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She was tempted to fish a coin from her purse and toss it. ‘Hunches...’
He checked the appropriate box just as she was about to change her answer. Oh, well.
‘“Are you more interested in what is real or what is meaningful?”’
He stared at her. She stared back.
‘Meaningful,’ they said at the same time.
He asked her over sixty questions!
At the end he gave her a score. ‘And that means... Hey!’ he said when she took the computer from him.
She shook her head. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ Let’s see how he liked being put under the microscope. ‘“Do you tend to be easily distracted or able to concentrate well?”’
He glared. ‘I can concentrate just fine when I want to.’
She checked the box for ‘easily distracted’. As far as she could tell Mac actively searched for distraction.
‘“In most situations do you rely more on careful planning or improvisation?”’
He dragged a hand down his face. ‘Improvisation—more’s the pity. Or these recipes I’m trying to drag out of my head would be a lot easier to commit to paper.’
‘“Do you prefer step-by-step instructions or to figure things out for yourself?”’
He scowled. ‘If only I did prefer step-by-step instructions!’
She was going to have to get him cooking again. Somehow.
When they’d finished she gave him a score and then read out the associated job suggestions. ‘“Artist”,’ she said. Chef fitted into that category perfectly. ‘“Teacher. Entertainer.”’
‘Very funny.’ He retrieved the computer.
She wasn’t trying to be funny, but she kept her mouth shut.
‘According to your score, you’d make a good girl scout. What is this garbage?’
‘You tell me.’
‘No, no—here we go. It says you’d be a good scientist.’
‘Except I’m tired of being a scientist, remember?’
‘You’re tired of being a geologist,’ he corrected. ‘You could go back to university and major in a different science.’
‘Yay,’ she said, with a deplorable lack of enthusiasm. ‘Also, I want to live in a city. Find me a job in one of those.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to go to the cinema, and the library, and to big shopping centres and all those lovely things.’ All the places she’d missed when working in the Outback.
‘Here we go. As you’re apparently service-orientated you’d also make a good nurse.’
The sight of blood didn’t worry her. But... ‘I hate hospitals.’
He took on a sick pallor. ‘Me too.’
And just like that she wanted to reach out and take his hand, offer silent support and comfort. He wouldn’t welcome it. He’d probably kiss her in retaliation.
Ooh!
She pulled her hands into her lap. ‘Well, that’s certainly provided me with food for thought.’
‘It was complete and utter nonsense!’
She smiled at him. ‘I appreciate the effort.’
Finally—finally—he smiled back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JO PULLED THE macarons from the oven and set the tray on a trivet. Hands on hips, she surveyed them. These weren’t pretty, like the picture on the internet. They were crooked, misshapen and kind of flat. For the love of everything green and good! How hard could it be to make these fussy little confections?
She hunched over her laptop and reread the recipe, but she couldn’t find where she’d gone wrong.
She’d made a halfway decent cheese soufflé. As far as she could tell her coq au vin had been good, even if Mac hadn’t eaten very much of it. And, okay, so her béarnaise sauce hadn’t held together the way it was apparently supposed to, but it had tasted just fine to her.
Her hands clenched. For a week now she’d been religiously following Mac’s instructions and cooking recipes with names she couldn’t even pronounce. She’d figured she was ready to try her hand at macarons.
She cast a glance at the tray and her lip curled. Apparently not.
Baring her teeth, she made a pot of tea and then pulled another egg carton towards her. She would master this if it was the last thing she ever did.
She separated eggs. She’d need to buy more. Luckily a nearby hobby farm sold farm-fresh eggs. The way she was going through the rotten things she’d be on a first-name basis with the owners of said hobby farm by the end of the week.
Mac strode into the kitchen, staring down at a sheet of paper in his hands. Tonight’s recipe, she supposed. Yay, more cooking. She forgot all about cooking, though, when she noticed how amply he filled out his beaten-up jeans. The material stretched across strong thighs and she could almost see the muscles rippling beneath the denim.
