Page 15 of Geordie

She gives me a death stare.

I sigh, unable to control this situation. “Spices are in the small cupboard in front of you.”

She retrieves jars of cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, star anise, and a bottle of vanilla and pops a mixture into the pot. When it comes to a boil, she turns it down to simmer. The scent of citrus, apples, cinnamon, and anise floats through the air.

“Thank you,” I call to her. “You've seen me to my apartment. I can take it from here.”

More banging in the kitchen. She pulls the refrigerator door open, and I hear a gasp. “You have nothing in the fridge other than an expired pint of cream.”

“I like to have cream with my oats.”

She trails out of the kitchen as she takes out her cell and punches in a number. “Tina, I need you to put together a basic list for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” She puts her hand over the receiver and to me says, “I'm going to order basic foods to restock your kitchen. Are you a vegetarian?”

My eyebrows rise and I know I'm looking at her like she's gone mad. Did she think I got this big by dining on rabbit food? She shrugs and goes back to whoever she's talking to, while keeping a sharp eye on me. “Yeah, get the basic things like bacon, sausage, eggs, veggies... Yeah, have some of the guys in the kitchen help you with a list. It should be enough for two weeks. No, don't call it in right away. Send it to me so I can go over it before you place the order.” She clicks off, looking about the place. “Is there anything I can get you right now?”

Her taking over, like this is her kitchen, is annoying. “Lass, although I appreciate you giving me a lift home, you don't need to do this.”

“I am, and you're welcome.”

“You should leave. You have a restaurant to run, and I'm sure someone is waiting for you at home.”

She plops down on the couch next to me, pulls the strap of the wee bag from her body, and places it next to her. “Look, you can bellow like a prize bull all you want. Apparently, I'm the only person you have to assist you. I suggest you accept my help while it's on the table; you won't get a better offer.”

She's right. I need someone now, and it might as well be her. “That's fine. You can help me only for today.”

Lily's gaze is calculating, but no agreement is forthcoming. I think she's mostly ignoring me. “Why don't you shower and change? You can't be comfortable in that gear crusted with mud. When you come back, I should have a shopping list you can look over.”

I shake my head at the quandary that's developed because of my accident. For the last two days, I've been trying to coerce the hospital staff to sit and entertain me. Now that I have someone here willing to help me, the phrasebe careful what you wish forcomes to mind.

I pull myself up from the couch, trying to put the least amount of pressure on my leg while I balance with these sticks they call crutches. My dignity would suffer if I fell on my arse in front of her.

“After I change, we can order a pizza. I want to thank you for your help today.”

“Really?” She looks up with amusement in her dark eyes. “You have the best chef in San Pacitas sitting on your couch and you want to order takeout tonight. No way. You're in for a treat, I'm cooking.”

Chapter eight

Mince and Tatties

Lily

Ishouldbepreppingwith my crew at Dalliance. Instead, I’m moving around a strange kitchen cooking while Geordie MacTavish watches me as if I’m a floor show in Reno.

I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. Visiting Geordie in the hospital was supposed to be a brilliant idea, the perfect plan to fix my huge misstep with the wrong person. This was going to be a short, but heartfelt, apology, with me unloading a box of cookies. It should have been a quick ten minutes, then I’d conveniently remember I had somewhere else to be so I could excuse myself and oh, we should do this again sometime.

When I arrived at the door of Geordie’s hospital room, his conversation with the doctor was loud enough to be heard from where I stood. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, and I’d truly meant to turn around. When Geordie’s embarrassed response to the doctor, admitting that he had no one to help him, reached me, I couldn’t move. I just stood there, stuck to the spot, listening until something propelled me into the room, saying I would drive him home and take care of him. What was I thinking? I couldn’t take care of a kitten, let alone a grown man, but there I was offering to save him.

Why hadn’t I just backed away and kept walking? It would have been easy. No one had seen me except for a lone nurse at the station. I don’t care if he’s a celebrity in the valley, I don’t know him. I mean, he could be a hobbyist serial killer for all I know. That might be why he’s alone, or he just might be a giant douche who’s chased away everyone in his life.

I’m plugged into my music that’s got me in the zone as I move around the kitchen cooking mince and tatties. This is not the usual cuisine I cook. While we were going over the shopping list, I made the mistake of promising Geordie that I would make his favorite meal. He’s a big guy. I thought it would be steak and potatoes, something I can do in my sleep. I was half right. Apparently, mince is ground beef and tatties in this recipe are mashed potatoes. I was lucky that he didn’t request haggis. I couldn’t see myself up to my elbows in lamb’s innards for two hours, possibly three since I’ve never made it before.

When I pull up a recipe from the Internet to review, I realize it’s a dish my mother used to make when I was a kid. It’s ground beef, carrots, onions, and celery with beef broth and flour gravy. My mom would throw it over rice. I never thought about having it with mashed potatoes. Who knew the origin was Scottish?

I glance over my shoulder at Geordie sitting at the counter, his injured leg propped up on a chair and damp, reddish-brown hair fingered back, the sides almost stubbled. The heat from his big body pushes out the scent of a woodsy soap. He absently scratches his trimmed beard while making his bicep tense under the tight sleeve of his T-shirt. It’s distracting. What am I saying? Themanis a huge walking, talking distraction. Some of my staff were talking about him after he left, wondering out loud if there would be another delivery from MacTavish Cellars soon.

“Cook the onions in a bit of butter,” Geordie directs, then takes a sip from his tumbler. He asked for a whiskey after returning from his shower. He’s currently enjoying it neat from his well-stocked drinks cabinet.

I’m not accustomed to someone directing my cooking, but the guy’s been injured, so I indulge him. I look over at him sweetly, as if I’m grateful for the advice.

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