Page 39 of The Runaway Bride of Blossom Branch

His voice was beautiful but hearing him sing along with America’s favorite superstar blonde diva suggested that Harry had a lighthearted side. It would be easier to believe alien beings had taken over his body.

She found him in the kitchen. His back was to her as he tended something on the stove.

“Harry?” she said.

It wasn’t too late to rule out the alien-being idea.

He turned around and gave her an odd look. “Next time, give me a heads-up when you plan to go walkabout. I might have called in the cops to drag the river.”

“I sent you a text,” she said. Guilty and defensive. Not the best way to approach the man who had sort of saved her life.

Harry raised a single eyebrow. “Maybe your idea and mine of ‘after lunch’ are different,” he said.

“Whatcha doin’ there?” Cate asked, eager to change the subject.

“Making spaghetti sauce.”

“I thought breakfast was the limit of your repertoire.”

She was so shocked, she forgot to keep her distance. When she joined him at the stove, she could see the large pot of bubbling tomatoey goodness.

Harry shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. “I wouldn’t say I can cook,” he said. “But I have a recipe or two in my back pocket. I do entertain occasionally.”

“Is this what you serve your lady friends when you have them over?”

His eyes narrowed. “If you mean lovers, no. This is much too heavy a meal to have sex afterward.”

Cate was so shocked, she forgot to breathe. She felt her face turn hot and red. Embarrassment choked her.

Harry burst out laughing. “You are far too easy to tease, Catie-girl. Are you hungry?”

She managed to clear the knot in her throat. “I could eat.” There were two places already set at the kitchen table.

“Go do whatever you need to do upstairs. I’ll put the pasta on to cook shortly. The bread will be ready in twenty minutes. I was only waiting to hear from you before I got them started.”

Guilt swamped her again. “Thank you, Harry.” The man had cooked for her. It wasn’t necessary. Any one of a half dozen restaurants in Blossom Branch had great takeout. But he had cooked. For her.

In her bathroom, she made time for a three-minute shower, then rifled through the clothes she had hung in the closet. The sophisticated businessman, Prescott Harrington, had been replaced by a relaxed guy in faded jeans, a navy pullover and bare feet.

It was the feet that got her. She had never thought of feet as an attractive male body part. Harry’s, though, were just right.

Because she couldn’t decide what to wear, she opted to mirror his vibe. Her skinny jeans weren’t as faded, and her thin, cotton short-sleeve sweater was Chanel, but he probably wouldn’t know that.

When she returned to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, Harry was ladling angel hair pasta onto two plates. “How much sauce do you want?” he asked, shooting her a glance over his shoulder.

Her stomach growled. The high carb meal made her mouth water. Since her reason for dieting was dead in the water, she waved a hand. “Lots.”

Harry grinned. He had already prepared two small salads and put them on the table. Now he added the plates of spaghetti and went back for the bread, which he dumped into a straw basket lined with paper towels.

The presentation might have been a tad on the informal side, but the food was spectacular. They ate in silence for five whole minutes before she looked up and found him watching her.

“What?” she asked. “Do I have sauce on my chin?”

Something in his gaze made her uncomfortable. Not in a bad way. But as if her senses had been painfully heightened all at once.

He shook his head slowly. “No sauce,” he said. “I was just thinking lavender is a good color on you. It makes your eyes seem even more blue.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. It was more of a statement than a compliment. So she deflected. “What didyoudo today?” she asked.

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