True-Blue Cowboy - Vicki Lewis Thompson Page 0,22
of sliced bananas, strawberries and kiwi ready to go. The Apple Grove Market occasionally surprised her with delicacies like kiwi. She’d splurged and bought some this week.
She’d made Brazilian coffee from freshly-ground beans and poured it into a thermal carafe. She had half-and-half in the fridge, although most cowboys she’d met took it black.
When he rang her doorbell, she surveyed her preparations one last time and walked to the front door, adrenaline pouring through her system. She’d dreamed about him last night, dreams that made her blush.
Seeing him in person should help. It was just Nick. That moment on the porch had been the result of an emotionally charged evening. She blamed the dream on too much rich food.
Taking a calming breath, she unlocked the door and pulled it open. Damn. He looked even better this morning.
Hat in hand, feet braced apart, he stood on the other side of her screen door, filling the space with his wide shoulders. His snowy white T-shirt, nearly as snug as the navy one, emphasized the breadth of his muscular chest. He exuded physical power, as if he could handle anything.
Might as well admit that he turned her on. But she didn’t have to let him know. “Good morning.”
“Morning, ma’am. Ready to go get your truck?”
“Not yet.” She unlatched the screen and pushed it open. “Come in. I want to feed you a proper breakfast before we leave.”
“Breakfast?” He frowned. “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t need—”
“We had an agreement, remember?” She breathed in the tantalizing scent of soap, cologne and healthy male. “Whatever you grabbed on the way out the door couldn’t possibly be enough to get you through a morning of lugging stuff from the attic and digging up rocks. Everything’s ready and the cinnamon rolls should be cooled by now.”
“Cinnamon rolls?” He stepped inside.
For some reason his expression hadn’t brightened. Was it possible he didn’t care for them? “Maybe you’re not a fan.”
“Oh, I love cinnamon rolls. I just hate to think of you going to so much trouble.”
“Making them is fun for me—kneading the dough, shaping the rolls, the wonderful smell while they’re baking.”
“I thought you were burning one of those scented candles.”
“Those don’t smell as good as the real thing. And not to brag, but I make a killer cinnamon roll.” She left the front door open to allow cool morning air to drift through the screen.
The oven had heated up the place. Add in the presence of a big strong cowboy and the breeze was mighty welcome. “I’ve set us up in the kitchen.”
“You haven’t had breakfast, either?” He followed her in.
“No.”
“Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “Mighty nice of you to include me.”
“I figured why not? I love cooking and you love eating. Have a seat.”
“Not until you do.”
She glanced at his mannerly and extremely sexy self. Whew. “Then let me take the casserole out of the oven and bring over the rolls. Then we can—”
“You made a casserole, too?”
“Don’t worry. It’s easy-peasy. The cinnamon rolls take effort. The casserole only involves throwing the ingredients together.” She grabbed oven mitts, pulled the baking dish from the oven and set it on the trivets she’d put on the table earlier.
“Smells great.”
“Doesn’t it? Pairing this with cinnamon rolls might be a little heavy under normal circumstances, but you have intensely physical work ahead of you. This meal will help get you through the morning.”
“Looks substantial.” He took a quick breath. “And smells delicious. Ready to sit?”
“Let’s see… I think that’s it. Wait, do you use anything in your coffee?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Ha. Nailed it. Then yes, I’m ready to sit.” She gestured to her place. “This one.”
He pulled out her chair. “You must have been up early to do all this.”
“I was, but cooking is more rewarding when you’re sharing the meal with someone.” She slipped into the chair he held for her. She’d been this close to him many times in the salon without hyperventilating. Maybe the cape had shielded her from his tasty pheromones.
“Well, I surely appreciate it.” He took the spot she’d set for him, catty-corner from her. He hung his hat on the back of the chair nearest to him.
“Let me have your plate. I’ll dish you some casserole. Do you like fruit?”
“I… ah… sure.”
“Ever had kiwi?”
“Must be the green one with the little black seeds. No, I haven’t.”
“You’ll love it. Comes from New Zealand. Doesn’t show up that often in the market here, but it did this past week.” She gave him a large helping of casserole