Picture Perfect Wedding (3 page)

Luke lived alone and tonight’s meal was going to be a reheat of last night’s leftovers—a meal he’d cooked and it hadn’t tasted or smelled like this the first time. Someone was cooking in his kitchen. Only the entrenched routine drilled into him by his parents of entering the house and leaving the farm behind had him washing his hands before he marched into the kitchen. Erin Davis was moving methodically around the old farmhouse table laying silverware, the pattern on her bold, black-and-white polka-dot Capri pants making his eyes spin.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

She looked up and smiled brightly. “Country hospitality.”

He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “You’re from the city.”

“How do you know that?”

He couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Your clothes, your fear of cows and general aversion to mud.”

Her chin shot up. “No woman, city or country, is ever going to enjoy a manure bath.”

He stifled a desire to smile at her indignation and the way it made her eyes sparkle. “True, but then there’s that white fluff you insist on calling a dog. No self-respecting country woman would be seen dead with something like that in her purse. But more to the point, nowhere in the hostess handbook does it say coming uninvited into someone’s kitchen is the definition of country hospitality.”

Her smile faltered slightly but she extended her arm in a ta-da flourish. “I’ve cooked you a ‘thank-you’ meal.”

His stomach betrayed his chagrin at her being here, by rumbling in response to the delicious smell of roasting meat emanating from the oven. Every other part of him thought she shouldn’t be here at all.

Why?
How is this any different from Mrs.
Norell stopping by with a cake or a casserole and staying for coffee?

It was plenty different. He’d never once tried to picture the sprightly sixty-five-year-old woman naked, whereas he was having trouble thinking about Erin any other way.
Shit.
He hadn’t realized that by not dating, it had put him seriously off his game. It had to stop. Visions of black lace and creamy breasts had to go. Erin Davis was annoying, had a useless excuse of a dog and, in the classic sense of the word, she wasn’t even pretty.

Harnessing his determination to get his body back on an even keel, he fixed his gaze on her large nose. “You thanked me by leaving after I towed your car.”

Her teeth snagged her bottom lip and his gaze slipped momentarily. He hauled it back.

“Words weren’t enough. Supper is the least I could do.”

“Hmm.”

Her smile looked forced. “Farmers really are men of few words.”

Actually, Luke enjoyed a good discussion over either a beer on a hot night or a fine wine with a special meal, but he had no plans to disabuse her of her preconceived ideas.

The tip of her tongue briefly touched the peak of her lip and then she cleared her throat. “Despite what you think about me, I do realize I caused you unnecessary work today and I feel bad that Maggie-May ripped your jeans.”

The bruise on his leg throbbed. “Keeping that
thing
away from me is more than enough thanks.”

Her eyes flashed like sunlit shards of jade and with a jerk, she gripped the back of the nearest chair, her knuckles turning white. As she straightened the chair, the legs scraped loudly against the floor, but she remained silent.

The fact she hadn’t rushed to defend her dog both surprised and disappointed him in an odd sort of way. He couldn’t work her out. When she’d knocked him into the mud, she’d had no qualms telling him exactly what she thought but now she said nothing? He surreptitiously studied her face and detected a tension around the edges of her mouth hovering under the smile.

Something was definitely up. He’d bet his bottom dollar there was more to this “thank-you” supper than just gratitude for towing her car. Exactly what though, he had no clue, but he felt sure it was connected with the reason that had initially brought her to the farm this afternoon. The fact she was now being so polite indicated that she wanted to keep on his good side.

His stomach rumbled again. Although his first reaction to finding her in the house had been to ask her to leave, needs won out. Lunch had been a very long time ago. He was very hungry, and the food smelled delicious. An idea started to form. He could enjoy a home-cooked meal
and
get her not only to leave the house and farm, but more importantly guarantee that she’d never want to return again. Given she had him pegged as a stereotypical farmer, why not behave like every cliché rolled into one? This was going to be fun.

