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Grant held back a sigh. It wasn’t exactly a “screw you,” but it was close.
~
Melinda pushed back her hair for the umpteenth time and lit a burner on the stove. She added a generous spoonful of salt to the water, then covered the pan. In a separate saucepan, she heated water for more tea. Being snowbound meant more tea. Lots more tea. All the tea she could brew.
Plus, Grant was being too nice to her. Polite, attentive, making jokes, respecting her space. What the bloody hell? The man’s good-versus-evil balance was completely out of whack. If he were evil, he would have forced himself on her, right? She’d be dead or wishing she was. Melinda stilled. Cold seeped through the window above the stove and caressed her face as the heat from the flame warmed her midsection.
What was his attitude? Melinda bit at her lip. It was beyond politeness, short of ingratiating. It was kindness, yes, but there was something more. Familiarity? Care? Yes, something like that. But there was also a spark. A level of intimacy.
Melinda sighed. The word she was looking for was chemistry. The chemistry they’d exchanged last night couldn’t be dampened, even by this deranged setting. He had accepted it and was engaging with it—engaging with her. He was tracking her, monitoring her, keeping pace with her feelings, making sure she had what she needed. What the hell was she supposed to do with that?
Melinda stiffened her spine and got on with making breakfast. The tea water was boiling, so she added a couple bags of Assam and replaced the lid. The cast-iron pan was hot, so she added olive oil, onion flakes, and cardamom and stirred gently. She tested the mushrooms and added them to the fragrant pan, their sizzle curling her toes.
The grits water was also boiling so she emptied half the bag of minced grain into the pan. If she ignored the fact that she was cooking in a jacket, things almost felt okay. Melinda closed her eyes. She inhaled the sultry scent of cardamom and was transported home. Powdered, freshly ground, sautéed, in its pod, it didn’t matter. One whiff and she was in her kitchen, about to embark on a new journey. Or even farther back than that, at home in Bellingham learning to make and fry chanar jalebi for Durga Puja with her father.
Okay, what else, what else? Melinda strummed her fingers on the countertop. How to complement her meal? Her eyes closed. What’s missing from “Snowbound Breakfast 101?” We’ve got creamy and salty with the grits. To complement that she’d need butter. No chance there. The fridge was bare. I bet he’ll have coconut oil! Melinda darted to the cabinet where she’d seen oils and vinegars and to her joy found a jar of ghee. She set the jar down by the stove for later. We’ve got savory, garlicky, oniony, herbed ... What else do we need?
She laughed aloud. What they needed was wine.
“And why doesn’t he have a single vegetable?” she muttered.
“He never knows when he’s coming up here next,” Grant replied behind her. She jumped. He smiled an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry I startled you again.” He continued, “You learn not to buy produce if you’re not going to eat it while you’re in the mountains. The freezer can’t be trusted in winter since the power goes out intermittently. But I think I saw a sad bag of frozen spinach in there last night. You want it? Even if it’s been thawed and frozen a few times?”
“Why not? Let’s go for broke. Actually, I was tempted to pair breakfast with a glass of wine, if you must know. My standards are a little skewed at the moment.”
Grant didn’t miss a beat. “Red or white?”
Melinda’s eyes widened.
“Why not?” He stood from the table. “No one’s coming for us in this weather. I’m in favor of liquid reinforcements.”
“White.” She turned her back to him. Why not indeed. Apparently she had decided to trust this kidnapping mountain man, despite the ominous proclamation that they wouldn’t be rescued today. “We’ll save the red for dessert.”
~
This is a terrible idea, Grant’s mind chastised as he peered into the wine fridge in Paul’s bedroom closet. Your priorities—not to mention your boundaries—are way out of line. Getting drunk before 9:00 a.m. was not on the road to good decisions.
“Hush,” he said aloud. It had to be quarter after by now.
“Actually, is there a rosé?” Melinda called from the kitchen.
Grant checked the bottles. “Yes. Do you care what the winery is?”
“Not a whit,” she answered.
“Then I have your bottle, madam.” He rejoined her.
She paused in the act of stirring decrepit-looking spinach into the tomato slurry on the stove and took the bottle.
“This is good.” She evaluated the label. “I like the rosés from the Paso Robles area.”
Relief pricked Grant’s skin and he grimaced at his need for her approval. Could he not play it cool at all? He leaned on the kitchen island and hiked an eyebrow at her. “Oh yeah. Me too. Because I know what that means. I’m a connoisseur like that.”
Nope. Playing it cool was not a skill he possessed.
Melinda coughed as she set the bottle on the counter—but was it a real cough, or a laugh? She returned to tending the food. She didn’t cough again. It had to have been a laugh. Grant was doing an invisible happy dance when she spoke again.
“Do you like your wine extra chilled? I can pop it into the deep freeze for a few moments, if you’d like.” She gestured to the wintry landscape beyond the kitchen window. She smiled, then seemed to realize she was fraternizing with the enemy and flattened her mouth into a line.
