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“That would be preferable.” He grinned and rocked back on his heels. “I hate drinking anything without actual ice crystals in it.”
Was she done? Or would she play more?
This time her laugh was a bark but his pulse skipped.
“Can I do anything?” Grant’s hands itched to slide around her waist.
“Sure,” she said. “This is about ready. Will you pass me two plates and then pour the wine?”
Grant handed her two of Paul’s white stoneware plates, then passed her mugs for tea. He searched for two glasses that were breakfast-wine appropriate. Not lunch wine or dinner wine. He was looking for a wineglass that said, “This is a great way to start your day!”
“How about another mug?” he asked.
“Fitting.” She slid two steaming plates plus gold-looking flatware onto the table and sat down opposite him.
Grant filled the wine mugs halfway—that was the classy way, right?—and brought them to the table.
“This looks incredible! You found all this stuff in Paul’s deadbeat kitchen?”
“I like a challenge,” she said. “Actually, Paul’s pantry was all right. I thought we’d have to use olive oil for the grits, but he had ghee! Clarified butter.”
“Ah,” Grant said, then kicked himself for his lackluster answer. But then he forked a bite of grits into his mouth and everything became irrelevant. “Ehmeged.”
She swallowed. “Pardon?”
“Oh my God,” he tried again. “This is delicious.”
“I can’t really take credit for the grits,” she said after a bite for herself. “But they’re good, aren’t they?”
He went for a larger bite this time and nodded his agreement.
“Grits are inherently delicious. They’re like that expression about pizza—even when you have bad pizza, it’s still pizza,” she laughed and then quieted it with another bite. Grant had heard that expression only in reference to sex.
Grant liked her mind on food and he liked her mind on sex. His mind was on both right now, too. He tried the sautéed vegetables.
“I know these are all from a can,” he said, “but they still taste out of this world. What did you say you do again?”
Melinda chewed and swallowed. “I’m a food writer who likes to experiment with culinary roadblocks. I dare myself a lot to cook, well, kind of like this. Like, ‘What would I do if I had a fancy dinner party and no fresh food?’ or ‘All I can cook are green foods—Go!’ I get bored pretending to know everything, so I make up games for myself that I feel replicate what people go through when they have to make a meal.”
She toyed with her spoon. “But it’s been made clear to me recently that I’ve got to change my approach. I think...All my gimmicks are just gimmicks. I might not be reaching people at all.” She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes.
Melinda’s eyes rolled back in her head before she closed them, Grant noted. His to-do list immediately changed from splitting enough wood to keep them alive to making her eyes roll back in her head with his own body. Shut it down, he warned himself. Your job is keeping her alive, period. You can try anything you want after we’re out of here.
Her eyes opened. “What did you say before? Ehmeged? This wine is perfect with the creaminess of the grits and the tang of the tomato. Did you notice how meaty the mushrooms got? They’re a great meat substitute if you don’t want animal protein.”
“Is this how you think all the time?” he asked through his food.
Melinda burst out laughing and Grant froze, pierced by a stab of desire. Her laugh sounded like sex and cognac and a bubbling stream all at once.
“This and worse,” she replied. “Count yourself lucky that we have a limited number of meals together.”
She forked another heap of grits into her mouth and he felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. He wanted to tell her they’d have more meals together, that he’d make sure of it, but it was too fast. Last night she’d thought he was a nice guy named Gerald and this morning he was getting her drunk in a blizzard and plotting her seduction. Almost of its own accord, Grant’s hand rose to stroke her cheek. At the last moment, he realized what he was doing and shoved a lock of hair behind her ear. She turned to him, eyes wide. Smooth. Real smooth, he thought, and dropped his hand to the table.
“Your hair was going to get in your food,” he said limply.
They both turned their attention to their breakfast and wine and held off on speaking further. He had seconds of both dishes and she switched from rosé to tea.
Grant tried again. “I think if we left the food in the blazing sun on the counter it would still stay fresh in this cold kitchen.” Bland, but friendly enough.
“First you’d have to find the blazing sun,” Melinda replied as she peered out the window at the heaving snowfall. She looped her hair behind her head and Grant kicked himself for highlighting their uncertain circumstances.
“We’re going to be okay, Melinda,” he said. She dragged her gaze across the table to meet his. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re okay. Paul and Melisa know we’re here. They’re coming for us as soon as they can. Paul can drive one of my trucks up here and we will get out.” His eyes searched hers. “It’ll be a couple days, though.” The shame of it twisted his gut.
Her eyes tightened but she managed a small smile. “I know,” she said. “Maybe just one more mug of wine.”
