she removed a delicate blue-and-white teacup and saucer. “Mrs. Ledbetter is turning fifty on Sunday. She commissioned me to make her birthday cake.”
“You must be a talented baker.”
She shrugged. “I know my way around a kitchen.”
For years now, she and Jane had earned income by providing desserts to the Plum Café. Every day save for Sunday, they’d baked pies, cakes and assorted treats for delivery before the evening meal. When the café switched owners in August, the sisters hadn’t anticipated the new one wouldn’t require their services. The canceled agreement had come as a shock, and the extra money she’d grown accustomed to had all but dried up.
These personal orders helped but weren’t consistent.
Grant sat with one arm tucked against his ribs, his busted hand resting protectively over his wound. “Have you ever thought about opening your own shop?”
Jessica inhaled sharply. Lee had asked that exact question right there on their front porch. At the time, she and Jane had been comfortable with their arrangement with Mrs. Greene, the former owner. The notion had struck them as far-fetched. In recent weeks, dogged by a restlessness she couldn’t pin down, she’d revisited the idea.
“I mean, I haven’t sampled your food,” he went on, “so I couldn’t say if folks would pay money for it. For all I know, this Mrs. Ledbetter hired you because she feels sorry for you.”
She set the cup carelessly on the work surface, and it rattled in its saucer. “I’ll have you know, folks around here clamor for my baked goods. My sister and I have a reputation as the finest bakers this side of the Tennessee River.”
Soft laughter rumbled through his chest. Jessica stood immobile, affected by his grin, the flash of straight, white teeth, the way his entire face lit up like a vivid autumn day. Between those sparkling bright eyes and the boyish smile, this man was downright lethal to a woman’s good sense.
“You are infuriating, you know that?”
“And you, Jessica O’Malley, are easy to rile.”
Attempting to stifle her growing irritation, she proceeded to ignore him as she readied his tea. She didn’t say a word when she placed the cup and honey jar in front of him.
She gasped the instant his fingers encircled her wrist and prevented her from moving away. His skin was hot, rough in places, the bones underneath strong. Working man’s hands.
His face tilted up in appeal. Up close, in this sunny, cheerful kitchen, she could see the large bruise on his cheekbone, the split in the middle of his lower lip, threads of navy interwoven with cerulean blue in his irises. There was a jagged scratch on his neck she hadn’t noticed before.
Despite the fact his presence was like a splinter beneath her skin, this man had endured a lot of pain. Nothing in his current situation was familiar. Her heart thawed another degree, and it frightened her.
“Apparently I’m a tease.” His soft voice cloaked her. “Maybe I grew up with a passel of sisters.”
“It’s also possible you have a fiancée or wife somewhere out there who’s willing to put up with you.”
Dismay creased his brow, and he released her. “Maybe.”
Feeling as if she’d kicked an injured dog, she went and removed the almonds from the stove and transferred the heavy sack of flour to the counter. How would she feel if her entire life had been wiped clean like a slate? Her loved ones, her home, forgotten?
It hurt to imagine.
Measuring out the flour, she risked a glance at Grant, who was quietly sipping his tea, lost in thought.
“Would you like for me to wash your hair? After I finish with this?”
At his startled reaction, she bit the inside of her cheek. Where had that come from? Her guilty conscience?
He lowered his cup, touched a hand to his nape. “That would be wonderful. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“You wouldn’t make it to the stream in your condition,” she quipped, striving for an offhanded tone. “This is the next best option.”
He lumbered to his feet. “And I’m sure you’d appreciate it if I didn’t smell like yesterday’s hog slop.”
Jessica almost admitted that was not the case. She’d been in close contact with him twice now and hadn’t been offended. He smelled of earth and leaves, leather and spruce. He smelled like the forest.
“That’s right,” she replied instead. “I’d much rather you smell like my favorite rose-scented soap.”
“Roses. Now, that’s masculine.” His attempt at lightheartedness was unsuccessful. “Thanks for the tea.” There was a stiffness to his manner that hadn’t been there before. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
Returning her spoon to the bowl, she wiped her hands on her apron and trailed him to the dining space that housed a larger, more formal table. Between the busted ankle and tender side, his progress was incredibly slow.
He stopped her with an upheld hand. “No need to follow me. I can make it on my own steam. May take a while, but I’ll get there.”
She started to argue—her wish to be rid of him not the only reason for her concern—before thinking better of it. She may have grown up in an all-female household, but having Josh, Nathan and Caleb for neighbors and playmates had taught her much about the male ego. Grant was already beholden to them, dependent on their whims. He wouldn’t appreciate any further coddling.
Returning to the kitchen, her attempts to push him out of her thoughts failed spectacularly.
* * *
He woke with aching muscles and a head full of cotton.
Contemplating the yellow-hazed dusk blanketing the mountain view, he took a full minute to remember where he was. The soft click of metal alerted him to the fact he wasn’t alone. Adjusting the pillow beneath his cheek, he studied his self-appointed sentinel in the glow of lantern light, admiring the way her hair shimmered like liquid fire rippling over her shoulder.
The light smattering of freckles added an air of playfulness to her otherwise elegant features. False advertisement, in his opinion. He’d yet to glimpse any upbeat emotion in her. He wondered how she’d look without the sour attitude, found it tough to imagine her laughing, her eyes brimming with warmth and good humor.
What had stolen her joy?
A furrow pulled her fine eyebrows together, and her mouth was again pressed into a frown. Her focus was centered on the half-finished project in her lap. Various-colored yarns filled the basket at her feet.
“What are you working on?”
She lifted her molten gaze, her expression frustratingly blank. “A new rug for the rear entrance.”
“You shoot, bake and create works of art out of yarn and burlap. You’re a woman of many talents.”
“No more than any other woman in
