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“It’s called prioritizing. I once worked at a start-up where the launch deadline was so crazy I almost never left the office. Our whole team was surviving on candy bars and this nutritional paste that came in these little tubes…butwe worked our asses off and crushed the launch. You do what you gotta do.”
“Please don’t tell me you still eat tube goo.” Grant set a few sausage links into a pan and took a chopping knife out of the wooden block.
“No, I’ve upgraded to Top Ramen and pork rinds.” She leaned on the counter, watching with growing fascination as he sliced swiftly into a red bell pepper. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
“Kitchens all up and down the Pacific Coast.” He skimmed the blade over the interior of the pepper to scrape away the seeds, then began chopping it. “I’ve worked as everything from a busser to a head chef.”
“What made you decide to buy the Mousehole?”
His mouth twisted. “Cowardice.”
“I don’t believe that.” Not him. She was the coward, hanging around Bliss Cove much longer than she should have because she hadn’t wanted to battle the chauvinism of the tech industry again.
Grant sliced into the other half of the pepper. He continued chopping, one hand tight on the handle, the other holding the top of the blade.
He always moved with such confident ease through the tavern, whether he was mixing drinks or serving artichoke soup. Customers gravitated toward him, enjoying both his food and the welcoming atmosphere he created.
Rory had never seen him cook before, though. He was like an orchestra conductor, his movements sharp and skilled as he sliced and diced peppers, onions, mushrooms, and some green grass-like things. He tossed butter into a sizzling pan, cracked eggs one-handed, and grated cheese so fast his biceps flexed.
Actually, all of his muscles were involved in the cooking process. His shoulders and back rippled as he turned back and forth between the stove and the counter.
He reached for the salt on an upper shelf, and his T-shirt stretched over his broad chest. When he strode back to the fridge for a carton of milk, Rory couldn’t help letting her gaze drift from the triangle shape of his back to his firm ass.
When he was at the counter, his forearms were the star of the show. Whether he was slicing a mushroom or shaking a pan on the stove, his corded forearms tensed, the sinews and tendons flexing with every motion under his taut skin. Light shone from above, turning the dark hairs to gold.
A little fire sparked to life in her belly. She’d never thought she could get turned on watching a man cook—but then again, she’d never watched a man cook before. As Grant tossed vegetables into the pan and sliced through a thick loaf of crusty bread, she couldn’t imagine any other man in the world cooking quite likethis.
Delicious smells filled the kitchen. He grabbed a white plate from a stack and slipped the bubbling omelet and three sausage links onto it. He pulled golden-brown toasted bread from the oven and slathered it with butter.
After setting the plate in front of her, he held up a hand. “Wait.”
Her stomach growled impatiently.
He handed her a fork and knife. “Eat.”
Rory dug eagerly into the omelet, inhaling the scents of melted cheese and butter before putting the first forkful into her mouth.
“Wow.” She spoke while chewing the delicious bite. “This is amazing.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “I thought your taste buds might be deadened from all that junk.”
“Surprise.” She sank her teeth into the thick toast. “Do you cook like this for yourself?”
“I usually eat whatever’s leftover in the kitchen.”
She nudged the plate toward him. “Have some.”
“It’s all yours.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” The food was so good and Rory was so hungry that she didn’t bother minding her manners—she shoveled the omelet into her mouth, wiped strings of cheese off her chin, licked crumbs from her fingers. Grant set a frothy glass of milk in front of her, and she downed half of it in three gulps.
He put two more slices of thick-cut buttered toast and two sausages on her plate without her needing to ask. By the time she was scraping her plate clean, she was drowsy and delightfully full.
“That was awesome. Thanks.”
“You should eat healthier.” He set her empty plate and glass in the sink. “My father was a workaholic…well, he still is, but he had to make some changes after he had a heart attack.”
“Is he okay now?”
