Chapter Three
Honey
I woke up to the sound of water running and a muffled curse from the bathroom. I blinked groggily at the unfamiliar ceiling. It took me a moment to remember where I was—Heath McGraw's bedroom, playing the part of the doting girlfriend to help him land a business deal.
God, my life had taken a weird turn.
I stretched, wincing as my back protested.
Despite having the bed to myself, I'd barely slept.
Every tiny noise—Heath's steady breathing from his makeshift floor bed, the distant lowing of cattle, the unfamiliar creaks of the old farmhouse—had kept me on high alert.
That, and the knowledge that I was sharing a room with six-foot-three of irritatingly attractive cowboy.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam.
Heath emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his broad shoulders.
I quickly shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep, but not before getting an eyeful that sent my pulse racing.
The sight of water trailing down the ridges of his abdomen made my mouth go dry, and I suddenly understood what "thirsty" meant in the modern sense.
"I know you're awake," he said, voice gruff with morning. "Bathroom's free."
I cracked one eye open. "Do you always parade around half-naked in front of houseguests?"
"Only the ones pretending to be my girlfriend." He crossed to the dresser and pulled out clothes. "Besides, if the Vickerys happen to come by, it would look strange if I was being overly modest around my supposed long-term girlfriend."
He had a point, though it didn't make the situation any less nerve-wracking. I sat up, keeping the blanket pulled to my chin like some Victorian maiden.
"I'll..." I gestured toward the bathroom, then realized I'd need to cross the room.
Even in the flannel pajama set from yesterday's shopping spree, I felt somehow exposed.
My hair looked like I'd been electrocuted, and I was pretty sure my morning breath could fell a small animal.
The chill of a Texas November morning seeped through the old farmhouse windows, making me shiver slightly as I contemplated the dash across the hardwood floor.
Heath seemed to understand my dilemma and turned his back. "I'll get dressed in the closet. Take your time."
I grabbed my toiletries bag from the shopping haul and scurried to the bathroom, locking the door behind me with probably more force than necessary.
The bathroom was still foggy, and Heath's scent hung in the air—cedar and coffee and clean sweat. I started the water again, hoping it would clear my head as well as the mirror.
Ten minutes later, I emerged feeling marginally more human, wrapped in a plush towel with my wet hair combed back. I'd forgotten to bring clothes in my rush to escape.
"Heath?" I called out, cracking the door enough to peek through. "Are you decent?"
No answer. I listened carefully and heard noises from the kitchen. With the coast clear, I went to my shopping bags and pulled out jeans and the cream-colored sweater. Once dressed and reasonably put together, I headed toward the kitchen, following the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon.
The scene that greeted me stopped me in my tracks. Heath stood at the stove, his back to me, frying what looked like half a pig. Sizzling bacon and sausage filled the air with a mouth-watering aroma that, as a vegetarian, I found both tempting and horrifying. A platter of toast was stacked nearby.
"Morning," he said without turning. "Coffee's ready."
I padded across the floor, drawn to the caffeine like a moth to flame. "What is all this?"
"Breakfast," he replied, flipping a sausage link. "Nothing says welcome like a pound of bacon."
I stared at the meat-laden skillet in dismay. "And what exactly am I supposed to eat? Besides bread?"
Heath glanced over, brow furrowing. Then his eyes widened with sudden realization. "Oh crap. You're vegetarian. I completely forgot."
"At least you remembered eventually," I said wryly, reaching for the coffee pot.
"I'm sorry," he said, and actually looked it. "I don't usually cook for anyone else. Never even known someone who didn't eat meat before."
"Don't worry about it," I said, opening the fridge to survey my options. "I'll make some eggs. I need protein to get through this morning."
I found the carton of eggs and a small block of cheese while Heath pointed me to a clean skillet. I cracked eggs into a bowl and then busied myself doctoring my coffee with sugar—a heaping spoonful, then another, and what the hell, a third.
"Sweet enough?" Heath asked, eyebrow raised as he watched me empty half the sugar bowl into my mug.
"I need the energy to face those two again." I nodded toward the window where the Vickerys' enormous RV loomed like a chrome spaceship that had landed in the yard. "Plus, it masks the taste of your backwoods beans."
His lips twitched. "I'll have you know that's premium dark roast."
