Kathryn Springer - A Place to Call Home

He scooped up a few cans of tuna and shoved them in the cupboard. “That isn’t necessary. I’ll make do.”

“I’ve been trying out different recipes to serve to the guests.” Abby paused to study the label on a loaf of white bread. “Daniel was my official food critic. And since you’re taking his place as my carpenter, you might as well take his place as the taste tester, too.”

The offer was reasonable. And generous. At the moment, Quinn wasn’t sure he was in the mood to be either. He didn’t want to get to know Abby better. “Thanks, but I’ll get more done if I work at my own pace and don’t have to stop for meals at certain times.”

I’ll get more done. He’d said the words deliberately but Abby didn’t react the way he’d expected. Instead, she stared at him thoughtfully, as if he were a chessboard and she was studying her next move.

“Mmm.” That was all she said. But instead of leaving, Abby began to sort through the groceries and put them away. Quinn joined in, only to speed up the process so he could get back to work. And put some distance between them again.

She clucked her tongue with something that sounded like disapproval.

Quinn slanted a look at Abby and caught her frowning at the can of soup in her hand. “What’s wrong? Is it expired?”

“It’s chicken noodle.”

“So?”

“If you put chicken and water and some noodles into a pot, it turns into chicken noodle soup. Homemade. Which means it tastes better.”

“That takes time.”

“So?”

Quinn resisted the urge to smile when Abby tossed the word back at him. “So I work a lot. It’s easier to open a can.”

Both were the truth. He didn’t work full-time as a carpenter, which was what Abby assumed he did for a living, but the long hours spent rebuilding O’Halloran Security called for sacrifices in other areas. Like his entire life. But that didn’t appear to matter. Abby rolled her eyes and put it in the cupboard next to a box of generic macaroni and cheese.

“Macaroni. Cheese. This isn’t hard to make, either,” she muttered.

“Really?” Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Because I would think it’s extremely challenging to locate fluorescent orange cheese, grind it into a powder and seal it in a tiny foil package.”

Abby laughed. The lilting sound poured through the tiny kitchen. And swept right through his defenses. Fortunately, Abby’s cell phone chirped, granting him a few moments to shore them up again.

“I’m sorry.” She glanced at the number and a shadow skimmed through her eyes. “I should take this.”

“No problem.” Quinn retreated to the cabin deck and picked up one of the windows. Through the screen, he could hear one side of the conversation.

“I don’t care and I don’t think my attorney will, either.” A long silence followed before Abby spoke again, her tone glacial. “Did he mention that Abby Porter is the one who called? No? Well, you might want to mention my name…yes. Thank you.”

Quinn’s lips twisted.

He’d never have put that autocratic, hand-me-my-crown-and-scepter voice with the woman in the paint-splattered T-shirt who’d offered to make him dinner.

What’s the matter? You expected to see this side of her.

That was true. But he hadn’t expected to be so disappointed.

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