Page 52 of Deputy Brand Gets Her Man
“Do you think you can manage that alone?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Dang.”
She rolled her eyes at him but blushed, too, as she left him.
She took the most careful morning shower ever. It turned out, every turn or twist or change of head position could incite dizziness, so she moved slowly, washed away the hospital smells and scrubbed at multiple patches of gooey adhesive residue. Her body was covered in bruises from where her poor horse had landed on her. Purple patches decorated her shoulder, hip bone, rib cage, both arms and one thigh, and she had to wash those tender areas with care.
At least nothing was broken.
When she finished, she could smell coffee, so she dressed quickly and exited the bathroom.
Jeremiah said. “Yeah, that looks good,” he said when she came out in warm-up pants, a football jersey, and a damp ponytail.
She glanced down at herself, then up at him, raising one eyebrow. “It does?”
“I was pretty sure you’d come out in a uniform, determined to go in to work.”
She lowered her head, shaking it on the way. “I’m stubborn, but not suicidal. I intend to take it extremely easy today. I mean, Come on.”
“Exactly.” He took two plates out of the oven using pot holders and set them on the table, each with mounds of French toast and fried potatoes. Then he went back for a bowl of fresh berries. Finally, he topped it off by placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of her plate and pulling out her chair with a flourish. “Your breakfast, milady.”
She sat down. “It looks fantastic and…enough for four of me.”
“Well, to be fair, I can pack away enough for three of you, so…” He took his seat across from her.
“Where did all this food come from? I mean, I know you made it, but the ingredients? Fresh berries?”
“Your mom brought them last night. I was still awake when she came sneaking in and scared the daylights outta me. It was too late for the stores to be open, so I’m guessing she raided her own supplies.”
She sipped the coffee, then spooned berries and poured maple syrup over her French toast. Then she tried her first bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. “Oh, man, that’s good.” She had a second bite. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Remember I told you we had a great chef for a while?”
She nodded, but was too busy eating to speak.
“He was an ex-con and a genius who was wasted on me. But my old man had to have the best of everything. I used to go down to the kitchen, bored as hell in that big empty house, to watch him cook. Then I started helping, when nobody else was around to see.”
She lifted her head, watched his face. “Why couldn’t anyone else see?”
“My father had very clear ideas about what he wanted his firstborn son to learn. Cooking wasn’t part of the plan.”
She lowered her eyes. “Criming was.”
He nodded.
“Did the chef get in trouble for teaching you?”
“No. We kept it secret.” A shadow passed over his eyes.
“Tell me,” she said. “I’m not fixin’ to judge.”
He studied her face for a moment, then said, “My senior year of high school, I cajoled the chauffeur, Cal, into letting me take one of the cars. I had a date. Now my old man was all right with me driving the cars, but he wanted to know in advance when, and where I’d be going, and with whom, and he’d send one of his enforcers out to keep an eye on me, supposedly from a distance, but always obvious. Taking a car without advance consent was a big violation.”
“And what happened?”
He sighed, shrugged. “I took the car, had a great time. The next day there was a new chauffeur. I never knew what happened to Cal, but I never saw him again.”
