“I’ve only lived a few decades, but I’ve played my share. We’ll have to have a game.”
There was a powder room—though no one powdered anything in them that Annika had seen—and then the kitchen and eating area. She knew immediately Sawyer was pleased.
He wandered through it. A tall, lean body that moved, she thought, as if never hurried. Her fingers wanted to brush through all
the dark gold hair the sun had streaked, shaggy and windblown from the traveling. And eyes, gray like the sea in the first silver light of dawn, that made her want to sigh.
“The Italians understand cooking—and eating. This is excellent.”
She knew something about cooking now, had even learned to make a few dishes, so she recognized the big stove with its many burners, and the ovens for baking and roasting. A center island held its own sink, which charmed her, and another sink—wider—stood under a window.
Sawyer opened the box that kept things cold—the refrigerator, she remembered. “Already stocked. Riley doesn’t miss a trick. Beer?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Doyle said.
“Anni?”
“I don’t like the beer very much. Is there something else?”
“Got your soft drinks, some fruit juice. And wait.” He pointed up to a rack holding bottles. “Wine.”
“I like the wine.”
“Got you covered then.” He chose a bottle, passed a beer to Doyle, took one for himself, then wandered to a door. “Pantry, also stocked. We’re in business.”
He opened drawers until he found the tool to open the wine. Corkscrew—such a funny word.
“I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m starved. Shifting that many that far, it hulls you out.”
“I could eat,” Doyle decided.
“I’m going to throw something together. Riley was right, Sasha looks pale. We’ll eat, drink, decompress.”
“Have at it then. I’m going to check outside.” With his sword still sheathed on his back, Doyle went through another wide glass door.
“I can help you make the food.”
“Don’t you want to grab up a bedroom?”
“I like to help make the food.” With you, most of all, she thought.
“Okay, let’s keep it simple. Quick pasta, tossed with butter and herbs. And we’ve got . . . yeah, we’ve got tomatoes, mozzarella.” He pulled the cheese from the refrigerator, handed her a tomato from the bowl on the counter. “You remember how to slice these up?”
“Yes, I can slice very well.”
“You slice them up, then find a plate or tray or platter.” He spread his hands to show her size.
He had strong hands, but was gentle with them. Annika thought gentleness was its own kind of strength.
“And you lay them out with the cheese on top of the tomato,” he continued, so she knew to pay attention. “Drizzle this olive oil over them.” He set a container on the counter.
“Drizzle is like rain, but only a little.”
“You got it. Then you’re going to take this.” He walked over to the windowsill, where some pots sat, and broke off a stem with leaves. “It’s basil.”
“I remember. It adds flavor.”
“Yeah. Chop it up some, sprinkle it over everything, grind a little pepper on there, too, and that’s a wrap.”