Tough Luck Cowboy by A.J. Pine

Author:A.J. Pine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2018-08-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

He’d thought she was going to lead him to the bedroom. That would have been a great way to keep him busy for a while. After all, that was how they communicated best, and after the bomb he’d unwittingly dropped—telling her about his father—he was counting on not having to say much more tonight.

Instead she’d handed him a beer and told him to go relax. But he wanted to watch her work.

What he wasn’t counting on was how goddamn sexy she was when she cooked. Or how out of his element he was watching someone go to that much effort for him.

“What can I do to help?” he asked, too restless to simply sit or stand.

She handed him the bottle of zinfandel. “Here. Open this.”

He did as he was told, watching with quiet appreciation as she chopped carrots and onions, readied the cuts of chicken, and pulled from the fridge what looked like homemade tomato sauce.

He handed her the opened bottle when she had a free hand.

“Is anything in this place store-bought?” he asked.

She laughed. “Everything tastes better when it’s homemade,” she said. She poured herself a glass of wine, then dumped the better contents of the bottle into a glass bowl with other various ingredients. “Even this,” she said, holding up her glass. “When you and your brothers sip that first vintage that you’ll have created with your own bare hands, you’ll see what I mean.”

She clinked her glass against his bottle, and they both took a sip.

He leaned against the counter. “What, exactly, are you preparing for us tonight, sweetheart?”

He’d wanted the nickname to sound teasing, but instead it had come out soft and warm, like sweetheart was a word he could use and really mean. Like she’d believe that he meant it.

She must not have noticed the change in tone because she just kept working as she spoke.

“Coq au vin.”

He raised a brow. “Cock oh what? Why, Lily Green, are you coming on to me?”

She snorted and threw a dish towel at him. “It’s French, you adolescent. For chicken and wine.”

She shook her head and laughed some more, and he looked on as she continued her well-choreographed dance that had her spinning from the counter to the stove and back again.

“And you just happened to have all these ingredients lying around for such a fancy meal?”

She covered the wine-soaked chicken and vegetables on the stove and wiped her hands on a towel she’d tucked into the top of her jeans. Then she gave him something between a wince and a smile.

“Wait,” he said. “You have a weekly meal calendar. Don’t you?”

She lifted her wineglass to her perfect pink lips. “Maybe?” she said.

He laughed until he conjured the image of her toiling away in this kitchen by herself—of her sitting alone while she ate. It wasn’t much different from what he was used to—a couple of beers and a frozen pizza—the single guy’s home-cooked meal. But at least it took zero effort to provide himself with sustenance. What Lily was creating was art.

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