daily basis. “I’ve got a foreign buyer coming by. If he nibbles, it’s a big sale, so a little wining and dining seemed in order.”
And Marianne’s dining was the best. She might call the place a “diner,” but the swankiest place in Colorado could take a few pointers from her food. She’d become the go-to spot for catering lately, weddings and funerals, and everything in between.
A disturbing thought occurred to him. What if Marianne had run into trouble?
“Is there a problem? I know I didn’t give her much notice, but Marianne said she could handle it. If she can’t—”
“She can.” Crimson shifted the baby to her other shoulder. “But the way she’s handling it is to ask me to do most of the cooking. I’ve done that for her a couple of times, when she’s been in a pinch. But this time the arrangement seems unnecessarily complicated, don’t you think? I just thought I’d let you know, in case you’d like to eliminate the middleman.”
“No, damn it.” He frowned. “I deliberately didn’t mention the dinner to you because you’re doing too much work around here already.”
And that was absolutely true. Not only did she take care of Molly, and spend hours driving to and from Montrose to see Kevin at the hospital, she’d taken over the cleaning, as well. And for these three days she’d cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner and sent it out to the stable office, where he often ate his meals while he worked.
Then, in the evening, when he was struggling with feeding the horses, she’d somehow materialized in the stables, with Molly in a backpack carrier, and pitched in there, too.
The extra pair of hands was a relief—a godsend, really—but it also made him uncomfortable. When he’d accepted her offer to stay here, he certainly hadn’t intended to turn her into the full-time housekeeper.
And they hadn’t talked about money yet, either. He hoped she knew he intended to pay her for everything. He hadn’t forgotten she’d just been fired, and if she weren’t stuck tending to Molly she’d probably be out there lining up a new job.
“For me, cooking isn’t work,” she said. “It’s fun. I’m pretty good at it.”
He’d discovered that months ago—everyone had, because her contributions to any get-together were always so delicious no one could believe she concocted them in an efficiency apartment’s kitchen.
And since she’d been staying in his house, he’d learned firsthand just how amazing her skills were. And not just with food. With the whole domestic scene.
Because they’d met outdoors, doing manual labor for their outreach program, and, he had to be honest, partly because she was a straight-shooting, spiky-haired body modification artist, he’d never thought of her as the domestic angel type. But boy, had she surprised him. His half-renovated mess of a ranch house had never felt so much like a home.
Maybe that was partly why he was so wrong-footed around her these days. She was so different here...not at all the woman who deliberately preferred to be called Crimson Slash. In fact, it wasn’t until he saw her in her robe the other morning that he’d noticed that her spiky, red-tipped hair was growing out in soft waves around her chin. And wasn’t even red.
“If we’re trying to impress this buyer, I’ve got a beef Stroganoff that’ll have him on his knees.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “And hey...if you’ve got a spare French maid costume lying around anywhere, I can guarantee a meal he’ll never forget.”
Grant’s imagination served up a quick vision of Crimson in a flouncy black miniskirt and lacy apron. A quick sizzle shot through him—much like the one that had blindsided him that first morning, when he made the mistake of helping her arrange her bathrobe.
He squelched it as quickly as it appeared, as he’d been doing ever since that morning. Indulging even an unspoken attraction to this woman was wrong in so many ways. First and foremost: Kevin.
“Can’t say I’ve got a French maid costume lying around,” he said, laughing easily to show what an innocent joke it all was. “Besides, if you’re going to help with dinner, you’re not going to be masquerading as an employee. You’ll eat with us.”
She was already shaking her head, but he didn’t give her time to protest. “Seriously, Red, you’d be doing me a favor. He’s bringing his girlfriend, and it’ll be more comfortable if I’ve got a date, too.”
She flushed, like a sudden sunburn, and he wished he’d bitten his tongue. Why had he used the word date? That wasn’t how he meant it. He just thought that, in case Stefan was the jealous type, the man might prefer his host not to be conspicuously single.
Crimson wouldn’t be a date. She would be his ally.
So dumb. But to be fair, when had conversation with Crimson become so touchy? Up until three days ago, she’d been the most comfortable female buddy he’d ever had. She was smart, sassy, straightforward and fun. Good-looking, but not hungry for admiration. Actually quite the contrary—with her spiky red hair and no-nonsense clothes, she seemed to be asking for some space.
Around Crimson, Grant could always just be himself. Easy, relaxed, uncomplicated. And then she’d moved into Kevin’s room, and suddenly everything changed.
Well, maybe it was time to change it back.
“What’s that scowl about?” He reached out his good hand and tapped the furrow between her brows. “Since when did the idea of eating dinner with me become a fate worse than death?”
She laughed sheepishly, smoothing Molly’s hair, clearly not wanting to meet his eyes. “It’s not. It’s just that I don’t want you to think—”
“I don’t think anything...except I’m not going to sit there pretending to be the cowboy king while you slave away in the kitchen. You’re not my maid. You’re my friend. Eat with us, or I’m sending out for burgers.”
“Marianne’s too busy even for that.”
“Not Marianne’s burgers.” He tilted his head. “I was thinking maybe the Busted Button.”
“No way!” Crimson’s eyes widened in mock horror. The fast-food joint’s real name was Buster’s Burgers, but their billboard screamed “Fat and Happy—Guaranteed!” above a picture of a cartoon French fry with the top button of his blue jeans popping off, so no one in Silverdell ever called it anything but the Busted Button.
She narrowed her eyes, obviously well aware she was being played. “You’ll never close the deal if you go to Buster’s. Your buyer will be dead of a heart attack before dessert.”
“Exactly.” He grinned. “So. Deal?”
It was her favorite shorthand phrase, one she used when she was sick of debating.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes in that sardonic way he knew so well. He felt his shoulders relax. His good friend Red, who could dandle a baby, cook a gourmet meal and still call baloney when he tried to pull a fast one, was back.
“Deal,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Molly and I have some grocery shopping to do.”
* * *
MONDAY
