Calamity Jena (Invertary 4)

in delight. Delicious.

When she looked back at him, Matt was holding a Pop-Tart in front of his nose. He sniffed. “Are you sure this is food?”

“Take a bite, you big coward. It won’t hurt you.”

He frowned at her before biting into the tart. It was as though she’d asked him chow down on live worms.

“Good, right?” She reached for the second tart.

He chewed laboriously, swallowed hard, reached for his can of Coke and gulped until it was empty.

“That”—he pointed at the tart—“is the most foul thing I’ve had in my mouth since my cousin Flynn dared me to eat mud when I was a kid.” He gave her a look of utter horror. “It’s like sugar-coated cardboard.” He pushed the plate away. “It doesn’t taste anything like chocolate. I’m not sure it even qualifies as food.”

Several thoughts fought for prominence in Jena’s head. One—he’d dissed her all-time favourite food. Two—he was being rude in her home. Three—she’d tried Scottish food, and he had a damn cheek calling Pop-Tarts cardboard. Four—she’d just wasted two of them on the jerk. She felt her fragile grasp on a good mood snap. She pointed a finger at him.

“That criticism is hard to take when it’s coming from a guy whose country thinks deep-fried Mars bars are a gourmet treat. The same country that gave us haggis-flavoured chips. The people who claim that blood-soaked oats fried in fat is breakfast. You wouldn’t know decent food if it bit you on the ass. Give me that.” She reached for his rejected Pop-Tart and took a bite out of it. “Mm, mm, delicious.”

“There’s nothing wrong with haggis or black pudding.”

She shuddered before cramming her mouth with more rejected tart.

“Mature.” His censure was ruined by his grin. “Do you have any proper food in here?”

She waved at the fridge. “Be my guest. Make yourself some proper food.” She had no idea what constituted proper food for the surly Scot, but she was pretty sure she didn’t have it. Since money was tight, she’d been living on Pop-Tarts, and the mushrooms and eggs Abby gave her.

He opened the fridge, peered inside then turned to her in disgust. “One egg and a handful of mushrooms?” He stretched up to his full height, which had to be way past six foot, because, at five foot four, Jena felt dwarfed in his presence.

He folded his arms over his black T-shirt, making his muscles bulge, and for the first time in memory, Jena was distracted from her Pop-Tarts. Her mouth watered. There was actually something out there that was more enticing than a warm chocolate tart.

“What do you normally eat?” he demanded, breaking the spell his muscles had cast on her.

Jena pointed to the empty plate in front of her, while wondering if there was an IQ test to become a cop. Had he passed?

“I don’t understand how you manage to look the way you do,” he said. “The problems must be hidden under the skin. You’re probably a walking time bomb for diabetes and heart disease.”

“Well, thanks for that cheery thought.” She stuffed the last of the Pop-Tart into her mouth.

“While I’m here, I’ll take care of the food. There’s no way I’m living on those.” He pointed at the empty plate in disgust.

“Nobody put a gun to your head and forced you to eat it.”

Matt frowned, reached into the back of his jeans and came out with his phone. Still glaring at Jena, he dialled.

“Dougal, can you find someone to bring a couple of meals to Jena’s place?” A pause. “That would be great. There’s nothing to eat here.” Another pause. “Oh, you heard. Yeah, we’ll be needing breakfast as well. I’ll go shopping tomorrow and stock up. Thanks Dougal.” With a swipe of his thumb, he ended the call.

Jena noted that he didn’t even identify himself or say goodbye. Typical macho-man phone etiquette. Emily Post would turn in her grave.

4

Matt hated being idle, so he killed time waiting for food to arrive by stripping paper off the kitchen wall. Jena had disappeared into her bedroom to do who knew what, and Matt was stuck in the kitchen alone. He hadn’t seen the rest of the house and was too afraid to look. Who knew what he’d discover? Plus he wanted to put off finding out where he’d be sleeping. He feared he’d find a bare mattress in a room with holes in the walls. Memories of policing derelict houses full of druggies in Glasgow filled his mind. He never thought he’d be sleeping in the same conditions.

He didn’t know how Jena lived in this mess. Part of him wanted to pick her up and carry her off to his house. He might live in the ugliest house in Invertary, but at least it was in one piece.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Matt turned to find Jena behind him, hands on hips, tapping the toe of her ridiculous shoe on the old linoleum. “I’m sorry, did you want to keep this on the walls?” He couldn’t have stopped the sarcasm even if he’d tried—which he didn’t.

She speared him with a cute little glare. “No, but this isn’t the room I’m working on next. You’re messing with my plan. This room isn’t a priority.”