of me getting out of here this morning, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing,” he said defensively. “Places you’d rather be.”
“Not really,” she said cheerfully.
Richard stared at her. Only after he’d studied her closely did he detect the faint wariness in her eyes. She was putting on a show for him, and it was a pretty decent one. It had almost had him fooled.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked.
“Cereal will do.”
“I was thinking of making French toast with maple syrup. That’s what Destiny always makes when we’re here. She considered it a vacation treat.”
Her eyes lit up, and this time her enthusiasm seemed genuine. “And you can make French toast?”
He laughed at the hint of amazement in her voice. “It’s not that hard.”
He moved past her, gathered a few eggs, butter and milk from the refrigerator.
“I’ll set the table,” she said, heading toward the dishwasher.
“I’ve already put the dishes away,” he told her.
“How long have you been up?”
“Hours.”
She gave him a knowing look. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I’m always an early riser.”
“Not me. I like sleeping in. Being up at dawn is unnatural.”
“Not once you’ve seen a sunrise over the river,” he said. “Grab a couple of plates and a bowl, then come over here.”
She set the dishes on the table, then regarded him warily. “Why over there?”
“I’m going to teach you how to make this. You might as well go away from this weekend with one new skill.”
She backed off as if he’d suggested teaching her alligator-wrestling. “I don’t think so. You probably only have a dozen eggs here. I can ruin more than that without half-trying.”
Richard refused to back down. “Over here, or I’ll think you’re scared of being close to me.” He met her gaze. “Maybe even tempted to take me up on that proposition I made last night.”
“That was a bad idea,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I got that.”
“But I’m not scared of you.”
He bit back a grin. “If you say so.” He held out an egg. “Break this into the bowl. Try not to get any shell in there.”
She smashed it with so much enthusiasm, he suspected she was pretending it was his skull. Egg and shell dribbled into the bowl. He dumped the mess into the sink and handed her another egg. “Try again.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just went ahead and did it?”
“Easier, but you wouldn’t learn anything.”
“It’s not your job to be my cooking instructor.”
“It is if I ever expect you to prepare a meal for me.”
Her hand stilled over the bowl. “I thought we’d settled that. There’s not going to be anything personal between us.”
“That would be the smart plan,” he agreed, not entirely sure why he was so determined to pursue this. He was always, always smart. He skirted around mistakes at all costs, especially when they were staring him right in the face in a way that made them totally avoidable.
“It’s the only plan,” she insisted.
“Not really.” He placed a hand over hers and guided it gently to the side of the bowl, then cracked the egg. It fell neatly into the bowl without so much as a sliver of shell. Melanie stared at it in obvious surprise.
“Now do that without my help,” he instructed.
She broke another egg and then a third one, looking more incredulous each time she succeeded. “Well, I’ll be darned.” She gazed up at him. “Now what?”
“Now we add a little milk, a touch of vanilla, and whip it till it’s frothy.”
Clearly more confident, she reached for the milk and added a too-generous splash. She was a little too stingy with the vanilla, but he refrained from comment and handed her the whisk. She stared at it as if it were a foreign object. Richard bit back another smile. “You use it to whip the eggs.”
“Why not a beater?”
“This is easier.” He nudged her aside with his hip and took the whisk. “Like this.”
She watched him closely, a little furrow of concentration knitting her brow. He couldn’t help wondering if she was this intense about everything she did. Best not to go there.
“Now you do it,” he said, handing the whisk back.
She tackled the task with more enthusiasm than finesse, but she got the job done with only a minimal amount of splashing. There was enough egg left in the bowl for at least a couple of pieces of French toast.
Hiding his amusement, Richard put some butter in a pan, then handed her the bread. “Dip it in the eggs till both sides are coated, then put it in the pan once the butter’s melted. I’ll get the syrup.”
He turned away for no more than a few seconds, but that was long enough for her to manage to splatter her hand with the now-sizzling butter. He heard her curse and turned back to find her with tears in her eyes.
“Let me see,” he commanded.
“It’s nothing,” she protested. “Just a little burn. I told you I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”
“Not hopeless, just inexperienced. Sit down. I’ll get some ointment for your hand.”
“The French toast will be ruined,” she argued.
“Then we’ll make more.” He took the pan off the burner, grabbed the first-aid kit, then pulled a chair up beside hers. “Let me see.”
She held out her right hand, which already had a blister the size of a dime. He took her hand in his, trying not to notice how soft it was and how it seemed to fit so perfectly in his own. He put a little of the salve on the blister, but couldn’t bring himself to release her hand. Instead, he waited until her head came up and her gaze met his.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he apologized. “I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I don’t even know why I said those things. I just wanted to push your buttons, I guess.”
Temper immediately flashed in her eyes. “It was some kind of game? You didn’t really want to sleep with me? I knew it. What kind of man are you?”
