She rolled her eyes. Settled in with her hip against the counter, her arms crossed over her middle. Had they actually shared a meal at the table? No.
The aroma of the soup was getting to him. His stomach gurgled. He didn't waste time with a spoon, just inhaled it from the mug.
It was delicious. Granules of rice danced across his tongue, and the chicken was hearty. It couldn't be from a can. She'd made it?
"Thanks," he said as he set the mug down on the table.
"West called while you were out."
All the pleasure he'd just been feeling whisked away on icy wind. His headache intensified.
"Oh yeah?" he asked.
Why call on the house phone? Cord had had his cell on him all day long. If West had really wanted to talk, he would've called there.
Which meant he was taking the easy way out. As usual.
"He asked how you were doing. Said to tell you he was fine. Not to worry about him."
Cord leveled a glance on her. That sounded nothing like his brother. "If you're going to lie, you have to make it sound like itcouldbe true."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not lying."
Uh huh.
At a piercing pain behind his right eye, he put the half-eaten sandwich down. He'd take a Tylenol and go to bed.
"You guys don't get along?" she asked.
He shoved back his chair. "Not in about seven years." Longer. The night of the accident, Cord had ruined everything. His closest friendships, any chance he'd had that Grandma Mackie would fund a college education. He'd even lost his brother, though he hadn't known it at the time. All gone in the space of twelve hours.
"You'd like him," he told her. "He handles a military war dog."
West had always loved animals—especially dogs. When he'd been a boy, if there was a puppy within five miles, he'd sniff it out and go over to see it, even if it meant hiking in bad weather.
"That's a dangerous job."
He nodded. He tried not to think about it. Cord had left town after that fateful night. West had been stuck here for another two years until he'd graduated high school. He'd signed on with the Marines on his eighteenth birthday.
Thinking about his brother intensified his weariness. He pushed up from the table and picked up his plate and empty mug.
She reached for them before he got to the counter.
He held them out of her reach. "I can clean up after myself."
She tipped her head back, looking up into his face, giving him a clear look at her upturned nose, those kissable lips. A flash zipped through him, head to toes.
He squelched it, frowning.
"You look tired," she said. "Let me do it."
He felt beyond tired. He felt like an old man.
Fine. Stubborn woman.
He gave up the plate and mug and crossed to the medicine cabinet above the microwave. Rummaged inside until he found the Tylenol. "I'm going to bed. No sleeping in the mud room," he reminded her.
When he turned back to the kitchen, she'd pulled a face and was miming his words, even as she rinsed the mug in the sink.
