Page 39 of Ren: Warlord Brides
“Please.” She took a sip of the tea, enjoying the strong flavor chased by a bit of sweetness. “I’m sorry if I’m coming across as a food snob. I’m a professional cook. Food’s important to me. Good food.”
“I enjoy food.”
“Really? Because your pantry tells me you enjoy suffering,” she quipped. He tilted his head at her sarcastic tone but said nothing. She continued, “You’re married to a chef. Let me spoil you.”
“That is not necessary.”
“You did win my work contract. Technically, I’m your employee.”
“No. That contract is dissolved. You are under no obligation to provide a service,” he said. Something in his tone, a firmness or resolve, made her believe him.
“So, what happens now?” She needed to bring up Gemma, but her mind blanked when it came to gently broaching the topic.
“Whatever you prefer. Stay if you like, or I can deliver you to the destination of your choice. For the record, I am hoping you will stay.”
“Very sweet.” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m tired, and I stink like vinaigrette.”
“Rest cycles are important. We will talk when you wake.”
That sounded good. It’d been a long day and while she wanted to charge off after Gemma, she needed a clear head.
A quick shower and she fell into bed. She barely had time to notice Ren’s boots by the door and subtle signs that this was not a guest room but his bedroom.
Ren
Ren scrolled down the list of available foodstuffs for delivery. He had no idea what to order. Clearly, one of every Terran item, even if that was a small selection. Fresh produce and fruit? Not knowing what Emry preferred, he ordered one of everything.
“There needs to be a box for a random selection that will please a professional cook,” he muttered.
Murder Mittens draped herself across the back of his chair. Her tail thumped the side of his face, content and not at all concerned with her person’s dilemma.
At a loss, he checked random boxes. Surely something would satisfy Emmarae’s criterion offlavor.
“If not, she can place the order herself,” he told the feline.
Another tail thump.
“I am glad we agree.”
While giving Emmarae a tour of the ship, he had braced himself for comments about the age of the ship, or the condition. He knew his ship appeared to be a rusted bucket of bolts, and that was by design. The ship was mechanically sound, equipped to defend itself and completely innocuous. No one cared enough to notice old cargo vessels on their way to the scrap heap.
Well, he noticed, but mainly to salvage parts. Older ships had their charms, but replacement parts were difficult to source.
Still, Emmarae had worked for some time on a luxurious ship with state-of-the-art features. She made no comment about the safety treads worn smooth from age or the chipped paint. The only noise of disappointment she made occurred when she inspected the kitchen.
Unacceptable.
He spent enough time on the ship that he wanted his mate to be comfortable. Some features could not be changed, like the weathered exterior, but the kitchen could be upgraded.
He feared Havik had been correct. Ren did not apply his normally meticulous level of planning to reconciliation with his mate. The bare cupboard proved he acted impulsively. Fortunately, he excelled at improvising in less-than-ideal circumstances.
He called up the ship design. With available space in mind, he sketched out possible configurations. He searched for parts and what upgrades could be installed. He calculated time and disruption for installation. With Havik to help, Ren estimated he could complete the work in under two cycles. More if the fuel lines had corroded and required replacing.
Emmarae had mentioned hydroponic gardening. Could he install a wall rack if he removed a cabinet? Or moved—
He paused. The plans appeared satisfactory to him, but he had been satisfied with the existing kitchen. Whenever his mate woke, he’d ask for her input.
The supplies would not be delivered for a few more hours. He should rest. The day had been challenging.
