‘Your mother is waiting for grandchildren.’
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich masculine sound that triggered an answering feminine response deep inside her. ‘I hope she’s a slow knitter.’
Suddenly Anna found herself noticing the tiny creases around his eyes and the way his jaw flexed when he smiled.
Disturbed by such unusually intimate observations, she rose to her feet and walked towards the house. His voice stopped her in the doorway.
‘So, what are we eating tonight, Riggs?’
She turned back to face him, one brow arched in question. ‘How would I know?’
‘Perhaps because you’ve been living here for a few weeks? Presumably you’ve filled the fridge? Planned a few meals? Surprise me.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘You’ve been reading fairy tales again. I’m not Little Red Riding Hood and you’re every bit as capable of making a meal as I am. Probably more. You know where the fridge is, McKenna. If you want to eat, eat. Don’t involve me in it.’
She hated to cook, even for herself. There was no way she’d be
cooking for Sam. Unless she was aiming to poison him.
‘Well, presumably you have to eat at some point, too.’
She leaned against the door-frame, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her legs long and lightly tanned. ‘I don’t see why my eating habits are of any interest to you.’
‘It’s just that if you’re cooking, it’s as easy to cook for two as one.’
‘If you’re hoping I’m going to cook for you then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.’
Those blue eyes flashed a challenge. ‘Eating is supposed to be an opportunity for social interaction between people.’
‘People who like each other, McKenna. We don’t. All the more reason for us to eat alone.’
He straightened up, his body lithe and powerful, stretching his shoulders to relieve the tension. ‘All right. You never did quite have the woman thing sorted. So it looks as though I’m cooking.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Despite her vow not to rise to the bait, she couldn’t stay silent. ‘I’ve had enough of your digs for one night. What do you mean, I never did quite have the woman thing sorted?’
He hooked the empty beer bottle with his finger, his movements slow and casual. ‘You just don’t do woman stuff, do you? Never have.’
‘Woman stuff? What woman stuff? You want me to dress in pink?’
He grinned. ‘Can’t see you in pink somehow.’
She made a mental note to buy something pink at the earliest opportunity. ‘So what exactly do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘You don’t cook. You don’t play house. You just don’t do girly stuff.’
Girly stuff?
Annoyed that he’d managed to make her feel inadequate, she glared at him. ‘I have a full-time job, McKenna. And I eat perfectly healthy food—’
‘Sandwiches.’
‘I happen to like sandwiches. And I have a cleaner to do the house stuff. Or at least I did before I sold my flat. What you really mean is that you don’t want a woman with an opinion.’
‘An opinion?’ He laughed. ‘You’ve got so many opinions, honey, that talking to you is like negotiating an obstacle course.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ She frowned in irritation. ‘It’ll be a treat for you to hang around with someone who isn’t a bimbo for a while. If you get really lucky I might talk to you from time to time about something other than facials and pedicures. And don’t call me honey. It’s completely demeaning and it winds me up.’
‘That’s why I do it.’ He smiled smugly and strolled past her towards the kitchen. ‘All right, this once I’ll cook for you. But don’t get used to it. If we’re going to live together, you’ll have to contribute. If you like, you can wash my socks.’