The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,13

were the tiniest bit slumped. It came from honest work.

The last thing to go on was his coat and hat. As usual, the long tail on the frock coat hung even lower on Alfonso’s short frame, bobbing against the back of his knees. With the cinnamon in hand, he headed for the door. Alfonso was ready for Sophie Hollis’s fried chicken and apple pies, and anything else she might dish out.

Sophie cursed beneath her breath as she puttered about the kitchen, putting finishing touches to the evening meal. If she’d only kept her mouth shut she wouldn’t be facing this impossible evening with a man who couldn’t fill Nardin Hollis’s shoes, let alone his bed.

She dusted flour and kneaded dough, all the while refusing to admit she was actually gaining pleasure from cooking for a man—even if the little sucker only came up to her chin.

Cut, sop, plop. The precision with which Sophie made biscuits would have made a starving man cry. With a crystal drinking glass for a cutter, the thick dough came free in perfect round shapes from the dough slab on the table. The layer of bacon fat coating the bottom of the biscuit pan was just waiting for the flick of Sophie’s wrist. She swiped the biscuit into the grease and then turned it over with a plop, leaving the smooth, white orb freshly coated with the last remnants of Porter Griffin’s pig. One after the other, she cut, sopped, and plopped until her dough was gone and the pan was full and ready to bake.

The knock at the door ended her train of thought. She slid the pan of biscuits into the oven and dusted off her hands. Who would have thought a tin of cinnamon would cost so much?

As she hurried toward the door, her steps were muffled by the fine Persian carpets covering her floors. During their last winter together, Nardin had hauled the carpets overland, traveling north from the eastern coast of Texas to Lizard Flats. Eyeing the fine weave and the colorful red and yellow pattern, Sophie sighed. She would trade a lifetime of warm floors for one good night in a real man’s arms.

When she opened the door, Alfonso was standing there with a wide, charming grin.

“Sophie, my dear, you look beautiful.”

To her surprise, he winked and entered her home without an invitation.

Stunned by his unusual behavior, Sophie took the spice he handed her, then watched as he tossed his hat onto the hall tree. When it caught and spun on the peg before rocking to a halt, all she could do was stare as Alfonso sauntered about the room, sniffing a bouquet of cut flowers, running his hand lightly across the curve of the vase.

“Thank you for the compliment—and the spice,” Sophie muttered, unable to believe Alfonso Worthy’s personality transformation. He almost seemed manly. “Please take a seat in the parlor. Supper will be ready in a few minutes. Oh, and if it seems too warm, feel free to remove your coat. I’ve had the oven going all afternoon.”

Alfonso nodded then unbuttoned his frock coat and swaggered over to the hall tree, hanging it on the peg next to his hat.

Sophie couldn’t get over the difference in Alfonso’s behavior. He seemed so confident—so at home.

That notion made her heart skip a beat, but then decided she wasn’t really interested in the little man—just overheated.

“I’ll let you know when supper is ready,” she said, and darted toward the kitchen with the cinnamon clasped to her breasts.

He watched her skirt tail swinging to the sway of her hips as she exited the room and then sat down in the easy chair with a thump. Loaning her cinnamon was hardly a declaration of love and adoration, nor was her invitation to supper anything but a kindness. Still, as he sat within the silence of the room, he couldn’t help but wish it was more.

The meal went down in near-silence. Alfonso had never eaten such wonderful food in his life, which enforced the notion that he would corner Sophie Hollis and marry her or die trying.

Sophie, on the other hand, was nearly at her wits end. She could hardly eat for watching the little man chew. He ravished the food from her platters and bowls as if he was starving. Someone had once told her a man who enjoys his food also knows how to enjoy his women. If that someone had been right, then Alfonso’s women would be in ecstasy. She thought