* * *
RORY COULDN’T BELIEVE his good fortune. His impetuousness had paid off. “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do better. I’m starving and you must be, too.”
“Then let’s go to the kitchen,” she said, getting up and heading across the room to the door leading to the kitchen.
She got out some pots and pans, took several pieces of haddock from the refrigerator, removed the wrapping and rinsed the fish in the sink. He watched her easy movements. “You cook a lot, I take it,” he said.
“I do. Mostly out of necessity. I’m a little way from town, the restaurants and fast-food places. So, I keep food on hand. I hope you like fish. I could make you a grilled cheese sandwich if you want,” she said, giving him a quick smile.
“No. Fish is great. Can I peel potatoes, cook rice, make a salad?”
“Yes. Rice and a salad would be perfect while you tell me more about Haiti.”
He couldn’t tell her the real reason why he’d come home. He hadn’t told anyone other than a psychologist he’d seen for a short time after he got back. Until he knew Peggy better, he wouldn’t allow himself to confide in her. He didn’t want her to see him as a weak, indecisive man, someone who had allowed his experience in Haiti to determine how he felt about life here in Eden Harbor. He had a good life here, the respect of the locals and was presently sharing the kitchen with a woman who intrigued him. Yet he couldn’t ease the feelings of guilt, the sense that he’d abandoned people who relied on him.
He had so many mixed-up feelings around his time in Haiti. Some good. Some not so good. Yet a part of him wanted to return and finish what he had started. Grant Williams, his team leader, had promised him that he could go back when he was ready. So tempting...until now.
He took the bag of lettuce, the cucumber, celery and tomatoes she gave him and found a knife on the rack next to the stove. “The people I met in Haiti were the friendliest on the planet. So interesting, committed. The friends I made while living in that country will always be a part of my life.”
“Wherever my parents and I lived, we always enjoyed learning about the local culture. It’s amazing how much we can learn from others, about how they live and work.”
“That’s true.” Yet it was more than that for him. He’d been a part of the community. And that acceptance had resulted in him feeling needed and appreciated in ways he’d never experienced before.
They worked alongside each other in silence for a few minutes, he washing vegetables and she working on the rest of the meal. He couldn’t help but notice how easily she battered the fish and put the frying pan on the stove in preparation for cooking the haddock.
“I’d better get going. I don’t want you to have the fish ready before the rice is cooked.”
“I’ll wait for you,” she said. Her glance swept over him, her lips pursed.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“You need an apron.” Pulling one from a hook on the side of the fridge, she then slipped it around his waist and tied the knot for him before putting on an apron herself.
The way she moved to tie the knot, as if they’d been doing this for years, touched something in him. “Thank you,” he said.
“Anytime.”
“Next time it’s my turn.”
“For what?”
“For tying your apron.”
She tucked her chin down in surprise. “I didn’t, did I?”
“You did, and a fine job it was,” he said, thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if she had shared her kitchen with another man, that tying a knot in an apron for a man was something she’d gotten in the habit of doing and not so much something she had done specifically for him.
* * *
SHE HADN’T FELT these feelings before. This sense of connection to someone, the feeling that he would understand should she decide to share her worries. Yet she wasn’t about to do that, especially when she had this deep-down feeling that she might have found a man who had serious potential. She couldn’t risk getting involved with him only to have him walk out on her if she had to face treatment.
She didn’t want to spoil her first real chance in years to have a relationship that might turn into something a lot more. No. Sharing too much this early on about something that might turn out to be nothing at all was hardly the way to hold on to a man who had the potential to be just what she was looking for.
Peggy had never found herself in such a perplexing situation. The men she’d dated had usually bombed out by the time the second date rolled around. Yet Rory’s presence in her life had turned out to be really fun. She was suddenly energized and pleased with everything.
She put her best place mats on the table, and all the while she kept glancing at him, at the way he so skillfully put together the salad. He caught her looking at him and smiled. “Rice?”
“In the long cupboard next to the fridge,” she said.
Too late she realized she’d crammed that cupboard with boxes of cereal and parts of her grocery order she hadn’t found a place for yet. “Whoops!” She watched as cereal boxes tumbled out, landing at his feet. She rushed to scoop them up. “Sorry about that,” she said, gathering up the boxes. Standing close to him with nothing but a couple of flimsy boxes between them, she could feel his heat, see the awareness in his eyes and wanted to jump into his arms. Well, maybe not jump, but certainly get closer to him.
“I’m not sorry,” he said, his voice a slow drawl that played along her spine, a thrill passing through her. She clutched the boxes in her hands as their eyes met. The deepest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen. There was just a hint of stubble on his jaw. She wanted to run her fingers through his sun-bleached hair.
This man was simply too good to be true. There had to be a story here. Where were all the women in his life? No red-blooded woman could resist those eyes. Not a chance.
She pointed to the top cupboard. “The rice would be just over your right shoulder,” she said, her voice sounding breathless in her ears. She put the cereal boxes on the counter and found the rice steamer in the bottom drawer next to the dishwasher, acutely aware that her rear end was sticking up in the air as she fished around the depths of the drawer.
Feeling self-conscious, she rushed to set the table, putting out a bowl of pink peonies she’d cut earlier. By the time she was finished fixing and fretting, her pulse was racing.
“The rice is nearly finished.”
Darn! She’d forgotten to start the fish. “The fish will only take a few minutes,” she said, hurrying back to the kitchen.
He’d already turned on the burner. “Butter?” he asked.
Wordlessly, she pointed to the white butter dish resting near the back of the counter. The man filled her tiny kitchen with his presence, his easy way, his sexy body.
“Now, all we need is music,” he said, maneuvering the frying pan over the hot burner to the sound of sizzling butter.
“What do you like?” she asked.
“When it comes to music, I’m old-fashioned. I was raised on ’60s music, thanks to my mother’s love of it.”
“I like it, too.”
He slid the fish into the frying pan. “Did you get that from your mother, as well?”
“Not really. It’s just great music, the beginnings of today’s more modern, less appealing music.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” He turned those blue eyes on her again and she felt her mouth go dry. “Plates?”