Page 27 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

She went to the fridge, and she got some mayonnaise. Some lunch meat. Then she got bread and tomatoes. And she began the very mundane work of making the man a sandwich. This was on the heels of having done the very mundane work of his laundry. She had none of the excitement with him. None of the electricity. And all of the chores.

And that should demystify him. It should make this feel as bland and dry as appreciation. As thanks for helping her out, and nothing more.

She got a knife out of the drawer and she began to spread mayonnaise on a piece of wheat bread. Truly, what could be more boring?

“I like a little mustard on that.”

“Oh,” she said.

She turned back to the fridge and opened it again, hunting around for the mustard.

“You said you wanted to make me a sandwich.”

“I do.”

“But you don’t want me to tell you how I want a sandwich?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re annoyed.”

“I’m not annoyed.”

Maybe she was. Maybe she had kind of wanted to intuitively guess exactly what he wanted on his sandwich. She blinked. That was a very odd thing to want. A strange thing to worry about.

“Listen,” he said. “At the end of the day, I would probably like it however you wanted to make it. But if you want a little instruction...”

“Who says that I like to take instruction?”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

And here they were, standing in the man’s kitchen in the middle of the day. The sunlight streaming in through the window. There was no sexy mysterious lighting. A broad shaft of light was going across his face. But it only made him look more handsome. He was the sort of man who could withstand being on a big screen with high-def. She was sure of it.

He didn’t have a flaw in his features. He was perfect in every way.

And so even the broad light of day couldn’t diminish it.

“Tell me, then. Tell me how you like it.”

His smile shifted, turned wicked. And they might not be in a bedroom, but his eyes held the suggestion of it.

She took the mustard out of the fridge.

“Just make sure you’ve got a firm grip,” he said.

“For God’s sake, Boone.”

“What? You wouldn’t want to drop a bottle of mustard.”

“I guess not.”

“Give it a good squeeze.”

“Boone,” she said, not sure whether she wanted to laugh, or get irritated, or... If she was a little bit turned on. That was ridiculous.

“Just trying to help with best kitchen practices. You can lay it on a little thick.”

She rolled her eyes because she decided faux irritation was better than melting into a puddle over this kind of thing.

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