Sunny Chandler's Return

“I’ll pass.”

“Then let’s go in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

“That’s where I keep them.”

Sunny was too stunned not to follow him into the room that overlooked a deep backyard. Ty went to a pantry and pulled the door open. He reached inside. When he withdrew his hands, Sunny closed her eyes, not believing that he could be so . . . crude.

“Popcorn and Cokes.” Her eyes popped open. He was juggling a plastic sack of popcorn and a six-pack of Cokes.

“Popcorn and Cokes!”

“I never go to the drive-in without them.”

She wanted to scream at him. “I thought—”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Her lips clamped shut.

“What did you think I came back here for?” His blue eyes narrowed on her. “Why, Miss Sunny, you can’t mean—you thought . . . ? When I said I always went to the drive-in prepared, surely you didn’t think I was referring to . . . I’m downright ashamed of you.”

“Will you stop that nonsense? Just hurry up so I can get out of here.”

Chuckling, he started to pop the popcorn. He turned on the burner beneath a pan and poured cooking oil into it, then tore open the package of popcorn with his teeth and shook the kernels into the oil.

“Make yourself useful and watch this while I ice down the drinks,” he told her. “And don’t let it burn. I hate it burned.”

Sunny, wearing a rebellious expression, moved to the stove. Ty had placed the lid over the pan. Kernels were already exploding against it. “Doesn’t the drive-in still have the concession stand?”

“Sure does,” he replied as he noisily emptied ice trays into a small, portable cooler.

“Then why are we popping our own popcorn?” She shook the pan, determined not to let it scorch after his superior admonition.

“I don’t consider it real popcorn unless it’s popped like this. My mother used to make it this way, before automatic poppers.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Neither of them is still living.”

“Oh. Brothers and sisters?”

“None. You like butter, don’t you?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

She nodded absently. “I think this is done. What should I pour it in?”

He produced a large plastic bowl with a tight lid. Since the drinks were ready, he took over the corn popping and popped two more batches before dropping half a stick of real butter into the hot pan. It hissed and sizzled and filled the kitchen with its milky aroma.

“Your domesticity surprises me,” Sunny remarked, watching him as he whirled the melting butter around in the bottom of the hot pan.

“In all honesty, popcorn is the only domestic thing I do really well.” His eyes moved from his task to her face. “In the kitchen, that is.”

Sunny dodged his piercing stare. “Fran said that you don’t eat too many dinners at home.”

“So you did talk about me.”

“I didn’t ask,” she said waspishly. “Fran volunteered the information.”