more proud of her cooking skills. One taste, and he’d be gagging and running for the phone book, desperately seeking a new bed-and-breakfast—one where he’d get the kind of melt-in-your-mouth home-cooked meals Mrs. Murphy was famous for.
With a smile as bright as a July sun, she relinquished her breakfast, even going so far as to get him a napkin and fork from the drawer.
“Thanks,” he said again, pulling out a kitchen stool and sitting down. He’d forked up a bite of eggs, then paused. “Is that orange juice?”
She looked at the hand-squeezed juice she’d made from two of the puniest oranges ever. She’d been going to throw it out. All that work, and all she’d gotten was a couple of sips of juice, seeds, and globs of pulp. She slid the glass across the counter toward him. “Have at it,” she said with another bright smile.
He took a bite.
She held her breath as gleeful anticipation ran through her. Briefly she wondered how he’d manage to choke the rubbery eggs down. Of course, on further thought, she didn’t want him dying—just gone. She thought back to when she’d learned the Heimlich maneuver and ran the process through her head. Yes, she could do it. She could save this miserable lout when he choked on eggs that he’d insisted on eating. She would save him (unfortunately), but then, with his gratitude overflowing, he would ask her what he could do to repay her. Leave, she’d say with a serene smile.
Lost in her fantasy, it took her a moment to realize he was talking.
“Great breakfast. Best eggs I’ve had in a long time.”
“What?”
“Great scrambled eggs.”
Was he for real? “They’re fried.”
He shot her a smile, one that had undoubtedly been charming women of all ages since he was two. He polished off the OJ. “Fresh-squeezed. My favorite.”
She stared at his plate—his empty plate. Not a rubbery bit of egg left. Or a partially eaten piece of burned toast.
He set his glass down on the counter and wiped his hands off on his napkin. “You sure can cook. After that meal, I can’t wait for lunch and dinner.”
She couldn’t cook. Everyone knew that. Even she admitted it most the time. And lunch and dinner? Just who did he think he was?
“Hope you’ve eaten.” He wadded up his napkin and dropped it onto his plate.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Who was he, her mother?
“Besides,” he continued, “you’ll need to keep your strength up. We have a busy day ahead of us.”
“I don’t know what your day consists of, but I already have my schedule, thank you very much.”
He ignored her. “I’ve spoken to Zeke.”
Zeke? How did he know how to get in touch with Zeke?
She hadn’t realized she asked the question out loud until he answered it.
“I met him the first day I arrived. When you were at lunch.”
The way he said lunchmade her cringe. Like she was blowing off work for some frivolous girl thing. Believe you me, if she could get out of lunch with her mother, she would. “How?”
“How what?”
“How did you know how to get in touch with my pilot?”
“Our pilot’s number is on the side of your fridge.”
She shot her fridge and the large sunflower magnet that held the list of numbers a furious look. She even had her parents’ and Paul’s and Anna’s. Though why, she couldn’t say. It wasn’t like she didn’t know them by heart.
“Why did you need to contact my pilot?” There was no ours, now or ever.
“I’ve called a meeting.” Jared looked at his watch. “He’ll be here in thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”
“It’s Saturday.” Not that she had any intention of attending his so-called meeting, no matter what day of the week it was.
“So?”
“So Zeke has the day off.”
“He’s been more off than on since I got here.”
“Zeke sets his own hours.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Either of you ever heard of a work schedule?”
His superior attitude was really starting to piss her off. “You are not going to barge in here and start changing anything. Zeke and I have a system.”
“Not an effective one.”
“You are not the boss.”
“No,” he said with a barely there patience that reminded her of a harassed parent. “I’m your partner, and we’re having a meeting in half an hour. Changes need to be made.” He picked up the towel he’d used earlier and ran it back through his nearly dry hair, dismissing her as clearly as if he’d said the words.