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She raised a brow at him. “I believe that was a compliment, Mr.Samson.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, bringing his hand to his chest with counterfeit concern. “You’ll ruin me in the kidnapper club.”
Melinda choked on a laugh and Grant’s eyes searched hers. She saw his mind working: was the joke too far? Would she take offense? No, she would not. She officially thought he was a decent human being, and she was officially very interested in being kissed again.
Which means I’m officially off my rocker.
“Actually,” she said, tapping the wooden spoon delicately on the saucepan, “I’m outing you as a knight on a white horse in my upcoming post, ‘Savory Survival Sauces and Decanting in Subzero Temperatures.’”
Grant slapped his forehead and groaned in defeat, and Melinda giggled. He was joking with her. She liked that he was trying to heal their—what was this? It sure wasn’t a relationship. Was it a situation? Yes, that was it. He was trying to heal their situation, and she liked it. She also liked that he was calling it quits early on the booze. That was fine, she didn’t need him inebriated for what she wanted from him. In fact, this was better.
Chills raced up her neck. She’d be gentle with him. But eventually, she’d get him.
Melinda hunted for the box of matches next to the range and came up empty.
“Are we out of matches?” she asked, rummaging among the spice jars.
Grant stood from the table.
“Don’t get up, you can just tell m—”
Grant slid behind her and Melinda froze. He planted one hand on the counter beside her, his chest a warm wall against her back, his thighs rock-hard against her backside. His left hand painted flames down her arm, and then he reached above her head to a slender cabinet. Its opened door revealed stack after stack of matchboxes.
His warm breath caressed her temple. Melinda’s heart stumbled and nearly fell.
Grant took a box of matches from the cabinet and slid it beside her hand, his thumb light across the back of her trembling hand.
“Is that what you needed?” he asked, his voice a low purr.
Melinda didn’t speak. Couldn’t. She trembled as she nodded.
“Tell me if there’s anything else you want.” His words pulsed through her ribcage like lightning. She nodded again. Her breath came hot and short. If he hadn’t been behind her, she’d have slid to the floor. He stood behind her a moment longer, a pillar of radiant sensuality. Then, at last he stepped back, leaving Melinda gasping at the almost physical rending.
“I should check the fire,” he murmured and turned on his heel.
Melinda gripped the countertop as her heart galloped away with no one in the saddle. The back of her whole body hummed. First the kiss on the deck, then his epic shutdown, and now he’d put her in her place with the electric shock treatment. What the hell was going on?
But she knew what was going on. He picked up the gauntlet I threw and tossed it in my face.
Melinda steadied her breath. She had no idea what to do now. Yes she did. It was time to cook. Having neither brain nor legs was no excuse. What was the food parallel for brainlessness? Flan? Tapioca pudding? Yes, tapioca: pleasant, insipid, entertaining. An edible lobotomy.
Melinda grimaced at the unappetizing phrase. She was out of practice. She knotted her hair at the nape of her neck. Brainless or not, she got back to work, heartened by the familiar task. Within half an hour, she walked into the den with pasta and sauce-filled bowls in hand.
“Should we eat in front of the fire?” she suggested. Grant closed the door to the stove and nodded.
“Gotta take every chance we have to get warm.” He brushed wood splinters from his hands.
Melinda nodded. She was back in control. She could do this. She wouldn’t allow him to waylay her again. As long as she did the touching, she could do this.
“Great,” she said. “Could you grab my wine from the kitchen, please?”
With the fire popping and wine beside them, they sat on the floor and ate.
“Again, this is incredible,” Grant said, his legs stretched out before him. “Not just because you poured water from a vase for the noodles,” he added, and she laughed. “This is just straight-up good. What’s your secret?”
“First of all, you have to consider the conditions.” Melinda twirled noodles onto her fork. “We’re cold, hungry, traumatized, scared for our lives. That makes anything taste good. To be honest, I could have saved myself the effort and just done the Ritz crackers and mayo thing and you would have thought it was amazing.”
Grant laughed and prodded her knee with the handle of his fork. “Nope. This is straight-up good. How’d you do it?”
