Two to Tangle (A Tangle Valley Romance #2) - Melissa Brayden Page 0,65

I love it so much here. All of my favorite things.”

That’s when Gabriella noticed Dale lying in the back of the room on his oversized dog bed. His head lifted, and he blinked at them. “We interrupted his evening nap, which is not to be confused with his morning nap, or his midafternoon nap, or his late-afternoon nap. Eventually he’ll move to the couch and stretch out on his back. Mark my words.”

“He enjoys life. Like you.”

“You hungry?” Ryan asked him. His answer was to stand and lick his chops. “Fair enough. Come on, you adorable lug.”

Gabriella laughed as Dale trotted happily right past them and headed to the kitchen where he turned in circles. Slow circles because this was, after all, Dale, who had his own leisurely pace for most everything he did. As Ryan prepared his food, Gabriella opened the fridge. Ryan froze. It honestly wasn’t as bad as she had led Gabriella to believe.

“You’ve got quite a bit in here actually.” She scanned the items and opened the freezer, finding even more, including some frozen chicken. Promising.

“Do you have cooking wine?”

“If it’s not expired, it should be above the stove. Why? Do I fail a test if I don’t?”

“Not a chance.” She stood next to Ryan and squeezed her hand. “I thought I’d sauté us a nice chicken with a white wine butter sauce. I’m starving.” She headed to what looked to be the pantry and saw a sack of potatoes on the ground. “Toss in a few pan-fried potatoes. I’d add a salad, but you don’t seem to have any fresh veggies.”

Ryan looked conflicted. “You don’t have to cook for me. You’re my guest.”

Gabriella leveled a stare. “Are you hungry?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. I’ll make us a quick dinner. Nothing fancy, and you can work on your furniture project until it’s ready. I’ll come get you. Dale can assist.” The dog looked up from his bowl curiously.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” Ryan said with wide eyes, “but it’s the best offer I’ve had in a long time.” She leaned down for a lingering kiss that left Gabriella a hot-and-bothered potato slicer moments after. When Ryan emerged in a formfitting navy tank top and faded overalls that she’d only fastened on one side, her stomach went tight and everything reacted. She was able to glimpse more of Ryan’s body than ever, and it was simply off the chart. Subtle curves, perfect skin, and an athleticism she only imagined came from her morning run, genetics, and her very physical work environment.

“You okay?” Ryan asked, approaching the kitchen island. She raised an eyebrow.

“Me? I’m completely okay. Why do you ask? I’m just potato central over here.” She left off the part about potato central being engulfed in flames. Lustful waves of them.

“The knife’s in midair,” Ryan said, gesturing to Gabriella’s right hand where she, sure enough, had her knife raised and frozen mid-slicing motion, as if suspended for all time. She laughed it off and finished the motion.

“I was just, um, thinking through my dish. That’s what chefs do.”

“Or checking me out. Does potato central have HR?” Ryan grinned and the dimples came out to say hey. Damn those things.

“No. We most certainly do not.”

“Good. Then I won’t report you for…whatever that was.”

“Just me noticing your new wardrobe. You look…good, I guess.” She grinned as she focused, with everything she had, on wedging those potatoes for the pan she had heating behind her on the stove.

“Oh. Well, thank you, I think?”

“Hot,” Gabriella tossed up, before going back to her project. “Fine. Okay? You look fantastic, and sexy, and I just really, really like the idea of you now heading out to make a desk or something.”

Ryan came and stood over her shoulder, the heat from her body caressing Gabriella’s. “Does it help that I’d kinda rather stay here and watch you toss ingredients together like a boss, because I happen to find your skill in a kitchen a ridiculous turn-on?”

She grinned. “Not gonna lie. Helps a lot. Now, go.”

Forty minutes later, Gabriella carried two plates of white wine chicken and potatoes to the garage, which Ryan had apparently transformed into her own personal woodworking shop. Along the back wall rested lumber of all shapes, sizes, and colors, which she interpreted to be Ryan’s stock. In the center of the room, Ryan knelt over a couple of sawhorses, protective glasses in place, as she cut through a thick piece of wood with a circular saw. Given the noise, she