“Shit. I gotta go.”
“Who’s Bert?”
“That’s me. Being called Bert is a f**kload better than the sissy-ass name Liberty that Mom saddled me with. Jesus.”
“At least you didn’t have kids calling you Harpy.”
“True.”
“Be safe.”
“Always. Love you.”
“Love you too.” The line went dead.
Two hours later, not even the scent of tomato sauce, melted cheese, and oregano coaxed Bailey out of her room. Harper ate alone, and wrapped up a package of leftovers for Bran. She shoved the rest of the food in the fridge and headed out to the ranch, trying to shake the feelings of desolation and isolation.
Ridiculous how happy Bran was to hear Harper pull up. He paced the short length of his living room, forcing himself to wait a solid minute before he opened the door.
Then he felt like a total heel because her arms were loaded with stuff. “Hey. What’s all this?”
Harper didn’t say anything until she’d set the plastic grocery bags on the table and started to unload containers. “I hope you don’t think I overstepped my bounds as your employee, but I had food left over from our supper, so I brought you some.”
Bran tried not to stare at her with distrust, but he’d become wary of women who “had a little extra food.” They always had an ulterior motive, usually a night or two in his bed. But some made no bones about the fact they wouldn’t mind cooking for him every night. Nothing sent him into full retreat faster than a woman thinking she could set up housekeeping with him.
Even a woman like Harper? Who is gorgeous, sweet, funny, and sexy as shit?
Before he could figure out Harper’s motive, she began putting all the containers back in the bags.
“Whoa. What are you doin’?”
“Taking this back to the truck.”
“Why?”
She gazed at him coolly. “You don’t want it. I was stupid to assume you would. It won’t happen again.”
Guilt kicked him in the ass. “Look, Harper, it’s nothin’ personal. I just get suspicious of women who want to feed me.”
“No need to explain, boss.” She sidestepped him and reached the door before he stopped her.
“Goddammit, wait just a second.”
She blinked those hard, whiskey-colored eyes at him.
“It’s a knee-jerk reaction, okay? I know you’re not one of the local women who see a bachelor and think the way to my heart is through my stomach and I’ll be so damn grateful for a homecooked meal that I’ll propose marriage. We both know that ain’t the case with you. You’re leavin’ at the beginning of the summer.”
When her eyes didn’t soften at all, Bran swore. “Jesus, I’m doin’ this all wrong. You did something nice for me just to be nice, and I threw it back in your face. I’m sorry. Really goddamn sorry. Been a long damn time since anyone has done anything nice for me without wanting something in return. Obviously I don’t know how to act, and my grandma is probably spinning in her grave. So if it ain’t too late, I’m starved, the food smells great, and ... Thank you for thinking of me, Harper.”
Her lips curled into a smile. “Apology accepted. But you lost any hope of me dishing it up for you.”
“Hell, I’m such a boor I’ll probably just eat it right out of the damn container.”
She handed over the plastic bag. “Have at.”
Bran spread everything on the table and opened the fridge. “You want a beer?”
“No.” She paused. “You know what? On second thought, yeah, I could use a beer.”
“Me too.” He popped the tops on two bottles of Bud Light. “Ah. You want a glass or something?”
She shook her head and took a long drink.
He grabbed a fork and lifted the lids on the food. Lasagna. Some kind of veggie salad. And bread. Soft, fresh, homemade bread. He might’ve actually moaned a little. God knew, his mouth was watering like a busted sprinkler. He took a bite. Yep. It was as delicious as it smelled.
Neither spoke as he shoveled in every morsel. He mopped up the last of the red sauce from the lasagna with the last hunk of bread. Then he pushed his chair back and sighed. “That was amazing. Can you cook like that every night?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Will you marry me?”
Harper laughed. “No. Way. I’m getting out of Dodge, remember?” She swigged from the bottle and smirked. “And to think I didn’t even make dessert.”
You could be my dessert.
“You’d be putty in my hands if I whipped up a batch of my triple chocolate caramel brownies.”
You’d be putty in my hands if you let me put my hands on you.
“Bran?”
He drained his beer. “Sorry. I got to thinking about something else. We’d better get a move on before I start to feel sleepy from that tasty supper. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad someone appreciated it.” She gathered up the containers and set the plastic bag by the front door.
“Didn’t Bailey like it?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t come out of her room.”
They stood in the small entryway, donning the heavy winter clothes that were such a pain in the ass to take on and off multiple times during the day. He whistled. “Harsh.”
She shrugged. “Her loss.”