Six Weeks To Catch A Cowboy. Brenda Harlen

she was warming up to his presence. “Grilled cheese, okay?”

      He grinned. “Grilled cheese is the best kind of sandwich with soup.”

      Kenzie turned the knob for another burner, set a frying pan on it, then retrieved the ingredients for the sandwiches.

      “Can I help?” he offered, as she began to butter slices of bread.

      She nodded to the pot on the stove. “Just keep an eye on the soup.”

      He picked up the wooden spoon she’d set down, so that he was armed and ready.

      “If you haven’t kept up with local events, how did you know that I was living here?” Kenzie asked him now.

      “Your mother told me,” he admitted.

      The knife she’d taken out of the block to slice the cheese slipped from her grasp and clattered against the counter. “When did you talk to my mother?”

      “When I stopped by the house on Whitechurch Road earlier.”

      “Well, that would explain the three voice-mail messages she left for me,” Kenzie noted, picking up the knife again.

      “Three messages and you didn’t call her back?” he asked in feigned shock.

      She shrugged and resumed slicing the cheese. “If it had been anything important, she would have said so.”

      He mimed thrusting a dagger in his heart. “Ouch.”

      She rolled her eyes.

      “She was surprised to see me,” he confided. “And reluctant to let me know where I could find you.”

      Butter sizzled as Kenzie set the sandwiches in the hot pan.

      “She’s always been...protective of me,” she said.

      “I knew that,” he acknowledged. “I just never knew that she disliked me so much. Which was a surprise, because most women usually find me charming. Even moms.”

      “No doubt.”

      “And I never did anything to earn her disapproval.” But they both knew that wasn’t exactly true, so he clarified, “At least not anything that she knows about.” He sent Kenzie a questioning glance. “Or does she?”

      She dropped her gaze to the pan, as if turning the sandwiches required her complete focus. “There’s nothing for her to know.”

      He nodded, relieved by her response. Glad to hear her confirm that what happened between them hadn’t been a big deal to her, either.

      Glad...and a little bit skeptical.

      But he didn’t express his doubt. He didn’t want to have the awkward conversation they probably should have had seven years earlier. And he especially didn’t want to dig up old feelings of guilt and regret—not hers or his own.

      She reached into the cupboard over the sink for dishes, then pulled open a drawer for cutlery.

      He rose from his seat at the island to help.

      “I do appreciate this.” He slid the sandwiches out of the pan and onto the plates while she poured the soup into the bowls. “You feeding me, I mean.”

      She smiled at that. “As if I had a choice.”

      “You always have a choice,” he told her.

      She sat down beside him. “So tell me why you showed up at my door instead of grabbing a bite with Gage or Brett or one of the other guys you used to hang out with,” she suggested.

      “Truthfully—” he dipped his spoon into his bowl “—I didn’t keep in touch with anyone when I left Haven. Aside from you, I don’t have many friends remaining in this town.”

      “I was your sister’s friend,” she said, as she tore off a piece of her sandwich and popped it into her mouth. “Not yours.”

      “Maybe we weren’t friends,” he acknowledged. And then, because he apparently did want to have the awkward conversation they’d skipped seven years earlier, he added, “But we were almost lovers.”

      She shook her head as she finished chewing. “A quick roll in the hay would not have made us lovers.”

      He touched a hand to her arm. “I treated you badly that night, and I’m sorry.”

      “It was a long time ago—and long forgotten,” she told him.

      But he didn’t believe it.

      Certainly he’d never forgotten.

      “Then you’re not still mad at me—about what happened that night?” he prompted.

      “Nothing happened,” she said again, tearing off another piece of her sandwich. “And I was never mad at you,” she confided. “I was mad at myself. And...embarrassed.”

      “Why would you be embarrassed?” he wondered aloud.

      She swirled her spoon in her soup. “Because I threw myself at you.”

      Apparently they had different recollections of that night. Because while there was no denying that she’d made the first move, he’d made a lot more after that. “As you said, it was a long time ago and nothing happened.”

      “Nothing of any significance,” she agreed. “But not for lack of trying on my part.”

      It was true that she hadn’t been shy about what she wanted. And he’d been unexpectedly and shockingly aroused by the bold actions of a girl he’d previously dismissed as just another friend of his little sister.

      “Back then, you and me—” He shook his head. “It would have been a mistake.”

      She nodded. “I know.”

      “But now...” He deliberately let the words trail off and dramatically waggled his eyebrows.

      She smiled, seemingly appreciative of his effort to lighten the mood, but immediately shot him down. “Now it would be an even bigger mistake.”

      She was probably right—for more reasons than even she knew—but he was curious about her rationale. “Why would you say that?”

      “Because even if we weren’t friends before, I get the impression you showed up at my door because you need a friend now.”

      “Or at least wanted to see a friendly face,” he acknowledged, as he shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth before turning his attention back to the soup.

      “What was going on at your parents’ place tonight that you didn’t want to eat there?” she asked.

      “Celeste had a thing this afternoon—a baby shower? Bridal shower? Some kind of shower, anyway. And I told her that I’d fend for myself so she didn’t have to rush back.”

      “Fending for yourself meaning inviting yourself to share my dinner?” she queried dryly.

      “I offered to take you out,” he reminded her. “You could have had a thick, juicy steak at Diggers’—or anything else on the menu.”

      “Mmm... I do love their strip loin, but this is better,” she told him.

      He spooned up the last of his soup which, along with the sandwich, had sated his gnawing hunger but was, by no stretch of the imagination, better than steak. “Why?”

      “Because if we’d walked into Diggers’ together, the whole town would be buzzing about it before the meat hit the grill.”

      “And that would bother you?”

      “I don’t like being the subject of gossip and speculation,” she said.

      “You’re not worried that people will remark on my truck being parked outside your apartment?”

      “I wasn’t—”