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Chapter 4
Rory rubbed her sandpapery eyes. The numbers scrolling across her laptop screen were blurring into a sea of unintelligible data. Her stomach growled.
Stretching to pull the knots out of her neck and shoulders, she shut down the computer. Three-forty-three in the morning. Grant had said they should be on the road by noon, so she could catch a few hours of sleep before then.
First, food.
She picked up her phone and grabbed the tavern keys off the hook by the door. Since the cottage only had a hot plate, Grant had told her to store her food in the Mousehole kitchen and to help herself to whatever was in the restaurant fridge.
After pulling on her sneakers, she hurried outside and over the flagstone pathway. The moon glimmered through a layer of clouds. Cold night air brushed over her bare legs and cut through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. She unlocked the kitchen door and flipped on the lights.
Though small, the kitchen had an impressive array of state-of-the-art appliances, gleaming stainless steel counters, and an industrial gas stove, grill, and deep fryer. Everything was spotless and well-organized—knives, pots and pans, utensils, spices, mixing bowls. A desk with a landline phone and calendar sat along one wall.
Rory peeked into the walk-in fridge, which was beautifully stocked with fresh produce, cheese, meats, seafood, and a ton of other delicacies that somehow went into all the tavern dishes—Kalamata olives, hummus, capers, heavy cream, roasted peppers. Too bad she had no idea how to fry one of the onion blossoms.
She helped herself to a carton of sour cream and found the paper sack of food she’d brought from her apartment. Pulling out a crumpled bag of fried pork rinds, she sat on a stool at the counter to eat and check her phone messages.
The door leading to the front of the restaurant opened. Rory looked up, her heart jumping. Grant strode into the kitchen, wearing black pajama pants and a T-shirt, his hair finger-combed and messy.
“Do you ever go to bed at a normal hour?” he asked.
“Do you ever shave?”
He rubbed his stubbly jaw. “After I shower, yes.”
“Me too. Except I shaveinthe shower.” She dug into the bag for another pork rind.
Grant frowned, as if he were trying to figure out how they’d gotten from her bedtime to her shaving in the shower.
“Have you slept at all?” He skimmed his gaze over her grayByte MeT-shirt and bare legs.
“Considering you’re still up too, that’s a hypocritical question.” She dipped a pork rind in the sour cream and shoved it into her mouth.
“My manager closed last night, so I left early and got to bed at ten.” He tossed a stack of papers and a pen onto the desk. “I woke an hour ago and couldn’t get back to sleep. Came here to get some work done.”
“Is that expenses and payroll?” She eyed the papers disparagingly. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you there are a million computer programs that would make that a lot easier.”
“My system works for me. What the hell are you eating?”
“Midnight snack.” She dragged another rind through the sour cream. “Want some? Oh, shit, sorry. I should have used a bowl.”
He shook his head. “When was the last time you ate something that required a bowl? Or a fork?”
“I don’t like bothering with dishes.” She held up a pork rind. “Hence, my appreciation for finger foods.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How are you still alive?”
“Preservatives.”
Muttering under his breath, Grant strode to the walk-in. He emerged with a carton of eggs, a brick of cheese, and an armful of vegetables. He dumped everything onto the counter, grabbed a mixing bowl, and turned on a stove burner.
“What are you doing?” Rory licked a drop of sour cream off her finger.
“Making you some real food.” He scowled at the bag of pork rinds. “Throw those away. For a smart woman, you make terrible nutritional choices.”
