Michelle Douglas - The Millionaire and the Maid

He cut the thought off with a curse and went to help Jo unpack the car. She’d only given him a week. He’d better make the most of it.

She glanced up when he strode out onto the veranda, and in the light of her grace and vigour he suddenly felt awkward and ungainly.

He scowled, unable to dredge up a single piece of small talk. ‘I thought I’d help unpack the car.’

She pursed her lips and he realised he was still scowling. He did what he could to smooth his face out—the parts of his face he could smooth out.

‘You have any trouble finding the shops?’

Heck. Scintillating conversation.

‘None at all. You feeling okay, Mac?’

‘I’m fine.’ Striding to the car, he seized as many bags as he could and stalked back into the house with them.

It took them two trips.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do after that, so he leant against the sink and pretended to drink a glass of water as he watched her unpack the groceries. There were the expected trays of meat—hamburger mince, sausages, steak and diced beef. And then there was the unexpected and to be deplored—frozen pies and frozen pizza. Fish fingers, for heaven’s sake!

He flicked a disparaging finger at the boxes. What are those?’

‘I’m assuming you’re not asking the question literally?’

She’d donned one of those mock patient voices used on troublesome children and it set his teeth on edge. ‘Is this to punish me for refusing to teach you to cook?’

She turned from stowing stuff in the freezer, hands on hips. ‘You told me you weren’t a fussy eater.’

‘This isn’t food . It’s processed pap!’

‘You’re free to refuse to eat anything I serve up.’

‘But if I do you’ll go running to Russ to tell tales?’

She grinned, and her relish both irked and amused him.

She lifted one hand. ‘Rock.’ She lifted the other. ‘Hard place.’

Which described his situation perfectly.

She grinned again and his mouth watered. She seized a packet of frozen pies and waved them at him. ‘Pies, mash, peas and gravy is one of my all-time favourite, walk-over-hot-coals-to-get-it meals, and I’m not giving it up—not even for your high-falutin’ standards. And before you ask—no, I haven’t mastered the trick to pastry.’ She shook her head. ‘Life’s too short to fuss with pastry. Or to stuff a mushroom.’

She was wrong. A perfect buttery pastry, light and delicate, was one of life’s adventures. And mushroom-stuffing shouldn’t be sneezed at. But why on earth would she ask him to teach her to cook if that was the way she felt?

‘And I’ll have you know that fish fingers on a fresh bun with a dollop of tartare sauce makes the best lunch.’

‘I will never eat fish fingers.’

‘All the more for me, then.’

He scowled at the pizza boxes.

‘Also,’ her lips twitched, ‘as far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as a bad slice of pizza.’

‘That’s ludicrous!’

‘Don’t be such a snob. Besides, all of this food is better than whatever it is you’ve been living on for the last heaven only knows how long. Which, as far as I can tell, has been tinned baked beans, crackers and breakfast cereal.’

She had a point. It didn’t matter what he ate. In fact the more cardboard-like and tasteless the better. It had been his search for excellence and his ambition that had caused the fire that had almost claimed a young man’s life and—

His chest cramped. He reached out an unsteady hand and lowered himself into a chair at the table. He had to remember what was important. He wanted to do all he could to set Russ’s mind at rest, but he couldn’t lose sight of what was important—and that was paying off his debts.

A warm hand on his shoulder brought him back to himself. ‘Mac, are you okay?’

He nodded.

‘Don’t lie to me. Do you need a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Russell told me you were physically recovered.’

‘I am.’ He pulled in a breath. ‘It’s just that I don’t like talking about food or cooking.’

Realisation dawned in those sage-green eyes of hers. ‘Because it reminds you of the accident?’

It reminded him of all he’d had. And all he’d lost.

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