Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

“Soup?”

“Yeah. Vegetable and barley. I opened the first can I found on the shelf. I hope that’s all right.”

Her stomach growled. He looked at her and grinned.

“Was that a vote of assent?”

“I’m starved,” she admitted.

“Good. So am I.”

She watched as he opened cupboards, took out bowls, plates, slid open drawers, reached in for spoons and napkins. He seemed at home. Silly thought. He was at home. It was just that it was difficult to imagine a man like this being comfortable in a kitchen, but he was.

“What can I do to help?”

He motioned to the pair of high leather stools drawn up at a black granite counter.

“No, seriously. There must be something I can do.”

“You can check that top drawer. The deep one. That’s it. I’ve been away but my housekeeper expected me back today or tomorrow. With luck, she did some shopping and there’s some bread in the drawer.”

There was bread. A crusty loaf of it. Jaimie found a knife, cut off a few slices and piled them in a straw basket while he ladled the soup into bowls and arranged them on the counter along with the spoons and napkins.

“Dinner,” he said dramatically.

She dug in.

The next time she looked up, her bowl was empty. So was his. The loaf of bread was gone. He must have sliced the last of it.

“Oh, wow,” she said softly.

He smiled. “My sentiments, exactly.”

She reached for the bowls. His hand closed around hers.

“Leave them.”

“The least I can do is clean up.”

“After I did the cooking, you mean.”

He was smiling. She smiled, too.

“Hey. A working girl opens cans for dinner all the time. Nobody ever said that wasn’t cooking.”

“What about takeout?”

She grinned. “I’m excellent at that, too.”

“Nobody else around to do the cooking?”

It was a simple question. Why did her throat suddenly constrict? Was it because his smile had changed, become personal and very, very male, and she felt it straight down to her toes?

“No.”

“Are all the guys in D.C. fools?”

“Mr. Castelianos—”