“I was laughing at the recorder. That’s every kid’s first instrument, isn’t it?”
He set a plate on the coffee table and rested his hands on his hips. Strong, tan hands. “It was my first instrument. I kept it because it’s special.”
“I feel like a jerk. Laughing at that.”
“You should.”
I hid a smile behind my fist. Our gazes locked, and I felt that flutter in my stomach. It crept up to my throat and threatened to spew from my mouth.
“You can make it up to me,” he said.
“How?”
“By trying that.”
I glanced at the table. Two thick slices of swirling cinnamon bread lay on a plate. Butter dripped down the sides. “You want my opinion of a recipe?”
“I made it today.”
My eyebrows shot to peaks. “You bake?”
“I’m not just another pretty face.”
I laughed.
This was strange. A man had just been murdered. Was Roan flirting with me? Weirder yet, was I flirting back?
No. That was preposterous. We were enemies. I felt it to my core. From the moment he tried to lift me up and carry me inside, I knew he was my newest sparring partner. He was awesome for giving a good tongue lashing to.
Yes. That was it.
But anyway, I could at least try the bread. I hadn’t eaten supper, and the warm, comforting smell of cinnamon was slowly trickling through the room.
I moved away from the wall, fully expecting to fall down without it to balance on. But I was okay. I crossed to an antique Chippendale chair and sat.
Roan lowered himself to the couch and offered me the plate.
My gaze darted to him. “It’s not poisonous, is it?”
“For some reason I have a thing against murdering paying guests. I like my money.”
“Fair enough.”
“Of course, you haven’t actually paid a dime yet.”
I cringed. “Sorry. I’ll get my wallet.”
He raised a hand to stop me. “You can do it tomorrow.”
I licked my lips at the bread. This was going to be heaven, I could tell. When I finally sank my teeth into it, sugar and cinnamon seeped onto my tongue. The bread was spongy and rich with butter. There was a party on my tongue.
“This is amazing. Where’d you learn to bake like that?”
“I taught myself.”
“Well, I’d like to learn that.”
What was I saying? I ate out every night—Chinese or Thai. I could barely boil an egg, and sometimes those cracked in the pan from the jostling water. I wasn’t interested in learning how to bake.
