“Nice flowers.” Colt nodded toward a bouquet of white roses and golden-hued gardenias with a notecard peeking from the fragrant foliage imparting well wishes for a speedy recovery.
“It looks like a funeral parlor in here,” Frank grunted, wrinkling his nose in disapproval. “I’m dying, not dead.”
“You’re not dying, either,” Colt corrected emphatically.
Cassie had assured everyone at last night’s meeting that although Frank’s condition needed careful monitoring over the next several weeks, his doctor expected a full recovery if the unruly patient could give his body enough time to heal.
Frank opened his mouth—probably to argue—but snapped it shut when Cassie swept into the room carrying a wooden tray topped with stoneware mugs, a mismatched creamer and sugar bowl, and a French press containing piping-hot coffee. Luke followed with a heaping plate of raspberry mocha scones Colt recognized as one of Eliza’s many specialties at The Calendar Café.
“Glad to see you two getting along.” Cassie flashed an overly optimistic smile as she slid the tray onto the coffee table. After she handed Frank a wide-brimmed mug, she settled on the far end of the couch, nestling against Luke as he hooked one arm around her shoulders.
“So, how are you?” Luke asked Frank, attempting to fill the conspicuous silence.
“Peachy.” Frank took his first sip, the lines etched into his forehead detailing exactly what he thought of the doctor’s recommendation to drink decaf.
“Can we get you something from Jack’s for dinner tonight?” Cassie asked.
“I usually get the all-you-can-eat ribs. But since my house arrest prohibits me from going back for seconds…” Frank trailed off as a murky shadow clouded his countenance.
Colt shifted his weight, a knot of sympathy twisting in his gut. As someone who never stayed in one country for very long, let alone trapped in the same house, he bristled on Frank’s behalf.
“I guess the tri-tip special would be fine,” Frank said after a pause.
“How about something a little more heart-healthy?” Cassie pressed gently. “Like the barbecue chicken?”
Frank scowled.
“I can cook something,” Colt offered impulsively.
“You can?” Cassie tilted her head, studying him with newfound curiosity.
“Sure. I went to culinary school.”
“Only for two semesters,” Luke added.
“Haveyouever poached an egg?” Colt countered in mock offense.
“You have a point,” his brother chuckled.
“I never cared for poached eggs. All that orange goo oozing everywhere.” Frank shuddered.
Colt grinned, undeterred. “I can make whatever you want.”
The old man eyed him over the rim of his mug. “How about shish kebab? Authentic, like my Armenian mother used to make.”
“Frank, I didn’t know you were Armenian,” Luke said with interest.
“On my mother’s side. My father was more of a Heinz 57.”
“What does that mean?” Cassie asked.
“A little bit of everything,” Colt told her, his lips quirked. Turning to Frank, he added, “Consider it done.” While he’d only completed two semesters, he’d continued learning on his own, favoring French and Middle Eastern cuisine. If Frank wanted authentic Armenian shish kebab, that’s exactly what he’d get.
But for all Colt’s confidence, Frank didn’t look convinced. Although, hedidlook resigned. And Colt wasn’t sure which emotion he found the most troubling.
“Great. This is going to work out perfectly.” Cassie smiled as she nuzzled closer to Luke.
“But I can’t make it tonight,” Colt said quickly.
