I’ve been mulling things over—not the least of which includes the fact that beautiful and barely dressed woman has been asleep in my bed for the last two hours—nonstop since I helped her lie down. Since then, I’ve taken a hot shower to scrub the day off, changed into clean, warm clothes, prepped ingredients for the stew, and thought about her continually as I did. I might be going a little crazy. I swig some of Mr. Morris’s lager as I toss minced garlic into a pan with diced onion. The hiss is so satisfying.
Now, I’m not some stalker creep. When I pulled out her wallet to check for her ID, it was right there. Plain as day in black and white—her address is Hawk City, about two hours from Hawk Valley. The same city Beth was from, and where she moved back to. Seeing it written out made my stomach hurt, but not because it stirred any long-buried feelings for Beth. Absolutely not—more that it stirred memories of how much pain she put me through. For me, Hawk City will forever be linked to incredible heartbreak.
And Stephanie Ramirez—the woman who tried to kill me in “self-defense” with my own lamp, the woman who immediately moved something long dead in my heart with a flash of her fierce dark eyes, the woman who tried to quickly undress to get in my bed but whose delectable curves and ass nicely showcased in those lace panties I peeked at anyway—was from that same terrible place.
To be fair, it’s not the place that’s horrible. Hawk City doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to me. But something about it made me less than enough for someone I gave everything to, someone I gave every single part of myself.
Beside me, Sadie woofs and gazes up at me with pleading eyes. She’s after the raw roast I just cubed up to go into Mrs. Morris’s stew. Hopefully Stephanie likes beef stew and cornbread. Hopefully it’s not too simple for her tastes. Hell, I muse, taking pity on Sadie when she begins to whimper pitifully and tossing her a cube of raw Angus beef, maybe she’s vegetarian or a vegan. Beth had decided to go vegan in the last year of our relationship—the influence of the guy she started seeing behind my back, I later found out—and our once-fun nightly cooking routine became yet another form of separation between us.
I frown, adding the meat to the pan where onions and garlic sizzle. Why am I thinking about Beth so damn much right now? Irritation razes my chest. That part of my life is over. Just because a beautiful stranger whose life I essentially saved happens to be from the same city, that doesn’t mean I need or want to be thinking about Beth. Or, more accurately, what happened while I was with her.
I make a roux with flour and butter in another small pan, then add it to the stockpot where fresh veggies, herbs, vegetable stock, and beef stock concentrate simmer. It smells intoxicatingly good, and when I add in the seared beef, onions, and garlic to finish cooking in all that goodness, my mouth waters. It’s all underscored by the buttery and slightly sweet scent of the cornbread I made from scratch that bakes in the oven, another Mrs. Morris specialty.
Sadie whines and paces. The smells are driving her crazy too. Normally she adheres to a well-balanced diet of protein, veggies, and grains in a top-notch fresh dog food I buy from my buddy Clay who makes it, but whenever I make The Stew, she always gets a bowl to herself. A little chunk of cornbread included.
“Wow,” a slightly hoarse voice says behind me. “Smells great.”
I whip around.
Somehow, a disheveled Stephanie is even more beautiful than I could have imagined. I moved her suitcase to the bedroom I already decided I’ll relinquish to her, and she’s now dressed in a pale pink tunic top and leggings. For some reason, it makes me ridiculously happy she feels comfortable enough to dress down in my presence. I guess she’s decided I’m not a serial killer after all. Besides, the sight of all those gorgeous curves showcased to perfection in her tight clothing makes my mouth water more than the smell of the stew.
“Beef stew,” I tell her, unable to keep my gaze from traveling down her body. “And cornbread. Hope that’s all right.”
“Sounds great.” She still leans against the kitchen doorway, making no move to step toward me.
“You can come in, you know,” I say, turning around to give the stew a stir. It’s just starting to blurble. “I won’t bite. Or kill you with a stockpot or whatever. Of course, that’s more you’re speed.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Ha-ha. I haven’t decided you’re not a serial killer.” She folds her arms. Shit. There goes that. “But…I am starving. And that does smell marvelous.”
I chuckle. “I think the last time I heard that word was when my grandma said it. You don’t look like an eighty-year-old woman.” I cut a glance at her to make sure she knows I’m teasing.
Her pretty, pouty pink lips smirk. “I’m thirty-two.”
“Ah.” I nod, peeking into the oven to make sure the cornbread isn’t burning. “So saying things like ‘marvelous’ comes naturally?”
She shrugs. “I’m a teacher. I teach literature. I should have a large vocabulary, don’t you think?”
A teacher? Interesting. I wonder what she could teach me…or what I could teach her.
Okay, I know I’m an asshole for that thought, but I can’t help it. All those curves. Those thin, tight leggings. It’s getting hard to breathe.
“What grade do you teach?” I cover the stew with a lid and head to the fridge. “By the way, want a beer?”
She hesitates.
I hold up a bottle of Mr. Morris’s special stuff. “It’s damn good. Do yourself a favor.”
“Well, just one,” she says with a good deal of suspicion.
I pop off the top and hand her the bottle. “You can have as many or as little as you want.”
Another tiny smirk pouts up those lips of hers. “Few,” she says softly, taking the bottle. When our fingers brush, cool from the glass, I suppress a shudder down my spine.
“What?” I murmur. Phew? Like she’s relieved I offered her beer?
“‘You can have as many or as few as you want,’” she says, clearing her throat.
I blink several times. “Did you just…correct my grammar?”
She takes a sip of beer and holds up a hand. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“Oh, you’ve got jokes.” I chuckle and swig my own beer, returning to the stove to give the stew a stir. “And good grammar, apparently.”
She smiles. “I teach fifth grade, to answer your question. At a public school in the city.”
I nod slowly, the mention of the city dimming the glow in my chest. Get over it. “I noticed your address when I checked your ID. But not to come stalk you later,” I add, glancing at her over my shoulder.
She rolls her eyes. “Sure. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m lying in bed with a frying pan on my nightstand.”
“I’m sure you’ve got a man around who would do anything to keep you safe.” I return my gaze to the pot. Then something hits me. “Shit. You got someone waiting on you? My cell signal’s still knocked out, but maybe we could head down to the—”
“No,” she says tersely. “There’s no one waiting on me.”
The snap in her voice gets my attention. “Are…are you sure? It’s no troub—”