Her lips ticked up. “Not the typical types of things one hears uttered from the mouth of a big, well-muscled man.”
He laid his hands on her kitchen island. “Now that’s a sexist statement.”
“Probably. But still, you just don’t look like the cooking type.”
“There’s a cooking type? Do you ever watch cooking shows?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Trust me, there’s no cooking type. There are people from all walks of life who enjoy cooking, from kids to women—” He leveled a devastating smile on her. “Even men with muscles.”
She could tell she’d hit a raw nerve. “I’m sticking my foot in my mouth with this conversation, aren’t I?”
“Maybe a little. Which is the only reason I’m here today cooking you dinner.”
She didn’t buy it. “The only reason?”
He picked up the plate of skewered vegetables and made his way to her back door. “Trust me, Harmony. It’s the one and only reason.”
She smiled as she checked out his retreating form.
Only reason her ass. He could have said no, and he didn’t. He was here because he wanted to be here.
“Guy rule” be damned. She intended to take full advantage of their evening alone together.
Eight
Chicken was done, and just in time because the vegetables had a nice grilled edge to them. They looked tender and just about cooked to perfection.
Barrett might not be a master cook, but he’d learned enough from his mom and from Flynn to work his way around a kitchen, and definitely a grill.
He liked food. All his brothers did. His mother made sure they could take care of themselves in the cooking department, at least as far as the basics. And now that Flynn was opening a restaurant, Barrett had learned a thing or two about upping his game beyond just eggs, burgers and tossing a steak on the grill.
Like tonight’s dinner. When he’d been out in San Francisco visiting Flynn several months back, his brother had showed him how to fix the stuffed chicken breasts with grilled vegetables. Not hard, really. It had become one of his staple meals.
As he loaded the finished chicken and vegetables onto plates to carry inside, he wondered why no guys had bothered to fix a meal for Harmony. Even bacon and eggs could be impressive if done the right way—and at the right time.
Men were such douchebags sometimes. And the old ways of thinking that women were supposed to do all the cooking were long gone. His mother, a former career attorney, had made sure to teach all her sons that rule. She might have given up her career to stay at home with her kids, but that didn’t mean she did all the work around the family ranch.
Everyone pitched in. Which didn’t mean the boys did the outside work while Mom and his little sister, Mia, did the cooking and cleaning inside the house, either. According to Mom, guys were more than capable of cooking a meal, doing the dishes, and scrubbing toilets. Just as women could operate the tractors outside.
Barrett had grown up doing it all. He’d like to think he was pretty well-rounded.
He carried the plates inside and laid them on the dining room table. Harmony had already set the table.
“Perfect timing,” she said, coming into the dining room from the kitchen. “I just opened a bottle of wine.”
“I’ll go wash my hands, then we can eat.”
He dashed into the bathroom to wash up, then met her back in the dining room.
“I have to admit, this all smells really good,” she said, as he pulled a chair out for her at the table.
He took a seat next to her, anxious for her to take a bite of the chicken.
Instead, she lifted her glass of wine and tipped it toward him. “Thank you for coming over to cook dinner for me.”
He tipped his glass to hers. “You can thank me after you’ve tasted it.”
Her lips curved. “Are you nervous?”
“No. Confident.”
“Good. I like my men confident.”
Her men. Barrett was not one of her men. Never would be. But he was confident—he just needed her to eat the damn food so he could get the hell away from her sweet scent and the temptation to run his hands over her soft skin.
She finally set her wineglass on the table and cut into the chicken. He waited while she took a bite and swallowed.
Her eyes closed and she made a sound—a moaning sound. He resisted groaning in response.
“This is excellent.”
He slanted a smile at her and started eating.
“Okay,” she said after she’d had several bites of the chicken and the grilled vegetables. “You can cook.”
He took a couple swallows of wine. “Did you think I was lying?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe I did. I’m frankly surprised. My last . . . well, let’s not go there.”
“Let’s do. Tell me about bathroom counter guy.”
“Levon? He was . . . high maintenance.”
“In what way?”
“His clothes had to be impeccably pressed. I’m pretty sure the only things that ever went into the washing machine were his underwear, and even that is suspect. Everything else went to the dry cleaner’s. His house was spotless. He had cleaning people come in three times a week.”