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Locating her in the kitchen, he paused in the doorway as she spoke with the proprietor. Sharp citrus filled the air and he saw sliced oranges on a tray between the women.
“You shouldn’t have to do so much. It’s not like you intended for the power to go out. I can help.” Hope braced herself on the counter, her non-injured leg bearing most of her weight.
“I’m the owner,” said Naomi. “We’ll have power shortly. They spent last night working on the generators so those should be up and running soon.” Her expression hardened. “It’s what I get for assuming people were doing their job.”
“I can’t speak for the rest of the people staying here, Naomi, but I’m not missing anything. Last night was a lot of fun in front of the fire and today there will be some light. We can play more games. Let’s face it, this matchmaking thing isn’t about us being on our phones or computers. We’re supposed to be getting to know one another.”
An uncomfortable ball settled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of her “getting to know” some of the other men. Nope to all. Definitely not any of them. And the computer comment…did she know he was there and made the statement as a dig to him? No, he didn’t think so, she was merely making her point that a mixer was for getting to know people. No electronics necessary.
“You’re a dear.” Naomi squeezed her hand.
“And stubborn. How can I help with breakfast? Even if it’s chopping fruit, which I can do seated. Let me help. Please.”
“Whoever gets to marry you is going to be a lucky man.” Naomi’s eyes kicked over Hope and landed directly upon him. “Extremely lucky.”
Yeah, he thought so as well. Not that Hope getting married was anything he needed to think about. With determination, he placed that thought way in the back of his mind. He wasn’t here to find the next Mrs. Anderson. This was about enjoying the time he was stranded in this place.
Still, it didn’t change how much his heart skipped and his breath caught when Hope lifted her gaze to where he stood lurking in the doorway. He held her stare and lifted an eyebrow.
Dammit, she looked sexy when she was blushing.
“Put me to work, too,” he said, moving deeper into the stainless-steel kitchen. There was a draw to Hope he wasn’t willing to ignore.
Naomi glanced up at him then flicked her gaze between the two of them. “You should be out there talking. Relaxing. Or upstairs sleeping.”
His lips quirked. “We just came from upstairs.”
Hope’s gaze widened at his words and he waited for her to say something about it. She tightened her jaw and he bit back his chuckle. Fully aware of the image he had given—if she wasn’t going to correct him, who was he to say anything?
“Finish slicing the fruit, please. I’ll wrap up the quiche, then do the bacon.” Naomi moved back over to the stove where she gave them both one more glance.
He wasted no time in making his way to Hope’s side. Determinedly brushing against her arm when he settled in, he reached for a knife, pretending he didn’t hear her intake of breath.
“And here I thought you’d be hiding away in the room today, Mr. Anderson. Avoiding people.”
He placed his gaze on her, almost memorizing her features. She wasn’t looking at him and he wasn’t a fan of that but didn’t mention it.
“I thought I would be less of a recluse today.”
“Good for you.” She still didn’t look at him, steadfastly keeping her gaze on the cutting board.
“Thought I’d join in more of the games.”
She continued to slice up the fruit before her. Mitchell skimmed his gaze down her form, glad she was keeping the weight off her injured leg. However, he wasn’t pleased she seemed to be avoiding looking at him. When he focused on the scar on her head, he noticed new butterfly bandages were in place. A slap of unreasonable jealousy hit him. Who’d done that for her?
“That’s nice.”
Her tone was strange, and he had an uncomfortable pit in his stomach. When people found out who he was, they changed. He pursed his lips and faced her a bit more, propping his hip against the counter. “You’ve figured out who I am. Or someone told you.”
Hope nodded.
“Look at me.”
God, he wanted to insist but she was acting like a frightened puppy. Ever so slow, she lifted those big brown eyes of hers to his gaze.
“I’m still me.”
A bark of laughter. “What does that even mean?”
“I’m still the guy who will nag you until you take care of yourself. I’m still the guy who you’re sharing a room and a bed with. Right here, right now, I’m just Mitchell.”
“I don’t think there is anything ‘just’ about you, Mitchell Anderson.”
