Chapter Eight
“Whew,” Harry said as they passed Ivan. She fanned herself for emphasis.
Whew, indeed, though Rory didn’t comment. He couldn’t. The memory of Ivan’s intense expression incapacitated his ability to deflect and bullshit. Rory had to interlace his fingers to keep his hands from shaking. Keep your cool, buddy.
Harry glanced over at his face, then giggled the entire length of the ranch’s long driveway.
Rory just smirked and shook his head, unsure of what he should do or say.
Once she cleared the gate, Harry gave the convertible some gas and shot down the road.
She drove fast enough to turn the landscape into a colorful blur outside his window.
Rory pictured her in the summer with the top down and her long red hair blowing in the wind.
The sunlight would bring freckles out on her pixie nose.
“Damn, girl. Are you a stunt driver in your spare time?”
Rory knew there was no way in hell she had room for a side hustle.
She’d loosely referred to herself as a housekeeper, but he thought Cash’s CEO of domestic operations was more apt.
Overseeing the small staff that kept the mountainside manor in pristine condition was only a small part of her daily tasks.
Harry threw her head back and laughed at his silly question. “Just a girl who has one mode: full steam ahead.”
Rory had already figured that out when she rolled out her spring agenda, which encompassed every aspect of the homestead from cleaning to inventory.
There wouldn’t be a pantry, refrigerator, or walk-in freezer shelf left unanalyzed.
“I’m kind of surprised you haven’t gone into business for yourself,” Rory said.
“A restaurant or maybe even a B and B. You have the knowledge, skills, and drive to see it through.”
“Not the capital,” she replied. “And I’m not much of a risk taker, even if I had the money. I have the best of both worlds. Cash gives me free rein so I can live the life of a chef without the financial risk or stress.”
Rory had to admit, she seemed very content. “How’d you come to work for Cash?”
“You don’t believe he met me in jail?” she asked.
“Nope,” Rory replied without hesitation. “You wouldn’t have gotten caught.”
Harry laughed and executed a sharp turn on two wheels. “I answered an ad he’d placed in the local paper soon after we moved to Colorado from Tennessee. How do you know so much about food?”
Rory snorted. “I just love to eat. I grew up around people who excelled at cooking and baking. They were patient and indulged my curiosity when I was young and encouraged it when I was older. My interest in food transformed from preparing and consuming it to figuring out why it binds people. During my travels, I learned that food is a love language every culture speaks. You may not speak the actual language, but you know love and joy when you taste it.”
“That’s beautiful,” Harry replied. “And so very true. We should recreate some of your favorite meals from your expeditions and share them with the ranch,” Harry said. “We could all stand a little culture.”
“Count me in.”
Rory didn’t know where the closest international store was but quickly realized he didn’t need to worry about it.
The market in Last Chance Creek was a miniature version of the ones he found in big cities.
The vast selections of fruits, vegetables, meats, and pantry staples blew Rory away.
Did he attempt true replicas of his favorite meals, or should he try fusions, using unique ingredients to enhance the meals the crew expected?
His mind went into overdrive with all the possibilities in front of him.
He expected smoke to escape through his ears at any minute.
Harry laughed and hooked her arm around his. “We can stick to my list for now and plan a thorough menu later.”
“I like that idea,” Rory agreed. Let him work Ivan out of his system a little and free up some room in his brain for something besides the sexual positions and maneuvers he wanted to try on Ivan the Hung.
Harry spent a long time in the aisles dedicated to baking, checking out the various chips on hand. “Can’t decide on toffee or chocolate chips for the cookies.”
“I say both,” Rory replied.
She beamed up at him. “I say you’re a genius.”
Rory grabbed a bag each of white, sweet, and dark chocolate and held them toward her to choose from. Harry chose milk and dark, and he put the white chocolate back on the shelf and eased the cart forward. “What are the cookies for?”
“Poker,” she replied.
Rory stopped and arched a brow. “You’re coming too?”
“Honey,” she drawled like a Southern belle, “everyone will be at poker tonight. I know that’s the last thing Ivan wants, so I came up with a strategy.”
He wasn’t too pleased with this news either. “And that is?”
“Put them in a sugar coma so they won’t stick around long,” Harry replied.
“And if that doesn’t work?”
Harry winked and said, “I have a backup plan. Have no fear.”
