Page 7 of Captive Lies

“Chicken anddumplings.”

His slow smile set my heart racingagain.

Jesus, Blaire, get agrip.

“I haven’t had homemade chicken and dumplings since Miss Lynettepassed.”

“MissLynette?”

“My mother’shousekeeper.”

When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “Mom’s fromSavannah.”

“A Southern woman,” Iquipped.

“Born and raised,” Grant drawled. “Spent my summers on their family farm. Hot as hell, but the food Miss Lynette served up made the oppressive heat worth it. Best fried chicken and chocolate chess pieanywhere.”

“Are you hungry, Grant?” Ilaughed.

His nostalgic expression morphed into an aggrieved look. “Starving.”

“Well, let’s get you fed then,” I said. With my clean hand not covered in biscuit dough, I reached up and touched his forehead. “Good, no fever. But you need to stay warm.” I motioned to the living room. “Why don’t you sit by the fireplace? Dinner will be another fifteen minutes.” My brows drew together and I looked at the door. “Liam should be back bythen.”

“Does he live here?” There was an edge to Grant’s voice as he made his way to the living room. Liam really rubbed him the wrongway.

“No. He has a house a mile down theroad.”

A thoughtful look came over his face. He must be wondering why we didn’t take him there instead. The short of it was, Liam’s house wasn’t guest-ready. He had shit strewn about that would be a little hard toexplain.

I dropped the dough balls into the pot. That would take about twelve minutes. I pulled the meat off the chicken, making sure to leave big chunks and covered it with foil. I washed my hands and dried them on my apron and went to check on mypatient.

He wasn’t on the couch, but standing by my drawing board near the bank of glass doors that opened to thepatio.

“You’re an artist?” he asked, turning as Iapproached.

“Yup.”

I linked my hands behind my back as I stepped up to him, suddenly shy at having him perusing mywork.

“These are good,” he said, referring to the set of four panels of watercolors. “What do you call this type of art again? Three panels are called triptych,right?”

I nodded, “That’s aquadriptych.”

“Beautiful,” he murmured, but his eyes were not on the pieces but were unwaveringly trained on me. The spotlight on the paintings flickered, but no distraction could break the lock of ourgazes.

“Blaire …”

I cleared my throat. “You should be resting.” Turning around to walk to the couch, I pointed to the furniture. “Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There was a hint of a grin on his face that turned into a grimace as he lowered his body to the cushions. “Shit.”

I held a lap blanket to my chest. “Youokay?”

He blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay to admit you’re in pain, you know.” I handed him the blanket which he took but setaside.

Men.

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