take flight in a swirl of sparrows. He wanted to say something, to tell her she looked like an angel, but he didn’t want to make her self-conscious. Instead, he tried very hard to blend into the archway.
Melinda stopped for a moment, her face turned away from him, stock-still as if she were thinking. Suddenly, she spun around, saw him lurking, and shrieked.
“Sorry!” Grant said quickly, hands splayed in front of him, beseeching. “So sorry. You were deep in reorganizing Paul’s cupboards and I didn’t want to bother you. Or scare you,” he added with chagrin. “So I didn’t say anything.”
She withered him with a look. “I am not reorganizing, I’m gathering ingredients. I’m starving. Olives and crackers aren’t going to cut it this morning. What time is it?”
“Eight thirty,” he replied. “You been up long?”
She shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “We slept a long time, which is great. How do you feel? And how can I help?”
She gestured to supplies on the butcher block. “You okay with mushrooms?” At his confused acquiescence, she continued. “I’m cooking for both of us. I don’t want to have to listen to you eating crackers. Plus, all that are left are gluten-free saltines, and that’s just insulting.” She pointed at the bowl and container. “Put a cup of dried mushrooms and one and a half cups of water into the bowl. I promise to be judicious with it.” She passed him a glass of water. “But I’m not eating dry grits and dehydrated mushrooms for breakfast.”
“Paul has grits?” Grant’s stomach rumbled and he laughed.
Melinda did not.
“Paul has more food than you gave him credit for,” she said, brows arched. Oops. He’d failed the manly hunter test and she was now in angry gatherer mode. Grant decided it safer to not answer. Instead, he sat at the kitchen table and did as he was told, pouring first dried mushrooms and then water into the bowl, eyes on her. Snowfall continued outside, but even the diffused light of day turned her hair to silk and her skin to tawny satin. The light caught her lashes and he saw they were longer than he’d thought. Her shoulders were broad, wider than her hips, but even through a jacket, her waist dipped above her hip bones for a feminine hourglass.
“Are you stirring?” she asked, and he jumped. She’d nearly caught him checking out her ass.
“Stirring!” he said abruptly and whisked too quickly with the fork she’d supplied.
“Good. Then you’re ready to open.” Melinda handed him a jar of tomatoes and cylindrical shakers of garlic powder, oregano, and celery salt. “Pour the tomatoes into this,” she said, passing him another bowl and a small wooden measuring spoon. “Add two spoonfuls of each seasoning and mix them together. We’re going to let that infuse for a little while.”
“I confess I’ve never infused before.” He eyed her askance to see if she would play.
What the hell was he doing? She was a prisoner.
Yes, but she’s strong,he thought. And achingly beautiful. And there was something about her.
“Well then, this experience might have a silver lining,” Melinda said sternly, “if you learn a thing or two about infusing.”
He watched her realize she was almost joking and then shut down her face. Even so, he crowed silently in triumph and allowed his smile to turn smug.
Grant opened his mouth to speak, but she’d turned away. She hefted a cast-iron sauté pan onto the range. “Do you know where more matches are?” She riffled through the drawers beside the stove.
“Try the dish in that lazy Susan.”
“Thanks.”
Grant combined the tomatoes and seasonings, then held them out for inspection.
“Do these pass muster?” he asked.
Melinda glanced at the bowl he held and took it from him with a nod.
“They’re fine.”
