Page 34 of Sexy as Sin
“You can watch telly, too,” she said, and he made a face. “What? You don’t do that? Who watched those movies with me?”
“That was with you,” he said. “It’s a team sport.”
Well,thatcould give you a nice little glow. “Right.” She had to laugh at herself. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be going home to Azra and saying, “And thenIsaid, and thenhesaid... What do you think he meant by that? He looked at me really seriously, too. Like,meaningfully.”They’d be sitting up late, drinking cocoa in their nightdresses and analyzing every exchange.
No. She was here to cook, it wastimeto cook, and it was definitely time to stop being so gormless. “What do you need me to do now,” she asked him, “other than putting all this away? I’ll shift your washing to the dryer. What else? How are we feeling about the veggie soup idea? Chickpeas and lemon, cumin, heaps of fresh herbs. Think Middle Eastern flavors, very comforting.”
“I’m starved,” he said, and eyed the massive number of grocery bags lined up along the marble countertop like soldiers, plus the two pasteboard boxes of kitchen equipment. “Let’s live dangerously and go for the hearty version.”
“If you want to talk while I do it,” she said, attempting to get back to “brisk” again, like one of his nurses, “I could move your chair over. Or not. Your choice. I won’t be offended if not. Or I could bring you your laptop, if you like”
“That’d be good. Talking, I mean, not my laptop. You could have a glass of wine, too, if we have any.”
“You don’t. I could bring you some tomorrow, though, and beer as well.”
He smiled, sweet and heart-melting as sin, and said, “Bring what you enjoy, and I’ll enjoy watching you drink it.”
She dumped a container of chicken broth and the dried chickpeas she’d soaked last night into a soup pot and turned on the fire. “Who moved you in?” she asked. “Your toothbrush is in the bathroom, your laptop’s in the study, and I’m guessing your clothes are in the closet. When I take a fabulous holiday house, I have to unpack my own bags. Oh, wait. I never do take a fabulous holiday house. And here.” She started dragging the un-recliner recliner over to the dining room, could tell it bothered him to have her do it, and tried not to think that it was another thing she liked too much about him. “There you are. I’ll grab the ottoman as well. Do you need help getting in?”
“No.” It was clipped. “Thank you.”
She laughed. “You don’t have to be so careful with me, you know. Go on and be narky. It has to have been an effort not to be all this time, though you did amazingly. I’ll bet at least one of those nurses shed a tear to see you go.”
He smiled, though she could tell it was reluctant. “I’ll be careful anyway, and, no, I’m fairly certain that none of my nurses fell in love with me. You overestimate my appeal, especially helpless and dirty. And the answer to your question is Zelda Fitzpatrick. Very efficient.”
“You cheating on me, Hunter?” She’d brought him the ottoman and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese, and was in the kitchen again, unpacking groceries into the pantry. Back to work. Much safer.
“Never,” he said. “Go on and turn up your music, if you like.”
“It’sThe Little Mermaid.What do you prefer? Let me guess. Acid rock. No. Hip-hop. No, wait. Elektro dance music. Or punk. Old school. You had a pink spiked Mohawk and a pierced eyebrow. Pierced with a... a...safetypin.”
He eyed her. “Enjoying yourself?”
She was laughing so hard, she had to set down her sacks of flour and sugar. She wasn’t built for introspection and weepiness, apparently. “OK. OK. I’ll stop. Just joking. Classical.”
“Country. And classical some. And, yes, to forestall you, I like opera, if it’s the right kind. Kathleen Battle singing Handel. Maria Callas singing anything.”
“Can’t be, on the country. I believe the opera.”
“And yet it is.” She’d have worried about offending him, except that he had that gleam of humor in his gray eyes again, the one that made her feel a little melty around the edges. “Maybe you’ll feel better if I tell you that you’re right about the old school. More of the quiet heartache, and not so much of the bros singing about drinking and picking up girls. And, yeah, joke goes here.”
“So what’s the story with that?” She had the groceries put away, and now, she moved on to chopping, dispatching onions, carrots, and celery in a flurry of knife movements, and as always, felt calmer and more sure for it.
She’d been positive, a few minutes ago, that he didn’t share, that everything important was buried deep. He was talking, though, and she shut up, kept chopping, and paid attention. “Hometown of Lewiston, Idaho. Family heavy on the loggers and pulp mill employees. Hard workers, low earners. Hard times and good times. There you go.”
She didn’t look up. She remembered, instead, what her aunt had said about how much easier it was to talk to somebody whose hands were occupied. As usual, Aunt Fiona had been right. “But you got rich and famous anyway. A bit like Rafe and Jace. Alotlike Rafe and Jace, except that I didn’t think anybody was like those two. That took heaps of everything. Effort, talent, determination, and all the rest of it.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, and she thought,Yeah, mate. You do. “I know I worked in the mill in between stints of college and listened to a lot of country music, and then I moved on and didn’t listen to much of anything, because I was usually concentrating. But in a weak moment? That’s it.”
That was why she responded to his shoulders, she realized. They weren’t gym-built, they were mill-built, from a time when he’d worked his body not in service of his physique, but because he was doing his job. “You live in Montana. That’s the country. Cowboys and ranches, right?” She pulled a chicken out of the fridge and slapped it into a baking pan, sliced lemons, stuffed the cavity with fresh herbs, put the sliced lemons under the skin at the breast, brushed the entire thing with olive oil, and tied the legs together with twine. She’d carve it for him before she left tonight, because that wasn’t a job you did on crutches, and he could make himself a sandwich along with leftover soup for lunch. A really good sandwich and bowl of soup would be welcome after being in hospital, surely.
Tomorrow night, she’d fix him warm chicken salad with the rest of the meat. Fresh dill, asparagus, and parmesan. Maybe some tiny fresh pea shoots, too, to add a bit more bite and surprise. Homemade pasta in a light coating of pesto sauce as well. Vitamins, protein, and calories, which she was guessing he needed now. Mending bones took protein. He wouldn’t have complained, but he also wouldn’t have enjoyed what he’d been eating the past four or five days.
He said, “I live many places.”
She slid the pan into the oven, then looked at him sidelong. “Rafe said Montana.”
“I don’t share all that much.”
