Belle’s words from the other night had been on a loop in my head. I wasn’t sure what she’d meant at the time, but her words had clicked into place when she’d started wearing more revealing clothing around the house. Lower cut t-shirts that hugged her perfect breasts, her nipples hard points against the soft cotton, making it obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. She’d taken to coming down to breakfast in a barely-there camisole top and a tiny pair of sleep shorts that exposed her long legs and the lower part of her juicy ass cheeks.
Then there were the “accidental” touches when we were in the same space together—a brush of her breast against my arm or the time she’d deliberately leaned around me to grab something from the kitchen counter when I was making a sandwich. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she was right. I was a red-blooded man, and I could admit, if only to myself, that I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anything in my entire life. She was testing every ounce of my self-control. One day soon, things were going to come to a head, and she was going to get more than she’d bargained for.
A week after the funeral, I arrived home to hear Belle bustling around in the kitchen. Grabbing a quick shower to wash off the grime of the day, I entered just as she was pulling what looked like lasagna from the oven.
I’d quickly discovered that being a fantastic baker didn’t make someone a fantastic cook. While Belle could make mouthwateringly-good sweet treats, her savory dishes were practically inedible.
I’d tactfully suggested we hire a cook, leaving Belle free to concentrate on her baking and coursework, which she was continuing online. Her glare had been answer enough, and I hadn’t broached the subject since.
Which meant I was “treated” to whatever nightly dinner delight she’d decided to concoct. Tonight’s effort didn’t look too bad, but I’d learned to be wary.
“Hey,” Belle greeted me as I entered the kitchen. “How was your day?”
The kitchen was in disarray. Opened cans scattered the counter, which held splashes of flour and eggs. Belle looked as if she were wearing most of the ingredients. The skinny jeans that cupped her heart-shaped ass and the pale pink shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her smooth cleavage were speckled with tomato sauce. She had a smear of flour across her cheek and what looked like a blob of melted cheese stuck in her hair. She’d never looked more beautiful to my greedy eyes. Forget the fucking lasagna—if that’s what it was—I wanted to eat her instead.
“Good,” I replied, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sinking down in it. “I spoke to Travis Walker today.”
Belle turned to look at me in surprise. “As in the Travis Walker from Medicine Bow?”
I smiled. “Yeah. Tom Duke recommended him to me,” I said, naming another rancher who lived in the next town over from Medicine Bow. “Travis has a great breeding program set up at his ranch. His first bull died due to nitrite poisoning, but he purchased another a few years later, and he’s built a top-notch reputation. He’s agreed to sell me twenty-five head of cattle. Not a lot by most standards, I know, but they’ll be a valuable addition to our stock here.”
Belle’s smile was blinding. “Congratulations! That’s great news! Travis is a good man. He works hard. His wife, Sophie, is one of the vets in town. They’re expecting their first baby any day now.”
I nodded. “I know. We had a long talk on the phone. He asked after you. Sends his and Sophie’s regards.”
“That’s kind of them.” Her face changed for an instant. “Small world,” she murmured, her expression wistful.
“You miss Medicine Bow, don’t you?”
“I miss my friends more than anything, although I speak to Molly and Tasha almost every day. Molly has set things up so I can keep up with my theory studies online. I spoke to them both earlier, as a matter of fact,” she said, placing the lasagna in the middle of the table. “I swear Molly is Wonder Woman in disguise. How she runs her business and looks after two children under five, I’ll never know. And Tasha is doing great in Garland with Valentine’s Kitchen. The bakery has really taken off.”
“Why Valentine?”
“It’s her last name. Natasha Valentine,” she explained.
“Great name for a bakery,” I nodded.
“Isn’t it? Tasha is amazingly talented, but she’s painfully shy. She struggles with social anxiety, so it’s been a bit of a baptism of fire for her learning how to deal with customers,” Belle said, grabbing plates from the cupboard and flatware from the drawer.
“Why take on a busy bakery, then?” I asked curiously.
Belle shrugged as she took a seat opposite me and dished up the lasagna. “It’s her passion. She has autism, but she doesn’t share her diagnosis with many people. I guess she doesn’t want to be defined by it. But let me tell you, that woman can bake like no other. She’s a genius when it comes to pastry.”
I took a cautious bite of the lasagna, and my eyes widened in surprise.
“How is it?” Belle asked, her mouth twitching.
“It’s delicious,” I replied. “In fact, it tastes similar to—"
“Grams’ lasagna?” she finished, quirking a blonde eyebrow, and looking pleased with herself.
My eyes narrowed on her suspiciously. “Yeah.”
“That’s because I found Grams’ handwritten notebook in one of the drawers. I followed her lasagna recipe to the letter and, voilà!”
"To the letter, you say,” I said doubtfully, my tastebuds detecting a few differences—not bad, just different.
“Well, apart from the ricotta. We didn’t have any, and there was none at the store in town, so I subbed with normal cheddar. Oh, and I couldn’t get fresh pasta, so I used those dried lasagna sheets. But apart from that, yeah, just like Grams used to make it,” she said proudly, a big smile plastered on her face.