“We’d like the ranch to bring in more money,” Aubrey finally said, trying to sound as if it wasn’t critical, which only made Gina think it was.
“Money’s good.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. The Daltons’ finances were their business, not hers. And currently she was the last person to give advice.
She ran her hand over a cowhide ottoman to see if it was genuine, which of course it was, and moved on to a sofa that was upholstered in a complementary fabric to the club chair.
“How hard would it be to move all these pieces to the cabin?” She waved her hand at the collection. If she was going to be here for a few weeks she might as well furnish the place in stuff she loved, instead of the whole homeless encampment theme the former tenant had going on.
“Not hard,” Charlie said. “I could borrow Jace’s truck and between all of us we could carry everything.”
Gina rummaged through her wallet for her gold card. “Let’s do it.”
A few hours later, she sat in her new living room, admiring the changes. They’d managed to heft the old sofa into Jace’s truck for a dump run. The cabin still suffered from neglect and someone’s love of dirty beige. But the couch, chair, and ottoman were fabulous.
At two, she loaded her BMW and made the short drive to Sawyer’s. As usual, the front door was unlocked and she let herself in, hugging a boneless lamb shoulder and a bag of groceries.
Sawyer sat at the center island with his laptop. He lifted his gaze as she came in and went back to whatever he was doing.
She scanned the kitchen. “Do you have a tagine?”
“I left my last one in Morocco.” He rolled his eyes.
“How ’bout a Dutch oven?” She didn’t wait for him to answer and searched his cabinets, finding a nine-quart Le Creuset pot. “This’ll work.”
He shut the laptop and peered at her over his coffee mug. “What’s for dinner?”
“Spiced lamb tagine with couscous and a chickpea salad.” She found a cutting board in one of the drawers, put it on the counter, and eyed his plaid Carhartt short-sleeved shirt. “I see you have clothes on today.”
“Disappointed?”
The truth? Yes. He had lots of faults—crabby personality, for one—but the man had an extremely fine chest. Broad, bronzed, and cut. The rest of him wasn’t too shabby, either. Thick dark hair that begged for fingers, blue eyes that reminded her of a trip she’d taken to the Aegean Sea, and a body that was made for sin. Okay, she’d ripped that last line off fromWorking Girl, but it definitely applied to Sawyer.
“Not on your life, bucko.”
“Bucko?” He arched a brow, then turned his attention to the groceries she was spreading out on the countertop. “For the tagine, I presume. Didn’t know you did Middle Eastern food.”
“Just playing around with some new ideas.” For her show, everything had to be Italian, so it was nice to try something else for a change. Then there was the fact that there was nothing better to do here than cook. Unless, of course, she counted watching the toppling of her hard-won empire. She might as well test recipes. “I’ve got to let the lamb come to room temperature. It’ll take about an hour.”
In the meantime, she got to work on the chickpea salad, sliding a glance every now and again to Sawyer, who’d once again become engrossed in his laptop.
“What’s so interesting?” she asked.
“Working on a few things.” He flipped the cover down again, got up, and stuck his head in the fridge. “How long until that’s done?” He bobbed his head at the lamb.
“At least two hours, I’m afraid.” She shoved him out of the way, opened the fridge, and peered inside. There wasn’t a whole lot there, not even the leftovers from her soufflé. “I could make you a couple of eggs.”
“Nah, I’m not that hungry. The fridge thing is out of force of habit. I had a big breakfast over at Jace and Charlie’s after we moved the cattle this morning.”
“I saw you,” she said. “You woke me up.”
He looked at her and shook his head. “In the immortal words of my grandfather, ‘This ain’t no country club.’ Get used to it, princess.”
He let his eyes wander over her cutoffs. She couldn’t tell whether he was sneering or checking her out. Whatever. She didn’t care, she told herself, and finished making her chickpea salad.
“You have any plastic wrap?”
He got off the stool, rummaged through one of the drawers, and pulled out a box. She covered the salad and stowed it in the refrigerator.
“You don’t ever have to go into an office?” she asked, wondering how his journalism job worked.
