Charlie's Angels. Cheryl St.John

and even the skin beneath her eye looked tinged with purple.

      At his perusal, she raised fingers to her temple self-consciously. “I look a fright, don’t I?”

      In his opinion, she could still win the Miss Universe Pageant hands down. He poured batter on the hot griddle. “Does it hurt?”

      “It’s tender.”

      Charlie tended his pancakes and flipped them at the appropriate time. He stuck several slices of frozen bacon into the microwave and set plates on the counter. “Garreth—the doc—said it was a clean cut and he made tiny stitches. You shouldn’t have a scar.”

      “Have you heard the weather report?”

      For someone who looked the way she did, she seemed unconcerned about the possibility of scarring. Her attention stayed focused on getting her truck on the road. “I just got up a few minutes before you did.”

      Starla watched him efficiently prepare the meal. He’d only been up a short while. That explained the bare chest she’d admired upon entering the kitchen. She smiled at his time-saving methods and no-frills breakfast. But thinking bare reminded her of last night’s bathing process and how he’d assisted her to the bathroom and even out of her jeans and later out of the tub.

      So far she knew several things about Charlie McGraw: he loved his daughter desperately; he made a good living—this spacious log home was evidence of that—he was adequate in the kitchen; and he was a gentleman.