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“Never.” She gave him the flirtatious half-smile he was starting to crave and took the makeshift heating pad from him.
“Well, that won’t do,” he said. “Could I perhaps interest the lady in a light snack before she retires?”
“Am I retiring so soon?” She pouted delicately, then moaned as she eased the heating pad onto her neck and shoulders. Grant paused.
What had she said?
“It’ll take a while for the chef to scrounge together something edible,” he said. “For the record, it won’t be nearly as good as your entrée this morning. And yes, you sure as hell are retiring soon, because you need your rest if you’re going to survive this insanity.”
She cocked her head at him. Then came the raised eyebrow.
“You seem pretty worked up.”
Dear God in Heaven.
“Stop flirting with me, woman, I’ve got to make you a meal and build up the fire.”
Melinda eyed the fireplace. Orange flames licked the stove’s window and the fan churned out a steady stream of hot air.
“Seems pretty stoked to me,” she deadpanned, going for a rise. Trouble was, she was getting one.
Grant turned on his heel and stalked into the kitchen, grumbling to himself about head wounds and the need for seriousness at a time like this. Her low chuckle taunted him like perfume.
“You’re incorrigible,” he called.
“You like me,” she called back.
That shut him up quick. Grant squatted at the doorway of the pantry to root through dry goods. How the hell had she turned this boxed graveyard into food? It would serve her right if he gave her a peanut butter and cream of mushroom soup sandwich for dinner. He paused. Maybe he was onto something. Everyone liked PB&J, right? He scanned the shelves for bread. There it was. Gluten-free, of course. Paul was a health nut, just like Grant’s dad. How did he have two of these people in his life?
“Hey, Mel?”
“Yes?”
“Peanut butter and jelly?”
A cross between a moan and a groan reached him in the kitchen.
“Does that mean yes?” He laughed, then braced one arm against the door frame and dropped to one knee.
“Yesssss,” came the reply. A beat later she added, “I want three.”
Grant’s head shot up.
“Three?”
“There’s no such thing as too much peanut butter and jelly, Grant, and anyone who says different doesn’t want you to be happy,” she called. “Plus we didn’t have lunch,” she added. He laughed.
“Well, forget that guy,” he called back. He transferred supplies from the pantry to the butcher block. “Three sandwiches au peanut—uh, no, au almond butter et jelly coming right up.”
Fifteen minutes later he had ten sandwiches in front of him. What next? Chips? Pickles?Both, of course. He ducked into the pantry again. He grabbed two bottles of sparkling water by the neck, snagged both barbecue and sea-salt-and-vinegar chips, and added a jar of classic dills. Organic emergency rations. Naturally.
With two hourglass-shaped glasses trapped between his index and middle fingers, Grant made his way into the den to find Melinda asleep on the couch.
“Good idea, Gorgeous,” he said quietly, resting the glasses on the coffee table. He left one lantern illuminating the kitchen and returned to the den to assemble their dinner, babysit the fire, and stare at Melinda.
~
The windows were rattling when Melinda woke. The wind whistled, whooshed, walloped. Something nearby crackled and popped. She blinked blurry eyes. Right, the fire. A gargoyle hunched in front of the fireplace, tilting a glass to its lips with a brawny, sweater-covered arm. Gargoyles wore sweaters? No, mountain men wore sweaters. Mountain men in cabins. Right, cabins. The Mastermind’s cabin. Why did every wake-up feel like she’d been dropped into Wonderland? On her head? And she, the achy Alice, too big, too small, too brash, too cold, too heartless, too vulnerable. She shut her eyes against the cascade of thoughts.
