for the word had passed around that the colt from old Regret had got away...”.’
‘“And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray”,’ he recited. His class had memorised that in the third grade.
‘Wild... Worth... Fray...’ she murmured in that honeyed liquid sunshine voice of hers.
‘Why?’
She shook herself. ‘No reason. Just an earworm.’
She seized her suitcases and strode back towards the house with them, and he couldn’t help feeling his fate had just been sealed by a poem.
And then it hit him.
Honey! The ingredient he’d been searching for was honey.
JO TOOK A couple of deep breaths before spooning spaghetti and meatballs onto two plates. If Mac said something cutting about her efforts in the kitchen she’d—
She’d dump the contents of his plate in his lap?
She let out a slow breath. It was a nice fantasy, but she wouldn’t. She’d just act calm and unconcerned, as she always did, and pretend the slings and arrows didn’t touch her.
Seizing the plates, she strode into the dining room. She set one in front of Mac and the other at her place opposite. He didn’t so much as glance at the food, but he did glare at her. Was he going to spend the entire week sulking?
What fun.
She stared back, refusing to let him cow her. She’d expected the shouting and the outrage. After all, he wasn’t known as ‘Mad Mac’—television’s most notorious and demanding celebrity chef—for nothing. The tabloids had gone to town on him after the accident, claiming it would never have happened if ‘Mad Mac’ hadn’t been so intimidating.
She bit back a sigh. It was all nonsense, of course. She’d had the inside scoop on Mac from Russ. She knew all of that onscreen TV shouting had been a front—a ploy to send the ratings skyrocketing. It had worked too. So it hadn’t surprised her that he’d donned that persona when she’d stormed in on him earlier. But the sulking threw her.
‘What?’ he bit out when she continued to stare.
She shook herself. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ She picked up her cutlery and sliced into a meatball.
‘You’re religious?’
‘No.’ The prayer had just seemed a convenient way to handle an awkward silence. ‘I mean, I do believe in something bigger than us—whatever that may be.’
Mac didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move to pick up his cutlery.
She forged on. ‘One of the guys on the mineral exploration camps was a Christian and we all got into the habit of saying Grace. It’s nice. It doesn’t hurt to remember the things we should be grateful for.’
His frown deepened to a scowl. ‘You really think that’s going to work? You really think you can make my life seem okay just by—?’
She slammed her knife and fork down. ‘Not everything is about you, Mac.’ She forced her eyes wide. ‘Some of it might even be about me.’ Couldn’t he at least look at his food? He needn’t think it would taste any better cold. ‘Your attitude sucks. You know that? Frankly, I don’t care if you’ve decided to self-destruct or not, but you can darn well wait until after Russ has recovered from his bypass surgery to do it.’
‘You’re not exactly polite company, are you?’
‘Neither are you. Besides, I refuse to put any effort into being good company for as long as you sulk. I’m not your mother. It’s not my job to cajole you into a better temper.’
His jaw dropped.
And he still hadn’t touched his food.
‘Eat something, Mac. If we’re busy eating we can abandon any pretence at small talk.’
A laugh choked out of him and just for a moment it transformed him. Oh, the burn scars on the left side of his face and neck were still as angry and livid as ever, but his mouth hooked up and his eyes momentarily brightened and he held his head at an angle she remembered from his television show.
It was why she was still here. Earlier this afternoon he’d fired up—not with humour, but with intensity and passion. He’d become the man she’d recognised from the TV, but also from Russ’s descriptions. That was a man she could work with.
Finally he did as she bade and forked a small mouthful of meatball and sauce into his mouth. When he didn’t gag, a knot of tension eased out of her.
‘This isn’t bad.’ He ate some more and frowned. ‘In fact, it’s pretty good.’
Yeah, right. He was just trying to butter her up, frightened of what she might tell Russ.
‘Actually, it’s very good—considering the state of the pantry.’
She almost believed him. Almost. ‘I’ll need to shop for groceries tomorrow. I understand we’re halfway between Forster and Taree here. Any suggestions for where I should go?’
‘No.’
When he didn’t add anything she shook her head and set to eating. It had been a long day and she was tired and hungry. She halted with half a meatball practically in her mouth when she realised he’d stopped eating and was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘I wasn’t being rude. It’s just that I haven’t been to either town. I was getting groceries delivered from a supermarket in Forster.’
‘Was?’
He scowled. ‘The delivery man couldn’t follow instructions.’
Ah. Said delivery man had probably encroached on Mac’s precious privacy. ‘Right. Well, I’ll try my luck in Forster, then.’ She’d seen signposts for the town before turning off to Mac’s property.
He got back to work on the plate in front of him with... She blinked. With gusto? Heat spread through her stomach. Oh, don’t be ridiculous! He’d had his own TV show. He was a consummate actor. But the heat didn’t dissipate.
She pulled in a breath. ‘I’m hoping Russ warned you that I’m not much of a cook.’
He froze. Very slowly he lowered his cutlery. ‘Russ said you were a good plain cook. On this evening’s evidence I’d agree with him.’ His face turned opaque. ‘You’re feeling intimidated cooking for a...?’
‘World-renowned chef?’ she finished for him. ‘Yes, a little. I just want you to keep your expectations within that realm of plain, please.’
She bit back a sigh. Plain—what a boring word. Beauty is as beauty does.
