“Is it, though?” I glance toward the window that faces Mark’s cabin. “It’s not as though it’s unprecedented for family members to protect other members of the family through whatever means necessary.”
He gives a sharp nod, perhaps thinking about his own sister. “Point taken.”
This feels like a bigger victory than it is. “I’ve been trying to reach my mother on the phone,” I tell him. “I’m planning to ask point blank why Dante is here or what he’s been tasked with. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too alarmed.”
Trying, but not succeeding. Again, Bradley’s blue eyes bore into me in a way that suggests he knows I’m not wholly truthful.
But he doesn’t know for sure. I don’t know for sure.
And until I do, I need to keep my cards clutched tightly to my chest.
“Any more questions?” I cross my fingers he’ll let it drop. That we can move on and pretend this isn’t a big deal. Maybe it isn’t.
Bradley lifts a brow. “Should I be concerned I’ve invited a professional killer to poker night?”
I watch his face, unsure if the moment calls for gravity or levity. “Only if you cheat.” I smile to let him know I’m kidding, which I absolutely am. “Maybe we shouldn’t use the word hitman. I’m thinking bodyguard might be a more accurate translation?”
He gives me a dubious look. “Is this wishful thinking on your part?”
If only he knew how deep my wishful thinking goes.
“I’m fairly sure ‘bodyguard’ is an accurate translation of his job title,” I point out. “Besides, if he’d wanted to harm anyone here, he’d have done it already.”
“That’s mildly reassuring.” He leans back against the couch. “All right. I do think you should tell your siblings.”
“Tell them what?”
“That one of their resort guests isn’t just here for the golf.”
I nod and try to picture that conversation in my mind. Then I push those thoughts away because I’d rather not deal with it. Just one more reminder that I’m not like them, that I don’t really belong here. “I’ll try to clear things up.”
Studying my face, he shakes his head. “You sure this guy isn’t unhinged?”
“Positive.” Mostly. “I’m sure he’ll be a nice addition to poker night. And he’s an excellent cook.”
“Elk stew made by a hitman.” He shakes his head. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
“Bodyguard.” Why did I ever use that word?
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Probably all this talk of Dante’s elk stew. As my belly rumbles again, Bradley regards me curiously. “Need me to go?” he asks. “I know it’s kinda crucial you stick to a schedule for meals.”
I hesitate. I could usher him out the door now. Just be done with this conversation and all the awkward landmines it entails. Bradley might be curious, but he’s a doctor and a gentleman, and right now, those traits win out.
I swallow hard. “Stay. Please.”
“What?”
“For dinner. Please stay for dinner.” I jump off the couch, already kicking myself for my unwillingness to say goodbye to Bradley. I know that’s what’s best, but my foolish heart won’t listen. “Besides, I have dinner for Kevin. I’d like to see if the pig feed I bought is to his liking.”
Bradley stands, eyeing me oddly. “This is your way of ending the conversation without kicking me out?”
I consider denying it, but what’s the point? “I’m sorry, but there are some things I can’t share.” I swallow hard, holding his gaze. “But corndogs aren’t one of those things.”
“Corndogs?” He cocks his head. “Somehow, that’s not what I thought a member of a royal family would make for dinner.”
“Would you prefer tea and crumpets?” I laugh as I stretch up to grab the cornmeal, then the low-sodium salt I’ve been using. “I’m certain that could be arranged.”
“No, corndogs sound great.” He follows me into the kitchen with a bemused expression. “Haven’t had a corndog for years.”
“I assure you I make quite delicious corndogs.”
“Wait, you mean you’re making these from scratch?” Now he really looks impressed. “Okay, this I’ve gotta see.”
He slips past me in the kitchen, moving to the sink to wash his hands. I try not to let it affect me, his heated proximity or the sight of those long, sexy fingers moving with graceful efficiency. I know I should force myself not to stare, but there’s this American expression about doctors having a good bedside manner.
Doc Bradley has good bedside manner in the kitchen. And the living room. And, presumably, the bedroom. Why is it hot in here?
Tearing my eyes off him, I focus on getting out my mixing bowls and measuring cups. “They’re quite simple to make, though I don’t do it often.”
He dries his hands on a towel and watches as I dump vegetable oil into my favorite saucepan. “How did I never know you’re a corndog connoisseur?”
“I didn’t know.” I pull the milk out of the fridge, along with a carton of eggs. “I’d never even heard of corndogs until Jon and Blanka took me to a carnival not long after our surgery.”
I still recall the thrill of being part of the family, doing normal, American things. “I saw the corndogs and they looked so interesting,” I continue, “but clearly they’re not a good nutritional choice for someone watching sodium and taking anti-rejection medication.”
“That’s the bummer with a kidney transplant.” He braces both hands on my counter and I get distracted for a moment looking at them. “So many things you have to give up.”
I swallow hard and tear my gaze off his hands. “Yes, well, not corndogs, apparently. I wanted one so much that Sean worked with a dietician to develop a recipe more suited to my limitations. Once he perfected it, he taught me to make them at home.”
How easily the word “home” slips out, even though I know I can’t think that way. Also, my face is flaming from staring at Bradley’s hands and pretending I’m not. I turn and reach into the freezer and pull out the container of specially made hot dogs, prying the lid off to make sure I have plenty.
“Wait—are those homemade, too?” Bradley peers into the container, which thankfully, contains a dozen or more thick wieners that look much nicer than the ones I’ve seen in stores. “Hot dogs from scratch?”
“Yes, Sean makes them just for me.” A coil of family fondness wraps itself around my heart. How wonderful the Bracelyn family has been from the very moment I arrived. The debt of gratitude I owe them is immense.
But the other debt, the one to my family in Dovlano—
“I’m impressed.” Bradley inspects the tidy row of pink hot dogs. “Am I remembering right that Jon’s a corndog junkie, too?”
“Yes, we’ve remarked on that before. About studies where organ donors have passed along their culinary tastes to transplant recipients. Cases where someone previously detested tomatoes, but craves them after getting bone marrow from someone else who likes them.”