“You’ve piqued my interest,” Rory said. “Do tell.”
The grin Harry aimed his way was downright cheeky. “Oh, you’ll know when I deploy it.”
Laughing, Rory said, “When? Don’t you mean if?”
“I mean what I say and say what I mean, love,” Harry replied. “Though my baking skills are legendary on the ranch, I believe the chemistry sparking between you and the big guy outshines even my talents.”
“I love your well-earned swagger,” Rory said. He thought she was teasing about the latter part of her statement, but Harry’s stone-cold sober expression said otherwise.
“Are you prepared for that level of scrutiny?” she asked.
“I’m tougher than I look.”
“I have no doubt about that,” Harry said. “Would you care to guess whose sweet tooth is as big as the rest of him?”
“You’ve seen the rest of Ivan?” The words were out before Rory could clamp his smart mouth shut.
“Sorry,” he said, tightly gripping the shopping cart so he didn’t fall into the trapdoor that opened straight to hell.
Would he at least have time to pass go and collect two hundred dollars first?
He had staples to buy before his extended stay like moisturizer to keep his skin from drying out in the heat and booze for cocktails.
According to the zealots, any person with a spark of creativity or personality would burn in hell for all eternity.
And every good gay knows you don’t arrive at a party empty-handed.
Harry snorted, and it snapped Rory back from his ambling thoughts.
If he had a dime for every time a teacher commented on his lack of attention, he’d have blown his fortune on booze and boys a long time ago.
“Do I even want to know where your mind went just now?” she asked.
“I’d like to say I was racking my brain for a good cookie recipe to make for Ivan. Just because and for no other reason,” he added when Harry smirked.
“But you don’t want to lie?”
“That’s right,” Rory said. “But now I’m thinking about cookies for Ivan.
” He narrowed his eyes and cycled through some of his favorite recipes from over the years.
“He seemed to really like the touch of savory in his blueberry cobbler yesterday. I bet he’d equally enjoy a salty and sweet combo.
” The perfect recipe came to him. “Kitchen sink cookies.”
Harry arched a brow. “Not sure I’ve heard of those.”
“You throw in everything but the kitchen sink. It’s about texture combinations as much as flavors.” It was one of his mama’s favorite recipes.
“Sounds fun.”
“Does Ivan like coconut?” he asked.
“Yes, but he’s probably the only one besides me.”
Rory added the smallest package of coconut flakes to the cart, but Harry swapped it out for the largest bag.
“A big man eats a lot of cookies.”
They doubled back and added more chocolate to the cart.
White chocolate was hit or miss with most people, but the naysayers usually didn’t like it because it was so much sweeter than its cousins.
The macadamia nuts, dried cranberries, and pretzel bits would counter the sweetness of the triple chocolate chips he used.
“I have never been so excited to try a cookie before in my life,” Harry said when they loaded the groceries in the trunk of her car. “I think you might be hazardous to my waistline.”
“Nah,” Rory scoffed. “I’ve seen your to-do list, remember?”
The next stop was a diner in the center of Main Street.
Last Chance Creek was a charming town, a throwback to a different era but thankfully one with electricity and running water.
Hope was already seated inside. She waved to them from a vinyl booth overlooking the bustling street.
Whatever was happening there captured Hope’s full attention and caused her to glower out the window.
The feisty woman practically vibrated with tension.
When they arrived at the booth, Rory followed her line of sight and noticed a large gathering of people dressed in simple, old-timey clothes.
The women wore simple dresses in drab colors and the men wore white shirts and equally boring pants.
In the center of the group, a white-haired man stood on something that elevated him above everyone else.
He lifted a leather book in one arm, and Rory assumed it was a Bible.
“Are those people actors?” Rory asked, then forced his gaze back to Harry and Hope, who sat across from him.
Harry snorted. “Kieran thought something similar when he arrived last year. He thought it was a reenactment for tourists.”
“It’s not?” Rory asked.
“I wish,” Hope said bitterly before forcing her gaze away from the window.
“Blasted any of them with a Super Soaker lately?” Harry asked her mother.
Hope’s frown turned upside down, and she grinned like the Cheshire cat, which was apropos since Rory was feeling a little like Alice. “No, but the day is still young.” She darted a glance at the gathering once again, and Rory noticed the mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“So who are they if they’re not actors?”