Regretting he didn’t have a piece of straw to chew and that he’d done the right thing by hanging up his hat before entering the kitchen, he now sat down at the table. Overriding years of exceptional table manners along with the fact he’d always treated women as equals, he picked up the knife and fork, balanced them on their ends and brought them down onto the table with a clunk. “I’m starving. Bring it.”

Her finely shaped chestnut brows hit her hairline but again she didn’t rise to the bait. “Certainly.”

She walked into the kitchen and dished up roasted vegetables and succulent prime rib and he caught a flash of pastry in the oven. Pie? His mouth watered and he had to silence the admiration he always voiced for anyone who could put together a meal. Sadly Wade had inherited the cooking gene from his talented mother, leaving Keri and himself struggling to fry eggs.

Erin returned to the table holding a gravy boat and expertly balancing two plates on her arm, waitress style. She slid one plate in front of him and positioned the boat before circling the table to sit opposite him.

As she started to lower herself into the chair he said, “The Anderson men have always eaten alone.”

She stalled, her body hovering just above the chair. “Excuse me?”

He pointed with his knife. “My mother served us and then ate her meal at the counter standing up in case we needed anything extra.”

Her eyes widened into huge discs of green similar to the waters off the coast of Australia and he had the distinct urge to lean forward and dive in. Instead he shoveled a large piece of meat into his mouth and said, “Get me some water.”

If she’d been standing in the woods on a hot day, the sparks from her eyes would have started a forest fire, but still she didn’t light into him with the expected verbal attack. Instead, her body coiled with tension and she rose, picked up her plate and returned to the kitchen. With her back to him he allowed himself a smile at the massive effort she was putting into not stomping or throwing her meal at him. Meltdown was only a matter of time.

“Would that be iced water from the filter or bottled water?” Her voice was pure, excessively polite waitress but she hadn’t quite managed to school her face into a bland, non-judgmental expression.

“Filtered.”

The clink of the ice dispensing from the door of the fridge filled the room along with his deliberately loud chewing.

“Here you are.” Her voice was as cool as the ice in the glass she put down in front of him. “Anything else I can get you?”

“A beer and more of those potatoes.”

“Right away.” She turned and he thought he heard her mumble, “I hope you choke on them.”

He grinned. The meat was sublimely tender and melted in his mouth. The potatoes were crunchy on the outside and oh so creamy on the inside, and the beans—cooked to perfection—snapped in his mouth. Apart from the times Wade invited him over to the B and B, he hadn’t eaten this well or had this much entertainment in a very long time.

Erin wanted more than anything to shove a roast potato up Luke Anderson’s left nostril, but she doubted that would help her cause. The idea of cooking him a meal had come to her like manna from heaven when she’d been standing in the Whitetail Market and the gregarious owner, John Ackerman, had proudly told her about his locally supplied organic meat and fruit and vegetables. She’d always thought there was a kernel of truth in the old saying of “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” and although there was no way she wanted Luke’s heart, she did want his sunflower field. No, she needed his sunflower field—her future was predicated on it.

Prior to her brilliant idea, she’d been racking her brains about the best way to approach the topic, given she’d caused so much chaos on arrival and Luke was so grouchy. She’d been absolutely certain that if she’d floated her request at any time between knocking him into the mud and him towing her car, it would have resulted in an instant “no” and she planned to do everything possible to avoid that answer. After her shower, she’d done a quick explore of the bathroom vanity and had been pleased to find an absence of scented soaps, boxes of tampons and women’s moisturizing razors. That, combined with the house being empty of people, made her conclude that Luke lived alone. Sure, it was brash coming back and using his kitchen uninvited, but farmers did a lot of physical work, right, so she’d been confident that once
hungry Luke
tasted her food, he’d forgive her that one teeny-tiny indiscretion.

She’d expected him to be his usual grumpy self when he returned from the dairy, but she’d pictured herself apologizing and him accepting it before they sat down together to enjoy the meal with a glass of Wisconsin Domaine du Sac which was a perfect match for the meat. The food and wine would mellow him and take the edge off his irritable demeanor, and only then, after he was filled to the brim with two servings of her cherry pie, would she serve coffee and introduce the subject of the sunflower field.

