Page 106 of Snowbound Surrender
“Please let me fix lunch for the two of us,” Randall begged. There was another sign of his waning patience. After eating Miranda’s cooking for four days, he didn’t think he could take it anymore. “I swear to you that I’m a good cook, that I enjoy it, and that I don’t think you’re not a good hostess if you let me cook something.”
She straightened and pursed her lips. “Well, I suppose since you are a font of knowledge today, I might as well let you teachme something that I might actually be able to share in civilized company.” She attempted to say her piece with the same mock scolding she had used in the attic, but she dissolved into giddy laughter before she could finish.
“You’re a naughty one, Randi,” he teased her with his own mock scolding and nudged her aside so that he could assess the contents of the cupboard. As he studied the shelves, he murmured, “And if I’m not careful, you’ll be the undoing of me.”
Miranda wasn’t sure what name to put to the pulsing restlessness that had consumed her for the past day or so. She couldn’t keep her legs from bouncing as she sat at the table, watching Randall cooking in his shirtsleeves. She hadn’t been able to sleep well for the past few nights as thoughts of him—his laughter, his ready wit, his curly hair, his strength as he attempted to clear snow from the saloon’s front doorway, only to give up when it proved too packed against them, the fleeting glimpse of him with his shirt off that she’d caught while he was bathing—kept her tossing and turning.
And what had just happened upstairs in the attic? With that—what had he called it—thatharness? Her skin had prickled and strange heat had pooled in parts of her that she knew she shouldn’t be focusing on. Except now she couldn’t focus on anythingbutthe sensations she felt there. Good grief, was cabin fever an actual illness? Were these the signs and symptoms?
“Here we go.” Randall pivoted from the stove, where he looked to be frying bread in a skillet, and presented her with the curious sight of a toasted sandwich. “Randall’s Marvelous Grilled Cheese.” He slipped the steaming sandwich, gooey bits of cheese seeping from the sides, onto Miranda’s plate. “Well, fried cheese sandwich, at least.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She breathed in the delicious aroma of toasted, buttery bread and cheese.
Randall turned back to the stove and began making a second one for himself. “Just one of the many things I learned to make during my travels.”
Miranda tested the sandwich with her fingers, and when she’d decided it wasn’t too hot to handle, she picked it up and took a bite. The delectable burst of warm, melty cheese, the richness of butter, and the surprise of whatever dried herbs he’d added had her issuing a low moan that was as scandalous as anything they’d uncovered in the attic.
Randall stiffened at the sound she made. He had his back to her, but that was all she needed to know he’d reacted to her enjoyment. She pressed her fingers to her lips as she chewed, feeling well and truly like a hussy. Her mother would swoon if she saw the way she’d been behaving toward Randall. And likely Starla would hoot in encouragement. Maybe it was the saloon itself, the fact that there was nothing she and Randall could do to escape its influence as days wore on without the storm letting up enough for them to venture out and away from each other. All Miranda knew was that Randall Sinclair had unleashed something in her that she wasn’t sure should have been unleashed.
“So you like it?” he asked over his shoulder at last. Miranda had the impression he’d needed to master himself before saying anything.
“It’s amazing,” she said after another bite. “If I had known you could make something this delightful, I would have invited you to cook long before this.”
He chuckled, his shoulders easing as the moment of scintillating tension between them passed. “I told you, I enjoy cooking. If you give me a chance, I’ll make all sorts of tempting treats with the food you have left. We’ll eat like monarchs until this storm abates and we can go out for more supplies.”
Miranda smiled over another bite of her sandwich. The cheese wasn’t the only thing warm and melty. He was still using that beautiful word, “we.” At this rate, she didn’t want the storm to ever end. She would be happy to spend the rest of her life trapped in the saloon with Randall, uncovering all sorts of scandalous items in the attic, and putting them to good use.
She nearly choked on her bite as that thought and its accompanying, somewhat vague, images hit her.
“Careful.” Randall jumped away from the stove to fetch her a glass of ice-cold water. “The bread can be a little dry. Drink this.”
She pretended that the bread was her only problem and nodded, sipping at the water to clear her throat. Maybe its iciness was exactly what she needed to tame her scandalous thoughts. But after a lifetime of being perfectly, meticulously good, she had never wanted to throw it all away and be bad more than she did right then.
“I noticed that you have a chicken that hasn’t been cooked yet down there in the cellar,” Randall said as he finished with his sandwich. “How would you feel about thyme-roasted chicken with butter and dill potatoes andharicot vertsfor supper tonight?” He slid his sandwich onto a plate and came to join her at the table.
“Hari-what?”
“Green beans,” he chuckled, taking a first, large bite of his sandwich. “That’s what they’re called in France.”
“And what strange employment took you to France?” she asked. Conversation. Yes. Conversation was normal. Her thoughts wouldn’t fly to places they shouldn’t go if she could keep up a simple conversation.
“That one wasn’t employment. My father took the whole family to Paris, Lyon, and Nice, when I was eighteen. That’s where my love of cooking really began.”
Miranda tried not to be transfixed by the sight of him wrapping his mouth around his sandwich. “I thought you said your love of cooking was because you had a crush on your family’s cook.”
Randall laughed. “Yes, but she only covered the basics. When we were in France, I snuck down into the kitchens of the hotels where we stayed and looked on as much as I could. Sometimes I even helped out. I learned a lot.”
“How fascinating.” She sighed. “Nothing half so fascinating has ever happened to me. I was born, I was raised, I attended finishing school, and I’ve been sleepwalking through the same set of social events, waiting for a husband to come along and make my life meaningful since then.”
Randall paused halfway through taking a bite. He pulled his sandwich back, closed his mouth, then blinked. “What a horrifically depressing life you’ve lived.”
Miranda jerked straight, her eyes blinking wide. “Excuse me!”
Moments later, the two of them burst into shared laughter. Randall returned to eating his sandwich. Miranda popped the last bite of hers into her mouth, then took a drink.
“It’s true, though,” she groaned. “Your life has been completely fascinating. Mine has been as dull as dust.”
“Nuh-uh.” Randall shook his head and swallowed. “I’ve been pushed this way and that from the day I was old enough to speak. You, on the other hand, inherited this marvelous saloon.”
