Beauty and the Black Sheep. Jessica Bird

      “That don’t look right,” George said.

      Frankie let her head fall forward, trying to keep from cursing again. The temptation was nearly irresistible, especially when he followed up with, “Maybe you should try that one more time.”

      Joy rushed into the kitchen from the dining room in mid-sentence. “The Littles, that couple whose bureau wouldn’t open when they went to unpack, they want their dinner now. They’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes and—oh.”

      Frankie took a deep breath. Even if the Littles hadn’t been rude as hell about the bureau, the lumpy pillows on the bed, the cleanliness of the windows and the fact there were wire hangers in the closet, she didn’t see how she could serve them the desecrated carcass.

      But now what? If White Caps was closer to civilization, she would have called for take-out from some other restaurant in the first place rather than take a chance on her cooking skills. Deep in the Adirondacks, though, the closest food emporium with anything ready to eat was the Bait Shoppe.

      Although feeding the Littles night crawlers disguised as gourmet cuisine had some appeal.

      “What are we going to do?” Joy asked.

      Frankie reached over to turn off the oven and saw that she’d put the thing on broil, not bake. Of all the stupid mistakes…

      “Frankie?”

      She could feel Joy and George staring at her and to avoid their eyes, she looked down at the chicken. Her mind went blank. She was aware of a humming in her ears and that was about it. Except for her feet. She could feel them pounding inside the ancient running shoes she had on, as if someone had a vise to her toes.

      How old were those shoes, she wondered idly. Five years?

      “Frankie?”

      She looked up at her sister whose face was wide open. Joy was ready for direction. Ready to be saved.

      God, what she wouldn’t give to be able to look at someone with that kind of expectant hope.

      “Yeah, okay,” she murmured. “Let me think.”

      Like a tired lawnmower, her brain started to churn again. Options, they needed options. What else was in the meat locker? Only big cuts. And the freezer—no, there was no time to defrost anything. Leftovers. What could she bash together out of—

      The sound of someone pounding on the back door brought her head around.

      Joy looked to the noise and then back at her.

      “Answer it,” Frankie said, heading for the walk-in refrigerator. “George, take the Littles more bread.”

      She was searching the shelves and seeing nothing that offered a solution when her sister let out a startled hello.

      Frankie looked over her shoulder and lost her train of thought.

      A man the size of a barn had walked into the White Caps kitchen.

      God, he was as big as George, although not built the same. Definitely not built like George. This guy was hefty where you wanted a man to be: in the shoulders, in the arms. Not in the stomach.

      And he was almost too handsome to look at. Wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a beat-up backpack on one shoulder, he looked like a drifter but carried himself as if he knew exactly where he was. He had thick dark hair that was on the long side and his face was stunning, though it seemed as if it belonged on someone else. His features were a little too patrician to be attached to a man dressed the way he was.

      But his eyes—his eyes were what really stood out. They were extraordinary—dark as the night, deep set, with thick lashes.

      And they were totally focused on her sister.

      Given how slight she was, Joy looked like a child standing in front of him with her head tilted up. And Frankie knew exactly the kind of resplendent astonishment that would be showing on her sister’s face, so it was no wonder the man looked poleaxed. Any guy worth his testosterone would be snared by that expression alone, much less the fact that it was shining out of such a garden of female delights.

      Great. Just what she needed, some tourist lost and looking for directions. Or worse, a wanderer looking for work. She could barely keep Joy and George on the straight and narrow. The last thing she needed was another big lug kicking around.

      “Hey there, Angel,” the man said. A bemused expression was tinting his handsome features as if he’d never seen anything like the girl standing in front of him.

      “My name is Joy, actually.” Even though Frankie couldn’t see it, she heard the smile on her sister’s face.

      Flattening her lips, Frankie decided it was time to get involved. Before the stranger melted onto the damn floor.

      “Can we help you?” she said sharply.

      The man frowned, looked over at her and the force of those eyes hit her like a gust of wind. She swallowed through a tight throat. There was nothing dim-witted or slow about him, she realized. He was downright shrewd as he scanned her from head to foot.

      As a flush came up into her face, she reminded herself that she had dinner to get ready, a staff, such as it was, to motivate, a business to run. Unlike her little sister, she didn’t have the luxury of staring up into some man’s face for days on end.

      Although, jeez, what a face that was.

      “Well?” she said.

      “My car broke down about two miles back.” He gestured over one shoulder. “I need to use a phone.”

      So he was headed through town. Good.

      “There’s one back in my office. I’ll show you the way.” She shut the door to the walk-in.

      “Thanks.” As he stepped forward, he sniffed and grimaced. When he caught sight of the desecrated chicken, he laughed. “So your chef moonlights as an arsonist? Or is it the other way around?”

      Frankie found herself measuring his carotid artery and thinking things that could lead to her arrest. While he was making fun of her failure, he was wasting time she didn’t have to spare.

      She was holding herself in check and about to lead him out of the kitchen when the door from the dining room swung open. George came back with a full breadbasket in his hand, looking like he was on the verge of tears.

      “They’re hungry. Really hungry, Frankie,” he said, staring down at his shoes. “And the Littles don’t want any more bread.”

      She tightened her lips in a grim line again. Considering what those two entitled big mouths had tried to do to her over the various inadequacies of their room, she could only imagine what they’d done to George.

      Which was totally unfair, she thought. The poor man didn’t deserve to be the salad course. It wasn’t his fault she’d burned the entrée.

      “I tried to tell them it wouldn’t be long,” he said.

      “I know, George. I know. Why don’t you go get a cookie, okay?” She went over and stared at the chicken, willing it into edible condition while George put the basket down and headed for the pantry.

      She picked up a knife and thought she could salvage something. Cut off the black skin, maybe. But then what?

      She heard a thud and realized that the stranger had thrown his backpack down on the stainless steel island next to her. Next, he tore off his jacket and tossed it across the room where it landed beautifully on a chair.

      Frankie glanced over at the faded black T-shirt he was wearing. It was tight on him, leaving little to the imagination. To get away from the view of his chest, she looked up, way up. His eyes weren’t black after all, they were hazel. Dark green with flecks of yellow.

      And they were incredibly attractive, she thought. Could probably melt paint off a car door if they looked at you with passion.

      She