"Premium in what century?" I looked at the small bowl of eggs I'd started whisking and immediately reached for more. "I should make enough for everyone, not just myself."
I cracked several more eggs into the bowl and grabbed the whisk again. The cheese would stretch further now, but eggs were eggs—even with the Vickerys' refined tastes, they'd appreciate a generous portion of fluffy scrambled eggs alongside Heath's meat feast.
"Thanks," Heath said, sliding me the salt and pepper as I worked. "I got caught up in the bacon and forgot about everything else."
As I poured the mixture into the larger skillet Heath provided, we found an easy rhythm in the kitchen.
He arranged his bacon and sausage on platters while I monitored the eggs, each of us somehow anticipating the other's movements.
He'd reach for a serving dish just as I finished with it; I'd step aside exactly when he needed access to the drawer behind me.
For two people who barely knew each other, we moved through the small kitchen with surprising coordination—like dancers who'd somehow skipped the awkward learning phase.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted our unexpected morning harmony.
"Right on time," Heath remarked dryly, glancing up at the wall clock. I followed his line of sight—sure enough, eight o'clock on the dot.
He went to answer while I hurriedly plated the food. I'd set everything on the table when the Vickerys swept in like visiting royalty.
"Good morning, lovebirds!" Earl boomed, clapping Heath on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince.
Dottie sniffed the air appreciatively. "Something smells divine."
Her eyes fixed on me, and I suddenly felt self-conscious about my damp hair and minimal makeup. She, of course, looked freshly pressed in her cream pantsuit, not a hair out of place despite supposedly having slept in an RV.
"Hope you're hungry," Heath said, pulling out chairs for them. "Coffee?"
"Please," Earl said, eyeing the spread with approval. "Nothing like a country breakfast to start the day right."
We settled around the table, the Vickerys on one side, Heath and I on the other—a united front. I reached for my fork, ready to dig into my cheese-laden eggs, when Earl cleared his throat loudly.
He gave Heath a pointed look. "Aren't you going to say grace, son?"
I froze, fork hovering mid-air. Grace? The only grace I knew was my mother's college roommate, and I was pretty sure that wasn't what Earl meant.
"Of course," Heath said smoothly, setting down his napkin.
We all bowed our heads as Heath spoke. "Lord, we thank you for this bounty and the hands that prepared it. Guide us through this day with clear minds and honest hearts. Amen."
"Amen," the Vickerys echoed.
Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out. "And a special thank you to the sweet little pigs who gave their lives so that others at this table might enjoy these delicious breakfast meats."
Dead silence.
I peeked up to see Dottie's hand fly to her pearl necklace, clutching it like I'd suggested we sacrifice her to a volcano. Earl's face had turned an interesting shade of purple. Beside me, Heath made a choking sound as he attempted to drink his coffee and suppress laughter simultaneously.
"I beg your pardon?" Dottie finally managed.
"Farm to table awareness," I said, smiling weakly. "Acknowledging the source."
Earl muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "damned libs" before stabbing a sausage link with unnecessary vigor.
Heath, bless him, jumped in to save me. "Honey's very conscious about ethical farming practices. It's one of the things that drew me to her."
He placed his hand over mine on the table, squeezing gently. His touch radiated heat through my skin, making my breath catch in a way Knox's never had.
"Is that so?" Dottie's pinched expression suggested she found this trait about as appealing as finding a roach in her cornflakes.
"Absolutely," Heath continued, his thumb absently stroking my knuckles in a way that made it hard to concentrate. "She keeps me honest about our operation. Challenges me to think beyond how things have always been done."
I stared at him, genuinely surprised. Was he actually defending my ridiculous outburst?
"Well," Earl said gruffly, "innovation is necessary in this business, I suppose. Though some traditions are worth preserving."
The rest of breakfast passed in strained small talk about the weather and local gossip. When we finished eating, I stood to clear the plates, eager to escape the tension.
"Let me help you with that, dear," Dottie insisted, gathering silverware.
In the kitchen, I fumbled with the unfamiliar cabinet layout, opening three doors before finding where the plates belonged. Dottie watched with hawk-like intensity.
"Not quite familiar with Heath's kitchen yet?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes sharp.
"I'm usually here on weekends," I lied, remembering our cover story. "Still learning my way around."
"Mmm." She handed me a glass to dry. "How old are you now, dear?"