Holly Jolly Cowboy (The Wyoming Cowboy #7)(12)

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes. Don’t change the subject—what are you doing here?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Tinny music from her earbuds blared on the counter—more Christmas songs. She turned around to flick them off and scowled at him again. He noticed that she wasn’t dressed like she normally was when she worked. Her hair wasn’t in a big, bouncy ponytail tied up with a Christmas bow, and she wore no makeup and her sweatshirt was loose and baggy. She was actually prettier like this, much to his disgust. Softer. More approachable.

He still hated her, though.

“If you must know, Sage hired me to cook for you guys while they’re gone on vacation. I’m taking care of the house and making sure you guys don’t have to look after yourselves.” She cast a look over her shoulder. “So get used to seeing me here.”

“She hired you to cook?” He’d thought Sage had gotten a housekeeper, not this nightmare of a woman.

“Yeah, me.” Something beeped and she bent over—her enticing butt in the air again—and then pulled a pie out of the oven and set it on the counter behind her. It was golden brown on top, with little cut-out leaves decorating the crust, and the scent wafting up from the pie was heaven itself. It smelled like steak, or something even better.

Adam rubbed his mouth, realizing just how hungry he was. “What is that?”

She glanced up at him. “Meat pie with potatoes and onions.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I like making the crust and it turns out well. Reheats well, too. That work for dinner?”

It smelled amazing, but he couldn’t resist needling her. “Maybe I don’t eat onions.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sarcastically. “I didn’t realize you were four. Does Carson eat onions?”

Her tone made him bristle. “He needs chicken noodle soup. He’s coming down with a cold and we can’t afford for him to get sick. We’re already shorthanded as it is.”

Holly—that was her name, he remembered—immediately grew sympathetic. “Oh, poor man. I’ll get right on it. Give me a few hours and I’ll bring him a thermos-full. I just need to make the noodles and cook up some chicken.” She looked around the kitchen, wiping her hands with a towel, and then began to pull out more bowls from under one of the counters.

So . . . what about his dinner, then? Adam glanced at the meat pie again. It really did smell amazing, and he was tempted to tuck it under his arm like a football and race back to his cabin with it. Doing that felt like it’d be admitting she was right, though. Right about . . . something. And he was not about to let her get the upper hand. “What am I supposed to eat? If you’re in charge of cooking?”

She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “I can make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, considering you’re four,” she said. “Give me a moment and I’ll even cut the crusts off for you.”

Okay, now she was really getting on his damn nerves. “I’ll eat the damn meat pie if you’re going to be such an ass about it. Here I was thinking you were here to cook for us, though. Guess I must have misheard that.”

A flash of contrition moved across her face and was swiftly gone. She straightened, gazing at him. “I am supposed to cook for you guys, yes. I didn’t know what you wanted, so I made the meat pie. It was one of my dad’s favorites in the winter. He was a ranch hand, too.” She set the bowls down and gave him a piercing look. “You tell me what you want to eat and I’ll make it for you guys. I have a menu planned for this week but it won’t do any good for any of us if you don’t like what I cook.”

As he watched, she set the entire pie atop a mason jar, which seemed odd to him. Then she loosened a key on the side of the pie pan and slid the pie out of the tin. A bit of gravy oozed out of the side and his stomach grumbled again.

“I’ll eat the damn pie for tonight,” he said again, pulling up one of the barstools at the island and thumping himself down. “But I don’t like onions.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” Holly put the pie on a plate and cut a thick slice. Hot filling threatened to ooze out of the crust, and the scent of it, like stew and fresh bread all at once, hit him like a brick. She put a fork on the plate and slid it down to him, then turned back to the stove.

He took the fork. “Hope it doesn’t taste like onions,” he muttered, just because he felt he had to say something. He sounded like a child, even to his own ears. Adam took a big bite and the taste was as good as it smelled. The crust melted on his tongue and the meat was soft and tender, the gravy delectable.

He’d die before he complimented her on her food, though. He ate another bite, and as he did, the tiny dog, which looked just like a stuffed animal, came trotting into the kitchen.

It gave him something else to focus on, at least. “What’s your dog doing here?” he asked between bites.

“What, I’m supposed to leave her alone in my apartment for a month?” Holly gave him a disgusted look. “You’d do that to your dog?”

Well, no, he wouldn’t do that to his dog. He’d never. Hannibal was his best buddy, a companion who never failed to be excited to see him and was utterly trustworthy. Sometimes it felt like Hannibal was the only one he could depend on. “Didn’t know you were staying here,” Adam grumbled. “That’s why I asked.”