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“Thank you. I was struggling.”
His mouth curved, and he rested one hand at the small of my back as we crossed the yard. His touch was light enough that we could’ve pretended it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t think either of us believed that anymore.
The house was warmer than I expected. The floors near the door were scratched, and an old stone fireplace took up one wall. Family pictures shared the shelves with horse show ribbons and a brass wagon part I couldn’t identify.
It felt lived in.
Beau hung my jacket next to his and headed for the kitchen. I followed and sat at the island while he pulled a heavy pot out of the refrigerator.
“You really do have chili.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Told you.”
“I thought you might have made it up.”
“Why would I do that?”
I stared at him. “I’m not going to explain it to you.”
His lips split into a grin, and he set the pot on the stove. He moved around the kitchen the same way he moved around the barn, competent and efficient. Bowls came from one cabinet, spoons from the drawer, no opening three doors to find anything.
“Do you cook a lot?” I asked.
“Enough to keep me fed.”
“What’s your specialty?”
He paused for a moment before answering. “Stew.”
I waited.
He glanced at me. “And eggs.”
“Wow. A whole repertoire.”
He smiled and handed me a bowl.
I’d expected the quiet to get uncomfortable once we sat down. Instead, talking to Beau got easier. I told him about the conference in Denver where two hundred centerpieces went to the wrong hotel. He told me about a wedding where Gus slipped his lead rope and ate half the flowers off an arch.
“What did the bride do?” I asked.
“Cried.”
“That’s terrible.”
“She stopped after we told her the florist had replacements.”
“And Gus?”
“Would’ve finished the other half if I let him.”
I laughed hard enough that I had to set down my spoon. Beau watched me across the island, looking far too pleased with himself for a man whose horse had terrorized a wedding.
“What?”
“You laugh loud.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a complaint?”
