Passion Flower. Diana Palmer
going to feed him, she thought, and grinned.
“Something funny, Miss King?” he asked.
“Oh, no, boss,” she said, leaving the typewriter behind. He was expecting that she’d forgotten his noon meal, but she had a surprise in store for him.
She led him into the kitchen, where two places were set. He stood there staring at the table, scowling, while she put out bread, mayonnaise, some thick ham she’d found in the refrigerator, and a small salad she’d made with a bottled dressing.
“Coffee?” she asked, poised with the pot in her hand.
He nodded, sliding into the place at the head of the table.
She poured it into his thick white mug and then filled her own.
“How did you know I wanted coffee instead of tea?” he asked with a narrow gaze as she seated herself beside him.
“Because the coffee cannister was half empty and the tea had hardly been touched,” she replied with a smile.
He chuckled softly as he sipped the black liquid. “Not bad,” he murmured, glancing at her.
“I’m sorry about breakfast,” she said. “I usually wake up around six, but this morning I was kind of tired.”
“No problem,” he told her, reaching for bread. “I’m used to getting my own breakfast.”
“What do you have?”
“Coffee.”
She gaped at him. “Coffee?”
He shrugged. “Eggs bounce, bacon’s half raw, and the toast hides under some black stuff. Coffee’s better.”
Her eyes danced as he put some salad on her plate. “I guess so. I’ll try to wake up on time tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush it,” he said, glancing at her with a slight frown. “You look puny to me.”
“Most people would look puny compared to you,” she replied.
“Have you always been that thin?” he persisted.
“No. Not until I got pneumonia,” she said. “I just went straight downhill. I suppose I just kept pushing too hard. It caught up with me.”
“How’s the paperwork coming along?”
“Oh, I’m doing fine,” she said. “Your handwriting is very clear. I’ve had some correspondence to type for doctors that required translation.”
“Who did you get to translate?”
She grinned. “The nearest pharmacist. They have experience, you see.”
He smiled at her briefly before he bit into his sandwich. He made a second one, but she noticed that he ignored the salad.
“Don’t you want some of this?” she asked, indicating the salad bowl.
“I’m not a rabbit,” he informed her.
“It’s very good for you.”
“So is liver, I’m told, but I won’t eat that either.” He finished his sandwich and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.”
“Then why do you keep lettuce and tomatoes?”
He glanced at her. “I like it on sandwiches.”
This was a great time to tell her, after she’d used it all up in the salad. Just like a man...
“You could have dug it out of here,” she said weakly.
He cocked an eyebrow. “With salad dressing all over it?”
“You could scrape it off...”
“I don’t like broccoli or cauliflower, and never fix creamed beef,” he added. “I’m more or less a meat and potatoes man.”
“I’ll sure remember that from now on, Mr. Culhane,” she promised. “I’ll be careful to use potatoes instead of apples in the pie I’m fixing for supper.”
He glared at her. “Funny girl. Why don’t you go on the stage?”
“Because you’d starve to death and weigh heavily on my conscience,” she promised. “Some man named Brickmayer called and asked did you have a farrier’s hammer he could borrow.” She glanced up. “What’s a farrier?”
He burst out laughing. “A farrier is a man who shoes horses.”
“I’d like a horse,” she sighed. “I’d put him in saddle oxfords.”
“Go back to work. But slowly,” he added from the doorway. “I don’t want you knocking yourself into a sickbed on my account.”
“You can count on me, sir,” she promised, with a wry glance. “I’m much too afraid of your cooking to ever be at the mercy of it.”
He started to say something, turned, and went out the door.
Jennifer spent the rest of the day finishing up the typing. Then she swept and dusted and made supper—a ham-and-egg casserole, biscuits, and cabbage. Supper sat on the table, however, and began to congeal. Eventually, she warmed up a little of it for herself, ate it, put the rest in the refrigerator, and went to bed. She had a feeling it was an omen for the future. He’d mentioned something that first day about rarely being home before bedtime. But couldn’t he have warned her at lunch?
She woke up on time her second morning at the ranch. By 6:15 she was moving gracefully around the spacious kitchen in jeans and a green T-shirt. Apparently, Everett didn’t mind what she wore, so she might as well be comfortable. She cooked a huge breakfast of fresh sausage, eggs, and biscuits, and made a pot of coffee.
Everything was piping hot and on the table when Everett came into the kitchen in nothing but his undershorts. Barefooted and bare-chested, he was enough to hold any woman’s eyes. Jennifer, who’d seen her share of almost-bare men on the beaches, stood against the counter and stared like a starstruck girl. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on that big body and he was covered with thick black hair—all over his chest, his flat stomach, his broad thighs. He was as sensuously male as any leading man on television, and she couldn’t drag her fascinated eyes away.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, his eyes faintly amused at what he recognized as shocked fascination. “I thought I heard something moving around down here. It’s just as well I took time to climb into my shorts.” And he turned away to leave her standing there, gaping after him.
A minute later he was back, whipping a belt around the faded blue denims he’d stepped into. He was still barefooted and bare-chested as he sat down at the table across from her.
“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” he said as he reached for a biscuit.
“I was afraid you’d keel over out on the plains and your horse wouldn’t be able to toss you onto his back and bring you home.” She grinned at his puzzled expression. “Well, that’s what Texas horses do in western movies.”
He chuckled. “Not my horse. He’s barely smart enough to find the barn when he’s hungry.” He buttered the biscuit. “My aunt used to cook like this,” he remarked. “Biscuits as light as air.”
“Sometimes they bounce,” she warned him. “I got lucky.”
He gave her a wary glance. “If these biscuits are any indication, so did I,” he murmured.
“I saw a henhouse out back. Do I gather the eggs every day?”
“Yes, but watch where you put your hand,” he cautioned. “Snakes have been known to get in there.”
She shuddered delicately, nodding.
They ate in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “You’re a good cook, Jenny.”
She grinned.