That
had been the plan.

The plan hadn’t even got to first base before it imploded. The reality was that, despite Luke Anderson’s gorgeous work-toned and tanned body, golden stubble and sky-blue eyes that would make a Hollywood talent scout take a second look, he was not only farmer-grumpy, he was also Neanderthal Man and a misogynist rolled into one. No wonder he’d hardly given Connie the time of day. She tried not to shudder as she recalled the half-masticated meat she’d glimpsed when he spoke to her with his mouth full. As for his “women belong in the kitchen” thing, she wanted to take off her shoes and hurl them at his sun-bleached head.

“Seeing you’ve been slow coming over with those extra potatoes, you can add some more meat too.”

She turned to see him holding out his plate toward her while he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt.

Every part of her wanted to scream in horror.

Chill.
Remember the reason you’re here.

She served the extra meat and potatoes and then ate her meal at the counter, trying to work out her next move. Her gaze roved over the kitchen. The wallpaper was slightly faded but it was still a warm and cozy room—the heart of a home—and it was well stocked with cooking equipment and very clean. It didn’t match up with the man in front of her who was inhaling her carefully prepared meal as if it was merely fuel, and not to be savored for flavor or enjoyment. Perhaps he paid someone to come in and clean? She recalled he’d thought she was a cleaner when she first arrived.

She heard the scrape of his chair and looked up to see him walking toward the door carrying his plate.

Panic made her blurt out, “Where are you going?”

“Mac can finish this up.”

“You’re giving your dog USADA prime rib?” She couldn’t stop the rising inflection in her voice.

He shrugged. “Real dogs eat real meat, but then you wouldn’t know about that.”

Yet another crack at her dog had her best intentions fraying fast. “I suppose he’ll lick the plate clean and save you washing it?”

The corner of Luke’s mouth twitched. “Oh, I don’t wash up, Erin. That’s women’s work, but if you want Mac’s help, I’m sure he’ll oblige.”

She knew he was serious about the washing up but she wasn’t certain if he was yanking her chain about the dog licking the plate or not. After he’d gone through the door she peeked out the window onto the porch and saw him rub the dog’s black-and-white ears. She thought farm dogs were always chained up because they were working dogs but this one wasn’t leashed and he seemed to have a comfy bed in a sheltered position. Although she could see Luke’s mouth moving, she couldn’t hear what he was saying to the dog. With a final pat on the head, he set the good china plate in front of Mac, totally bypassing scraping the meat into the blue dog bowl.

Holy crap.
She really was dealing with the most uncouth guy she’d ever met. How was she going to explain the aesthetic value of art and photography to someone like that and have a hope in hell he’d understand?

The screen door slammed and she jumped back guiltily from the window as he returned to the kitchen. His questioning eyes flickered over her face and she felt her cheeks flame at being caught. Then to her horror, a tingle of attraction shimmered deep down inside her.
No!
No way.
Not now I’ve seen him eat.
God, she really was completely losing it. Sure, in the past, she’d had a bit of a thing for guys a bit rough around the edges but she’d grown out of it because none of those guys would fit into the new world she was creating for herself. Besides, Farmer Anderson wasn’t a bit rough, he was positively unhewn.

Angry with herself and her reaction, she stomped to the freezer and hauled out the very expensive tub of decadently creamy Vermont vanilla ice cream she’d bought and then she pulled her steaming pie out of the oven. Dumping both in the center of the table with a spoon, she said, “Shall I just call the dog in to eat with you?”

“Sure, but set a place first because he prefers his own bowl.”

The mildly spoken words held a trace of something new but was it laughter or affection for the dog? She had no clue. All she knew was that her meal hadn’t primed him for her request in any shape or form and she’d run out of time. She had to ask him straight out and she had to do it now. Shoving the spoon into the ice cream for fortification, she dug out a scoop and popped it in her mouth.

“Hey! That’s my ice cream.”

So the farmer liked ice cream.
Good
. Taking her time, she licked the cold sweetness off the spoon and then held it out to him. “Help yourself.”