Patt Marr - Man Of Her Dreams

Beth took her bag. “How can you get in trouble counting stars, Ry?” his sister said as she carried Meg’s bag to the bedroom.

“Meg wouldn’t help me,” he said, wandering through the condo, inspecting the layout. “Nice place, Beth. You must have had Isabel decorate for you.”

In unison, both women groaned. He loved the sound. This was family.

“I never know whether to pity Isabel for being Trey’s wife or congratulate her for finding exactly what she was looking for,” Beth said, going to the kitchen where she measured coffee and set it to brew.

“And that would be a rich doctor who treats her like a child?” Meg said, heading for the bedroom. “I’m changing out of this scratchy dress.”

That was a shame. All dressed up, Meg looked like a woman he could fall for, not the girl he used to know. He wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents.

“Hungry?” Beth asked, pulling out chips and salsa.

“I could eat.” Actually, Ry was ravenous. He’d been too nervous to eat during his trip, and he hadn’t been at his parents’ house long enough to have something there. After that scene in the study, the three of them had turned in their party hats and left. No one from the family seemed to notice.

“There’s a pizza in the freezer and muffins in that bakery box,” Beth said.

He spotted eggs and cheese. “Mind if I make an omelet?”

“No, but don’t you want to get comfy like us?”

“Maybe later. I’d rather eat.”

Meg appeared in jeans and a huge pink T-shirt that probably doubled as sleepwear. Had she always looked that pretty in pink?

“Meg, I’ve put a pot of coffee on,” his sister said. “Do you want tea? I have peach tea and that herbal stuff you like.”

Scooting onto one of the high stools at the kitchen counter, Meg ran a hand through her long dark hair and said, “If we’re staying up all night, I’d better have coffee.”

Ry broke eggs into a bowl. “How about an omelet?” he said, enjoying the sight of her slender fingers running through her dark, shiny hair. She scooped it up, lifting it off of her shoulders as if it were a heavy weight.

Beth leaned over his shoulder. “I think you just added some eggshell, pal.”

He looked in the bowl and saw for himself what happened when a man got distracted. “You don’t like a little crunch in your eggs?” he said, trying to cover his mistake. It was crazy how he couldn’t get past how absolutely gorgeous Meggy had become.

Meg. She really wasn’t Meggy anymore. Instead of the slightly klutzy girl who used to adore him, this very pretty woman had confidence to spare and seemed immune to the fact that she had his total attention.

He fished out the bits of shell and brought the bowl a little closer to her, the better to show off his whisking technique. Women usually liked his domestic routine.

She lifted one pretty brow. “You’re really cooking?”

He was, indeed. “At the fire department, we take turns. Omelets are one of my specialties. Light, fluffy, creamy—this is going to melt in your mouth.” She had a beautiful mouth, truly kissable.

“Is your skillet supposed to be smoking?”

He’d forgotten he’d turned the heat on. Usually, he worked in a smooth rhythm, getting the eggs into the pan at just the right moment, but he was definitely off his stride. “I think I’m a little jet-lagged,” he said, grabbing the handle of the pan to take it off the burner.

Ow! He silently screamed. That was one hot handle.

“Let me help,” his sister said, taking over, using a hot pad. “You’d better run some cold water on that hand.”

He knew that. He didn’t need a pediatrician telling him what to do with a minor burn.

An hour later, when he’d redeemed his reputation as a cook and hadn’t made another dumb mistake, the three of them sat in front of Beth’s muted TV. The girls had curled up on the sofa, and he sat in a comfortable chair with one bare foot casually crossed on a knee and one burned hand casually resting on an ice bag. He’d changed into a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms and settled in for the night, feeling happier than he’d been in a very long time.

“Ry, that was better than any breakfast Isabel could have made,” Beth vowed. “If you ever change professions, you should be a chef.”

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