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“Okay. I’ll help sort and haul if you want me to.”
“Thanks for the offer, but aren’t you going back to San Francisco in September?” he asked, trying to ignore the rush of warmth ignited by her offer. She understood what it felt like to lose someone she loved.
“Yeah, but there are daily flights to Bozeman. I could come out for a few days, if you, um, wanted me to.” She bit her lower lip and looked around the kitchen. Her expression betrayed that she’d said more than she wanted to. Transparently changing the subject, she asked, “So, what are you cooking me?”
She studied the items laid out on his counter. He had chicken breasts, flour, butter, a bulb of garlic, and a package of dry spaghetti, along with a couple of lemons, a jar of capers, a carton of chicken broth, a container of salt, and a tall pepper grinder.
He grinned at her. “I’m making you my gran’s special lemon chicken.”
“Yum!”
“That’s right,” he said, pleased by her reaction. “Prepare to be impressed, Ms. Fancy Pants.”
“Can I help with anything?” she asked. “I really didn’t want to put you to any trouble. I was hoping you’d slap together a sandwich or pour me a bowl of cereal.” Her smile made his breath catch. “But I love it when someone cooks for me. You wouldnotbelieve how weird my friends get about preparing a home-cooked meal for me, because I’m a professional chef. It’s like they expect me to go all Gordon Ramsay on them, but really, I’m in heaven when someone else is cooking for a change.”
“Sounds like I need to cook for you more often, then,” he said. “And I’m sure Mr. Ramsay wouldn’t turn his nose up at a home-cooked meal, either. My gran loved watching his shows, though she never allowedmeto swear.”
He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten a meal someone else had made for him, other than the staff meals at the diner, when it was Marlene’s turn to cook.
Two years, at least. Before Mama’s cancer ate her alive.
Renewed pain and grief ambushed him. Brock forced down the surge of pain. He pointed at a medium sized stainless-steel mixing bowl standing next to a flashlight on his small breakfast table. “If you wanna help, go out and pick some green beans and parsley from my garden.”
“I’d love to.”
She opened the back door, letting in the sounds of a Montana summer night. Crickets and frogs chirped and croaked love songs. A distant spark of lightning lit the clouds piled over the mountains on the west side of the valley. A soft rumble of thunder followed a few seconds later.
Cool air wafted into the kitchen, perfumed with Mama’s heirloom roses that grew against the walls of the cottage.
Brock watched as Summer descended three wooden steps to his large vegetable and herb garden.
“Wow, this is amazing.” She swept the flashlight beam around, illuminating his carefully-tended raised beds and trellises, then lingered on his small greenhouse and the row of mature fruit trees—cherry, plum, apple, and pear—planted in a row at the back of the garden. “Where do you find the time to take care of all this?”
“There are usually a few hours of daylight left by the time I leave the diner,” he replied. “It helps me unwind.”
He turned his attention back to preparing the meal.
When she came back inside a few minutes later, her basket was mounded with the requested green beans and parsley, plus fresh lettuce, tomatoes, and a couple of carrots.
“Thought I’d make a salad,” she said, coming up next to him. She put the bowl in the sink and turned the faucet on.
Brock gave her an amused glance as she began scrubbing the carrots. “So, you’re appointing yourself my sous-chef?”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him with comic exaggeration. “Why, Mr. Grumpy Pants, I didn’t expect you to be using those fancy French terms.”
He suppressed a laugh and began pounding the chicken breasts flat with a wooden rolling pin, just like his gran had taught him.
“Working off your frustrations?” she teased.
He couldn’t keep his eyes off her slender fingers, which were now lovingly washing the tomatoes.
Even after all of the sex they’d had, his cock stirred. It wanted to feel her touching him like that.
He grinned. “Poundingchickenisn’t what relieved my stress, Ms. Fancy Pants. Your sweet pussy, though…” He looked her up and down. “And don’t think we’re done yet,” he added. “Not by a long shot. You’ll be walking funny tomorrow.”
“I accept your challenge,” she answered. “Even if it means we’re both going to be dead on our feet for breakfast service.” She sneaked a glance up at the clock over his oven. “Crap! It’swaypast my bedtime.”
“Nothing a pot of coffee and a good breakfast won’t cure in the morning,” he declared. Then he smirked. “Tell me this isn’t worth losing sleep over.”
