Montana Dreaming: Their Unexpected Family / Cabin Fever / Million-Dollar Makeover. Judy Duarte
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he drew close, she caught a whiff of mountain-fresh cologne, menthol shaving cream and peppermint toothpaste. It was a taunting scent. Mesmerizing in a way. Her gaze locked on his, her pulse kicking up a notch. Did he know? Could he sense her inappropriate interest?
He cleared his throat. “It’s nearly nine o’clock, so we’d better think about breakfast.”
The husky sound of his voice, more graveled than usual, made her wonder if he’d ever been a smoker. If so, he’d given up the habit.
“You’ve got to be hungry,” he added.
She was. But she hadn’t realized it until now.
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll have a glass of milk. For the baby.”
He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. Then he rummaged through the cupboards, looking for a glass. She could have helped him out, she supposed, telling him where to look, but she watched him instead, her interest and curiosity piqued. There was something about a man in the kitchen. Especially that man.
There was so much she didn’t know about Mark, other than he was a reporter who’d once been a local boy.
“Do you still have family around here?” she asked.
His movements slowed. “Yeah. My parents.”
That was nice. “Do you see them often?”
“No.” He filled the glass until the milk frothed at the top. “My folks and I had a falling out years ago.”
“That’s too bad.”
He shrugged. “We were never that close anyway.”
“Have you tried a reconciliation?” She knew the value of a family, the value of turning the other cheek. Of appreciating each individual personality, in spite of the differences. And the value of appreciating what you had, while you still had it.
“We talk, if that’s what you mean. But we aren’t very close. And I like it that way.” He brought her the milk. “Do you have anything I can use to make breakfast?”
He was going to cook? By himself?
Her father and brother couldn’t have fixed themselves a meal—maybe because Abuelita had claimed the kitchen as her territory. And even after she passed away, they hadn’t stepped foot near the stove. So, at the age of ten, Juliet had taken over. And eventually she became a pretty decent cook.
“I have eggs and bacon in the fridge,” she told him. “Orange juice, too. And the coffee is in the small canister on the counter.”
“Okay. I’ll fix something for us to eat. You just rest.”
Actually, she thought watching Sir Rumpled Knight in the kitchen might prove to be entertaining.
And touching.
If she let herself dream, she could imagine falling for a guy like Mark. But Juliet knew better than to let any romantic, fairy-tale notions take root. Her heart had already borne more than its share of grief, and there was no need to set herself up for a fall that was easy to foresee.
Besides, Juliet came from sturdy stock. She was a survivor. And she didn’t need to be rescued, didn’t need anyone to look after her once the baby got here.
Especially not a globe-trotting reporter who’d made it clear that he was just passing through.
She returned her attention to the magazine she’d been reading, to the article on breast-feeding dos and don’ts.
And she remained focused on the words—until she caught a whiff of burning bacon and heard the squeal of the smoke alarm, as it ripped through the room.
Chapter Four
“Dammit!” Mark shut off the flame under the frying pan and turned on a fan that didn’t work.
A giggle erupted from Juliet, who sat on the sofa, but he ignored it as he hurried to place the smoking skillet in the sink, dump out the grease and burnt bacon and turn on the faucet. The water hit the hot pan, roaring and sputtering like someone had entered the gates of hell.
As the smoke alarm continued to blast, he looked up at the archaic safety device that didn’t have an on or off switch, then swore under his breath as he hurried to open the window, to let fresh air into the room, to allow the smoke to dissipate. All the while, the alarm continued to shriek like a drunken banshee.
By this time, Juliet’s giggle turned into a laugh, triggering a rush of embarrassment. Frustration. And anger at himself for getting distracted.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
Grabbing a dish towel from the countertop, he began fanning the smoke away from the kitchen, hoping it would clear the air and make the stupid alarm shut up. When that didn’t seem to work, he reached up, jerked open the plastic contraption and removed the batteries.
Silence.
Except for Juliet’s laughter.
When he glanced over his shoulder, he watched her belly jiggle with mirth. “Hey, stop that. Do you want to shake the baby loose?”
She placed a hand on her enlarged womb, as though trying to hold back the tear-provoking laughter, but it didn’t work. Between her chuckles, she managed to say, “I assumed you knew how to cook.”
“I do. But I’m not used to this stove.”
Her gaze scanned the kitchen and lingered on the newspaper spread over the gold Formica countertop—no doubt realizing what he’d been doing when the bacon got away from him.
The editorial had caught his eye, dragging him into small-town politics, the debate about the gold rush, and the fortune hunters who’d converged on Thunder Canyon with hopes of striking it rich.
Consequently, Mark had neglected to watch the stove, the flame, the sizzling meat.
“Anything interesting going on in the world?”
“Undoubtedly,” he said. “But I was reading the Thunder Canyon Nugget, which is chock-full of nothing.”
“Well, something obviously caught your attention.”
“Not really. The paper, like this town, can’t compete with the real world.” He turned off the kitchen faucet and nodded toward the sink. “I’m afraid that was the last of the bacon. And the pan needs to go in that Dumpster outside.”
“Don’t throw it away. There’s cleanser and steel wool under the sink.”
“I’mnot going to scrub this thing.” He chucked the pan into the trashcan. “I’ll buy you a new one as soon as I get the chance.”
She swiped at the moisture under one eye, evidence of her amusement. But she couldn’t hide her grin. “I’ve got cornflakes in the cupboard. And there’s a banana on the counter. You can slice it—if you like fruit on your breakfast cereal.”
Mark didn’t like bananas, didn’t like the taste or the texture. He’d eat his cereal plain, although he preferred a manly meal like bacon and eggs.
As he rummaged through the kitchen, looking for bowls and a box of cornflakes, he tried to shake off the image of what would have made a hearty breakfast going up in smoke. Of course, with all the fast food he’d scarfed down in his travels, his body could probably use the fiber from the cereal. Better to flush those arteries than clog them.
“It was really sweet of you to try and cook for me,” she said.
Yeah, well, he didn’t feel sweet. Or funny. And if someone downstairs heard that damned alarm and called the fire department, he was going to feel stupid.
A few minutes later, after the smoke had begun to clear, he fixed her cereal, adding the sliced bananas on top. Then he placed her bowl on the