Not because it was messy, though there were a few dishes stacked in the sink, but because the pots hanging from a rack over the stove looked slightly worn. Well used. Because there was a jug of utensils—mismatched ones—sitting next to the gas stove. The ones tucked inside a fancy stone container that had sat next to the stove in the condo she’d shared with Ros had all been carefully matched and had stayed that way for the simple reason they’d never been used.
A rustic loaf of bread sat on a scarred cutting board and the coffeepot—the real kind, not one of the fancy pod deals that she was used to—sat on a cast-iron stove grate.
There was a farmhouse sink, a doublewide stainless steel refrigerator and a sturdy wood table in the middle of the room. The counters were butcher block, the floors were slate, and the colorful modern painting hanging on one wall was probably an original.
She peered at the slanted signature in one corner below the swirl of squiggles covering the canvas. Soliere.
She’d never heard of the artist. But that didn’t mean anything. She’d never bothered with art studies. She’d been more interested in passing the bar exam.
Feeling bemused, she set her car keys on the table. “This is, ah—”
He waited, eyebrows raised, and she felt her cheeks flush. “Is...what?”
“Nice,” she finished a little helplessly.
His lips twitched. “Meredith would thank you.”
Meredith. His stepmother. Ros’s mother.
For some reason, it relieved Nell to know he’d had help with the kitchen. As if he, too, might share some of her kitchen incompetence.
“How is Meredith?” She’d first met Ros’s mother when she’d been a teenager. But the last time she’d seen her had been at least a few years ago.
“Happily wallowing in grandparenthood.” His tone was dry. “Every one of my sisters is diligently practicing the ‘be fruitful and multiply’ thing these days. Well, except for Rosalind.”
“Wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Nell murmured.
He gave her a quick look. “Ros is pregnant?”
“No.” Then she shook herself. “Not that I know of, anyway.” It hurt to think that as things stood now with Archer’s sister, Nell would be the last one with whom Ros would share that sort of news. “She mentioned that her boyfriend was interested in starting a family. That’s all.”
Archer looked thoughtful for a moment. Then his eyes glinted as he rested his hand on the refrigerator door. “Interest you in something to drink?” He waited a beat. “Champagne?”
She gave him a look. She needed no reminder that her last interlude with champagne had landed her in his guest room. “Water is fine,” she overenunciated. And had a flash of Montrose’s face in her mind as a result.
Archer’s smile twitched and he reached into a cupboard instead of the fridge. He filled the glass he pulled out with water from the tap and set it on the table next to her car keys. “There is something else I need to break to you, though.” His voice turned serious.
Unease crept through her. Something worse than his grandmother’s brain tumor? “What?” Caution practically dripped from her voice.
“I only have the one steak.”
Her shoulders sagged as unease trickled away. “You are—” she jabbed her finger into his shoulder “—impossible.”
“It’s a big one, though,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “One of those cowboy cuts.”
She didn’t know a cowboy cut from a finger cut. But she did know that her stomach was growling.
She rubbed her palms down the sides of her skirt. It had already been so late when she’d gotten away from Vivian’s that she hadn’t wanted to take the time to change before driving out here to feed the cat. “Is there somewhere I can wash up?”
He looked like he wanted to start laughing again. “Worried I don’t have indoor plumbing?”
“If you don’t stop laughing at me, you can start worrying what I might do to you if I get my hands on one of those pots hanging behind you.”
“I don’t laugh at you, Cornelia. I laugh with you.”
She gave him a deadpan stare. “Am I laughing? I wasn’t aware.”
He chuckled and gestured over his shoulder toward a darkened doorway. “Second door on the left.”
She went through the doorway and startled when a softly golden light automatically went on.
A farmhouse with tech.
Trust Archer Templeton to have it.
She found the bathroom and washed up, staring at her reflection in the oval mirror hanging above the pedestal sink. He obviously had a predilection for them. She didn’t care how many pedestal sinks he had in however many bathrooms.
She just needed to remember she shouldn’t have a predilection for him.
She returned to his kitchen, resolutely keeping her curiosity about the rest of his house under control. He was standing at the butcher-block counter wielding a knife, and for a moment she watched the play of muscles beneath his shirt.
She moistened her lips, hovering there, feeling warm inside. Why, why did he have to be the one to ring those bells?
“Don’t just stand there,” he said without looking around at her. “Salad makings are in the fridge. Tomatoes are on the counter in a bowl. In case you don’t recognize them, they’re the round, shiny red things.”
She flushed and yanked open the refrigerator door. Her idea of preparing a salad was to tear open a bag of the premade stuff.
There wasn’t any such animal in his fridge, though.
She pulled out a bunch of romaine from the crisper drawer and carried it over to the counter near where he was working. She had seen a cooking show a time or two. Or at least had flipped past a cooking channel on the hunt for something more interesting. She could fake it.
She peeled off the rubber band keeping the lettuce leaves contained and hesitated.
Archer stopped chopping and set a large, holey bowl on the counter next to her. He began chopping again.
Garlic. That she knew simply because of
