“In that case,” she said dryly, “I reckon you’d drown, tall man.”
“Sassy lady,” he accused. He moved behind her and suddenly caught her by the waist with his lean, dark hands. He held her in front of him while he bent over her shoulder to smell the chili. She tried to breathe normally and failed. He was warm and strong at her back, and he smelled of the whole outdoors. She wanted to reach up and kiss that hard, masculine face, and her heart leaped at the uncharacteristic longing.
“What did you put in there?” he asked.
“One armadillo, two rattlers, a quart of beans, some tomatoes, and a hatful of jalapeño peppers.”
His hands contracted, making her jump. “A hatful of jalapeño peppers would take the rust off my truck.”
“Probably the tires, too,” she commented, trying to keep her voice steady. “But Bib told me you Texans like your chili hot.”
He turned her around to face him. He searched her eyes for a long, taut moment, and she felt her feet melting into the floor as she looked back. Something seemed to link them for that tiny space of time, joining them soul to soul for one explosive second. She heard him catch his breath and then she was free, all too soon.
“Would...would you like a glass of milk with this?” she asked after she’d served the chili into bowls and put it on the table, along with the sliced cornbread and some canned fruit.
“Didn’t you make coffee?” he asked, glancing up.
“Sure. I just thought...”
“I don’t need anything to put out the fire,” he told her with a wicked smile. “I’m not a tenderfoot from Jawja.”
She moved to the coffeepot and poured two cups. She set his in front of him and sat down. “For your information, suh,” she drawled, “we Georgians have been known to eat rattlesnakes while they were still wiggling. And an aunt of mine makes a barbecued sparerib dish that makes Texas chili taste like oatmeal by comparison.”
“Is that so? Let’s see.” He dipped into his chili, savored it, put the spoon down, and glared at her. “You call this hot?” he asked.
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