Page 41 of Bitter Truth

If I could only find the box of flour that I know for a fact is somewhere in this damn kitchen.

After twenty minutes of looking, I decide I have three options. Drive into town to get more flour. Quit making ravioli altogether. Or walk over to the Hawthorne house and snag the bag that I know is on the left side of the pantry.

Since I’ve had a few glasses of wine—the burden of being a chef forced to pair dishes with a wine list—driving into town is out.

So ... Hawthorne house it is.

I knock on the front door first, still wanting to be respectful even though both Sarah and Jack said I was welcome in the house at any time. But when nobody comes to answer after a few knocks, I turn the handle and push inside.

I can hear a quiet hum from somewhere, maybe some light music, but other than that it’s still. So I walk softly through the entry, down the hallway on the left, and into the kitchen.

I’m in the pantry in seconds, and when I spot the bag of flour exactly where I thought it was, I smile.

Plucking it off the shelf, I step back out into the kitchen and thunk it onto the counter. Taking just a little helping for myself seems like a better choice than making off with their entire supply.

I’m digging around in the cabinets looking for plastic bags when I hear a familiar voice from behind me.

“What are you doing here?”

I close the drawer and turn around, my mouth going dry when my eyes fall on Murphy, her hair wet and wrapped in a messy bun on her head. She’s wearing a pair of tiny sleep shorts and a tank top that’s a little too see-through for my liking.

Or exactly see-through enough, depending on where you’re coming from.

I clear my throat and turn back to the cabinets, continuing my search.

“Borrowing some flour,” I tell her. “I’ll be gone in just a minute.”

“You making something?”

I pause just briefly in my perusal of the contents of the top drawer next to the cutlery, considering the best way to respond.

“Ravioli,” I reply, figuring I can go with one-word answers.

Be curt, but not unkind. That’s my plan.

Though I can’t say it was my plan yesterday afternoon, when I narrated my own personal erotic romance into Murphy’s ear outside my cabin. My palms start sweating a little at the brief remembrance.

God, I’d had her on the verge of panting at just the idea of the two of us together, without so much as touching her ... until her brother showed up and ruined it.

I can’t even say she caught me at a weak moment. I hadn’t been drinking, hadn’t been feeling particularly emotional or in turmoil or any other certain way that might lead me to bad decision-making.

I’d just seen her there, looking fairly similar to how she looks right now—damp hair, tight shirt, fresh face—and couldn’t push her away anymore the way I have been, when all I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met her was pull her close.

Part of me wonders if I crossed a line. Scratch that. I know I crossed a line. But I’m finding it difficult not to push the boundaries when Murphy is around.

I find the plastic bags in the next drawer and turn to where I placed the flour on the island, only to find Murphy resting her elbows on the marble, her tits squished together. And what’s worse, I can tell by her body language that she isn’t posing for me, so I can’t even be irritated at her.

“I used to work at an Italian place that made the best butternut squash ravioli,” she says, an easy smile on her face. “I swear I gained ten pounds working there because I kept ordering that dish to go after every shift.”

I try to keep my eyes on the task at hand as I dump a healthy serving of flour into the plastic bag. Only once I’m rolling up the top of the flour bag do her words register.

“That’s actually what I’m making,” I say before I can stop myself.

Of course her eyes light up.

“Really?”

I nod.

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