“You cook? I thought last night was a fluke.”
“No.” Sam took a little satisfaction from her obvious surprise. “I’m a bachelor.”
“And yet I, the plant lady, know that—” she glanced at her child, obviously trying to figure out how to give her comment a G-rated delivery “—from time to time you have visitors who can cook.”
“That is blatant gender profiling.” He smiled at her unease. “Some of the world’s best chefs are men. And I actually like to cook.”
“I can help, Mommy. Please let me do it.” The eight-year-old was quivering with excitement. “And Sam is right. You need a bath.”
“And the child becomes the parent.” Faith tenderly traced a finger down her daughter’s cheek. “Two against one. Fortunately for both of you I’m in the mood to get rid of this grime. I won’t be long.”
Sam watched until her slender shoulders and excellent backside disappeared from sight. She was a smart, beautiful woman raising a child on her own. As far as he could tell there was no father in the picture. Why? For that matter, it was clear from what Phoebe had said that she dated. His cousin had inherited the Hart good looks and his mother’s integrity. His father, Sam’s uncle, had the morals of an alley cat and Logan had distanced himself from the Harts a long time ago. He was a very successful rancher and from a woman’s perspective would be a good catch.
Des Parker was a question mark because Sam had never met him. What was Faith’s relationship with the two men? He really didn’t like that he was acutely curious, which was only a small step up from jealousy.
“Sam?” A small, firm voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you listening?”
He looked at the little girl. “Yes.”
“I want to help. But Mommy won’t let me touch sharp stuff.”
“That leaves out knives, then.” He thought for a moment. “How about setting the table?”
“Okay.”
Since plates and glasses were too high for her, he ended up getting everything down then backed off and let her put it all on the round oak table in the nook.
When she finished, she came to stand by the counter where he was working. “Whatcha doing?”
“I’m making fried chicken the easy way. After I dip the pieces in this stuff, it goes on a cookie sheet and into the oven.”
“Are you making vegetables?” she asked suspiciously.
There was a loaded question. More data was required before answering. “Do you like them?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Does your mom make you eat them?”
“Yes.” It didn’t seem possible for such a small, sweet face to hold that much loathing and hostility.
“They have vitamins and minerals that make you strong and healthy.”
“That’s what my mom says. They still make me want to throw up.”
“I feel your pain.” He thought about what he’d planned for tonight. “What’s your opinion of corn on the cob?”
“I like that. We have these things that go in the ends so you can hold it better. But they’re in my house.” Phoebe’s anxiety that her house might be gone was easy to read in her expression.
Sam wanted to fix things so this little girl didn’t have to worry about whether or not all of her worldly possessions were gone. But he wasn’t God. All he could do was fix this moment for her.
“I have corn holders. In that drawer.” He pointed out the one closest to the table. “Why don’t you put them by the plates?”
She opened the drawer and spotted them. “They’re sharp.”
“Technically, but you’re not going to cut anything with them. I think you’re big enough to do the job without hurting yourself.”
“Hurt yourself on what?” Faith walked into the kitchen. Her blond hair was a shade darker because it was still wet and the store tags were still hanging from her T-shirt and sweatpants.
The jeans he’d always seen her in were a good look but what she was wearing now hugged every curve in soft, clingy material. His fingers ached to find out for himself if she felt as good as he thought she would.
“Mommy.” Phoebe proudly held up the sharp objects. “Sam has corn-on-the-cob holders. They’re animals, see? It’s a cow. This one is the head and here’s the tail.”
“Very cute.” She met his gaze. “Something so whimsical seems out of character for a high-powered businessman like you.”
“I’ve got layers,” he said.
“Apparently.” She looked at Phoebe. “You’re not supposed to touch anything sharp and pointy.”
“Sam said I could. And I didn’t hurt myself.” She held up her boo-boo-free hands. “See?”
“I did give her permission,” Sam said. “It was actually the lesser of two evils. I wanted to give her a moratorium from vegetables while she’s here.”
“I see what you mean.” She smiled at her daughter. “Good job, Phoebs.”
“Can I watch TV now?”
Sam put the chicken in the oven. “Dinner won’t be ready for about forty minutes.”
“Okay, then, kiddo.”
“Yay!” She ran into the family room and carefully picked up the remote, handling it as he’d shown her.
When they were alone, Sam said, “Speaking of sharp things, you could use scissors.”
Faith looked down at her hastily purchased clothes. “I forgot to pull them off.”
He grabbed a pair from a drawer and moved close. “Let me.”
The sweet scent of her freshly washed hair filled his head and twisted his senses into knots. Without thinking it through, he grabbed the tag that was just inside the neckline of the shirt to cut it off and his fingers brushed her skin. Her eyes darkened and her lips parted slightly. He was almost sure her breath caught for a moment. He knew for a fact that his did.
She swallowed once and glanced at the tag on the waist of her pants. “I’ll get that one.”
“Okay.”
She took the scissors, careful not to touch him, and quickly did the job. It was time for him to break the spell so he opened a bottle of red wine, letting it breathe normally, which was more than he could say for himself. Then he took three glasses from a cupboard, one of them a champagne flute, and poured clear soda into it.
“For Phoebe,” he explained. “Just this once. Because she’s evacuated.”
Before Faith could say no, he brought it to the little girl on the leather sofa in the family room. “Tonight is a special occasion.”
“What?” She took the glass he held out.
“I get to have the pleasure of your company for dinner.”
“Wow.” Carefully she took a sip. “I promise I won’t spill.”
“I know you won’t.”
He walked back into the kitchen where Faith stood with her back braced against the island. She was giving him a look. “What?”
“You’re very good at this,” she said.
The tone didn’t make her words sound like a compliment so he decided to clarify his actions in a positive way. “If you mean taking care of friends going through