“A contract.”
“North Sea Platform.”
“Welding.”
“Yep.”
“And you want to spend your down time cooking upscale diner food for a woman you’ve never met?”
“Frank helped me get through the worst time of my life. He mentioned the shit hit the fan around here and asked me to swing by and help. So here I am.”
The way Frank manages to get things done, even from within the state penitentiary, is impressive. And annoying.
“Is this like some prison blood debt or something?”
“No, ma’am.” His sudden half-smile is scarily beautiful. “It’s what you call friendship.”
I manage to keep myself from rolling my eyes at him, lest I insult the only option I currently have. “Are you a decent cook?”
“I am.”
“Care to show me?”
“If you show me your kitchen.”
There’s no reason on god’s green earth that should sound lascivious, but it does. Or maybe it’s my poor sex-starved libido, grabbing at straws.
Because I’m an adult—and probably ten years older than this guy—I ignore any and all innuendo, intentional or not, and lead him into the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, I bite into the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever eaten. Ever.
The outside’s got just the right amount of crunch, the cheese oozes out and—most surprisingly—he’s served it with a little tomato, parsley, and shallot salad that tastes like sunshine in my mouth. It takes every bit of restraint I’ve got not to polish the whole thing off, moaning, as he looks on.
Instead, I set aside what’s left of it with great regret, and hire him on the spot.
He nods toward the plate. “You should finish that.”
“Let’s get your paperwork done first.”
“Rather not. I’m just here as a favor.”
“And I’d rather be insured when you’re in my kitchen,” I tell him, although more than that, I want to not owe this man morethan I already will. “Besides, stopping by to check on me at my brother’s behest is one thing. Working for free is another.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well I do. I’ll pay you the going rate.”
I lead him to the office in back, where we get everything sorted, including tax forms that show his permanent address as being in a town just over the mountain.
“It’s a bit of a drive.”
“Don’t mind. Pretty nice after spending weeks out on the water.”
“Is that your address year-round?”
“Got a place there. Place out west and another on the gulf. I use ’em as base camps between jobs.”
I glance down at his hand, which is devoid of ornamentation. Unless you count all the ink. “Married?”
