Forget healthful living.
Think about feeding those hungry cowboys.
Think about that kiss. Nick’s lips on hers. So soft. So warm. So masterful…
Stop it, Lissa told herself sternly.
She sautéed the onions. Did the same with the thinly sliced potatoes. Got everything browned. Added the Spam. Let it brown, too. Added the drained cans of white beans. Beans and potatoes. Carbs and, for good measure, more carbs, really heart-healthy food, she thought wryly, but she couldn’t worry about that right now.
What she needed was a platter of food that would fill empty bellies.
And would taste…well, if not good, at least acceptable.
She added a generous sprinkle of garlic powder, even though only barbarians used powder instead of the real thing. A healthy belt of ketchup and, what the hell, a belt of the sweet chili sauce. Then she lowered the heat, slapped a cover on the pan, and reached for the loaves of stale bread.
The toaster would do only two slices at a time.
Useless for what she intended, so she lit the oven—fingers crossed as she did because it was a long time, a very long time since she’d used a pilotless gas oven that you had to light with a match—and turned to the worktable.
She sliced the loaves into thick pieces, spread them on the oven racks, toasted one side, turned and toasted the other. Then she dumped all the slices onto the table, buttered them, sprinkled them with garlic, used the really, really, really excellent knife to shave away the green yuck from what she’d hoped would turn out to be cheese, discovered that, hooray, it was cheese, put thin slices of it on the toast, gave the toast a quick run in the oven, took it out, sliced each piece in thirds.
Ready.
She uncovered the skillet of whatever it was she’d made, dumped the contents into an enormous bowl, lined a basket that could have held half a dozen footballs with a bunch of paper napkins she’d found on a shelf over the sink, dumped in the toast, took a deep breath…
Lissa carried the Spam du jour into the dining room and put it in the center of the table.
Nick wasn’t there.
Well, why would he be? The Lord and Master probably ate by himself—
She bumped into him as she hurried back into the kitchen. He had his crutch under his left arm; he was holding a stack of bowls, paper napkins and spoons in his right hand.
“I can do that,” she said, or started to say, but the look he gave her turned her mute.
Those eyes. So blue. So hot. So hot!
She tore her gaze from his, moved past him, grabbed the basket of toast sticks.
By the time she returned to the dining room, he was seated with his men.
He was eating, as were they.
They looked up when she entered the room and eyed the toast warily—she figured it probably looked like delicate fare—but he reached out, snared a piece and bit into it.
“Good,” he said, and six pairs of hands descended on the basket.
Lissa looked at Nick.
His eyes were still hot. Slowly, he touched the tip of his tongue to his bottom lip and licked away an errant crumb.
Her knees threatened to buckle.
Jesus!
What was she, fifteen? He was a good-looking guy. So what? A very good- looking guy…
Not fifteen. Thirteen, maybe, and all hormones.