Wild Man Creek (Virgin River #14)(37)

By the time she pulled on some jeans, a bra and a T-shirt, and had combed her hair and applied a little lip gloss, she could already make out the good smells coming from the kitchen. She followed her nose and sat on one of the two stools at the kitchen island. He was busy at the stove and when he glanced over his shoulder at her, she smiled and said, “Do you suppose we could try something very old-fashioned? Like planning ahead?”

“We could try,” he said. “But if that was a rule, I wouldn’t be here now. And you’d hate that. Plates?” he asked.

She pointed to the cupboard above the stove. And then she just watched in fascination while he moved around her kitchen. She liked the way his butt filled out his jeans—his legs were awful long. So were his arms, she noticed. His hands were big, but he was surprisingly graceful. He fried bacon and sausage together, steamed the eggs, warmed the croissants, pulled a package of smoked salmon from his grocery bag along with a jar of capers and a container of cream cheese and put those in the center of the work island. He opened drawers until he found utensils; he folded paper towels for napkins. And right before sliding the eggs and meat onto plates he quickly, and thinly, sliced a red onion onto a small plate. And voilà! He was sitting down across from her.

“Not bad,” she said.

“Not bad? You are cruel! Considering what I had to work with, this is a feast! Picnic-style, but a feast!”

She laughed. “You’re right. Plus it beats the hell out of Froot Loops.”

“Do you really eat those things?”

“I love them,” she said with childlike passion, her mouth full of smoked salmon rolled around some cream cheese and capers. “You forgot the tomatoes.”

“I’m waiting for the Russian Rose,” he replied, and then he winked. “Seriously, a moment of truth, this is all I can cook well—breakfast. I make a mean omelet, too. I can turn a steak or hamburgers on the grill, but the rest? It’s a complete mystery to me.”

“If you’re going to cook one thing then why breakfast?” she asked.

“I love breakfast.”

She put down her fork. “Have you been married?”

“No. Why?”

She picked up her fork and dug into her eggs. “I just had this picture in my head of some sweet wife getting up at 4:00 a.m. to make perfect eggs before sending you off to your helicopter. And I kind of hated that vision.”

“I’ve never found a single woman in all my years of looking who would do that for me, so I did it for myself. And why would you hate that?”

She shrugged. “I always put in long hours. I really wanted a wife.”

He leaned toward her. “Jillian, honey, the whole world wants a wife. But we’re gonna have to make do. Now, what’s on your agenda today?”

“Moving all the seed cups from the porch into the greenhouses! Dan Brady—our friend from the bar—is going to come out later and show us how to install some lights. I won’t use chemical fertilizer on the seedlings, but I’m not above artificial lighting if it helps. I have a little golf cart kind of thing on order with a flatbed in the back—the kind landscapers and gardeners use—and it should be here today or tomorrow. That’ll get me between the gardens and greenhouses and this house. And, if you look closely at the front garden, you’ll see the veggies are coming up! Shoots from the carrots, leeks and scallions—little blossoms from the lettuce. There’s a lot to do.” She scooped up some sausage, egg and croissant and said, “You know, this may be your only talent, but you’re very good at it.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. Then the other corner. Then he showed her his beautiful, straight, sexy teeth and said, “It’s not my only talent, Jilly.”

Oh, yes, she wanted him. She didn’t necessarily want to keep him, but she wanted him. Her cheeks grew so pink, she could feel them burn.

“Oh, right,” she said. “There’s also flying and painting.”

He grew instantly somber. And quiet.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “I think I hit a raw nerve there.”

He chewed and swallowed before he said, “I wasn’t ready to be done flying yet. The accident pretty much forced me out of the Army.”

“What about civilian flying?”

“I wouldn’t pass a physical now,” he said. “But while I’m in Africa, I plan to look around at some of the flying over there. Might be a place to give it a go.” He shrugged. “Maybe they don’t look so closely at things like titanium rods and elbow screws.” He didn’t mention that it might be a bit more than the rods and screws that could keep him from passing a physical in the U.S. There could be a little issue about drugs and depression…

“It’s not just big game that has you running off to Africa,” she thoughtfully observed. “You crave ad venture.”

He shrugged and ate. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “A little action, maybe. Something that demands a little more of me than cleaning the paint off the brushes.”

“Are you bored?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Is that why you’re hanging around my back porch?”

That brought a grin out of him. “I get a kick out of you, that’s all.”

“You sure it’s not because I’m the only single woman within pitching distance?” she asked, lifting a shapely brow.