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When the truth was that he was too scared of failure to do anything other than hook up with placeholders.
Grant’s fingers twitched.
Well, that sucked. Don’t do that with this one, he told himself. Don’t pull the same shit you always do. He’d started to, he knew. He’d started in on the charm and humble bravado BS when they’d first met. Unfortunately—maybe fortunately?—his standard approach had been significantly derailed when he’d ended up the villain in this drama.
Grant assessed his meager pile of kindling. It wasn’t happening. His mind wasn’t letting up and he wasn’t fool enough to go on a psychological journey while playing with weapons. He needed his fingers.
Grant snorted. Who was he kidding? He needed his fingers so he could touch her again.
~
Melinda checked the label on the box of falafel mix. Falafel! In the boonies? For as much as she loathed Paul, she was starting to appreciate him. Almost absently, she circled the lump on her head with her fingers, grateful that the roar of her headache had quieted to a hum.
What was the best meal to serve a man who had run through a blizzard to save her, and who was outside battling his desire for her? What was the right boxed, canned, or jarred meal to seduce said man into keeping her warm, without building her yet another fire?
Spanish Rice? Yeah, that reels ’em in.
Canned ravioli? Absolutely, if he were ten.
Pasta, she decided. Maybe canned white beans and jarred red sauce would pass for eggplant and beurre blanc. She laughed aloud. Time for more garlic powder and onion flakes.
Now that she knew where the wine fridge was, Melinda made her own selection. They’d start with pinot and move on to the Grenache-cab blend. She uncorked and poured herself a glass of the former—light but smoky. The perfect complement to a mountain man.
No, that was wrong. She tried again.
The perfect complement to a snowy evening.
Better. She had to play a little hard to get.
Melinda poured Grant a glass of pinot and walked to where he was stacking wood by the stove. He’d made himself scarce for most of the day, after the peck on the deck. Now he was reorganizing kindling, firewood, and newspaper for the second time. She could smell the avoidance like cloying cologne.
“We’re starting with pinot tonight.”
He glanced up and reached for the glass she offered. “Starting?”
“Yes,” she said, archly. “This is a high-class cabin. We serve wine with ice crystals but we serve it in courses, darn it.” She giggled at her own joke and was rewarded with his short laugh.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes, though, not yet. She narrowed her eyes at the top of his head. He would. She’d make sure of it.
Back in the kitchen she rinsed and gently heated the beans in a saucepan, then added salt, dried sage, and olive oil before they joined the tomato sauce.
“Got any more of these wine-flavored popsicles?”
Melinda turned to find Grant leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and den. “My pleasure, sir. And would the gentleman enjoy an appetizer? Tonight we have a mayonnaise-topped Ritz cracker for hors d’oeuvres.”
Something clenched in her belly at his low rumbling laugh and she held her breath for courage. She snagged the bottle from the counter and sauntered forward to tip the wine into his glass.
“Is there anything else I can get you at this time?” She held his gaze.
“I’m all right for now, thanks.”
“Just let me know,” she said, voice unaccountably husky. “I’m here if you want me.” Melinda turned carefully so as to not ruin her exit and returned to the stove. Take that, she thought as she stirred the sauce. I dare you to go play with your wood now.
Grant stood in the doorway for another moment or two, then crossed to the dining table and sat.
Gotcha.
He cleared his throat. “I’m not going to be able to finish all of this,” he said, gesturing to his glass. “I don’t really drink that much, and I want to stay conscious with the weather. The refill was just an excuse to watch you work your magic in the kitchen.”
