“Maggie, you were supposed to take the pills and stay off your feet today.”
“I don’t like pills.” She pulled two ceramic bowls from a nearby cupboard and began ladling the stew into them. She placed one bowl in front of him, and one adjacent to him, avoiding his eyes. “And I get bored easily.”
“Maggie.”
She hobbled back to the brick chimney and pulled a fresh loaf of crusty bread out of the warm oven, placing it on a cutting board with a bowl of whipped butter and brought that over as well.
“Maggie.”
Turning on her heel, she pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator, grabbing two glasses before she finally sat down.
Michael glared at her. With anyone else he would be annoyed with her blatant refusal to acknowledge him, but with her, he wasn’t. Especially when he noticed her trying to hide the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth. She was teasing him with her defiance. The weird thing was, he actually kind of liked it. What he didn’t like, however, was the fact that she was obviously not taking care of herself the way she should.
With substantial effort, Michael fixed her with his best stern look. “As wonderful as this looks and smells, you were supposed to be resting, not cooking all day.”
“I did,” she shrugged, seemingly unfazed by the use of his authoritative physician’s tone. “For a while. But I need to eat, don’t I?”
“Most people would pop a frozen dinner in the microwave or open up a can of soup. Not make a homemade stew and bake their own bread.”
She shrugged, looking down into her bowl. And once again, the truth struck him like a bolt of lightning. She hadn’t done this for herself. She had done it for him. Because he had told her he would be coming back. Suddenly he felt like the world’s biggest ass.
“It smells wonderful, Maggie.”
She lifted her head and offered him a small smile that had his heart clenching in his chest. She’d prepared this for him, despite the fact that she was hurting, and he’d chastised her for it.
Michael tried a spoonful of the stew. He closed his eyes, savoring the incredible taste. A perfect blend of vegetables – carrots, potatoes, a tiny bit of corn, onions, tomatoes – all tasting as if they had just been picked from the garden. Beef so tender it practically melted against his tongue. Damn, but the woman knew how to cook.
“This is amazing,” he said truthfully, and was rewarded with a full-fledged smile. “Do you cook like this all the time?”
“It’s no big deal,” she said, but he could see that she was pleased.
“So tell me, Maggie. What do you do? Besides dance and cook, that is.” He bit into the crusty bread, stifling a groan as it, too, melted in his mouth.
“My dancing skills are definitely lacking,” she said, lightly tapping her bruised face.
“For the record, I think you are a wonderful dancer. It’s walking you seem to have a problem with.”
Maggie gave a soft feminine snort and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And I cook out of a combination of necessity and boredom. But officially, I suppose I’m kind of a logistical analyst.”
“A logistical analyst? What exactly is that?”
“Well, I look at a business, see what its needs are, and then draw up and execute a plan to make that happen.” She sighed. “Call it a professional organizer, if you will. You’d be surprised how inefficiently most offices are run. ”
Michael nodded, thinking of some of the red tape he’d had to deal with at the hospital, and encouraged her to continue.
“I got my B. A., worked for a couple of small businesses in town, then applied for a position at Dumas Industries.”
“Big place,” he said carefully.
“Yeah. They kept me busy.” She frowned a little. “I don’t work there anymore, though.”
“What happened?”
She looked away, slicing another piece of bread for herself. She had yet to touch the first one, he noticed. “I guess I just wasn’t cut out for the corporate life.”
It was interesting, he thought, how she didn’t really answer his question, but hadn’t lied to him either. Was she embarrassed by what had happened with Dumas? Given the little bit he knew about her, probably.
“Not everyone is.”
“What about you?” she asked in a blatant change of subject. “Do you practice independently or are you involved with a partnership?”
“Independently.”
Maggie looked down at her hands, breaking the large slice of bread into smaller pieces with her fingers, absently feeding them to George. Her eyes were doing that stormy/flashing thing again; he could practically see the wheels turning in her head.
“Do you have an office downtown?” she asked finally.