Bolted by Meg Benjamin

He’d hoped to get one more glimpse of those dark brown eyes before she sped back to wherever it was she came from.
    Oddly enough, he didn’t think she’d ever told him where she came from or where she was going during their adventures the day before. He knew it had something to do with a wedding, and judging from the dress, she and the bride hadn’t been on the best of terms.
    The buttery, sweet smell of something baking seeped up through the floorboards, reminding him his room was more or less over the kitchen. Of course, normally the smells that issued from the kitchen wouldn’t have enticed him out of bed. They were more likely to make him put his head under his pillow.
    He stood up cautiously, checking to see if his foot would bear his weight. Although he was fairly sure his foot wasn’t broken, he wasn’t absolutely certain and he didn’t want to end up in a heap on the floor. Standing on his bruised foot was painful, but it was less so than yesterday. He could probably even make it to the dig if he wore loosely tied running shoes rather than his boots. It wouldn’t be fun, but it would be doable.
    After he had breakfast. Assuming that whatever he currently smelled turned out to be edible. With Nadia, you never knew. One fragrant concoction a few weeks ago had turned out to be a vat of hand cream she was getting ready to bottle.
    He shuffled downstairs carefully, keeping most of his weight on his good foot. It seemed a little early for Nadia to be up, but the Dubrovniks were nothing if not unpredictable. Maybe she’d had some kind of inspiration during the night. He could only hope it had to do with actually learning to cook. Maybe she’d been visited by the ghost of Julia Child.
    He headed through the dining room toward the kitchen door at the side. Odd that he didn’t see anybody sitting at the dining table as he passed by. Nadia usually demanded that meals be served there, with china and silver. Maybe Alice had finally managed to convince her that meals eaten in the kitchen didn’t result in the decline of Western civilization.
    He pushed open the door to the kitchen and paused, transfixed.
    Greta Brewster was taking a pan of what looked like muffins from the oven. She was wearing jeans and an oversize blue T-shirt that had Tompkins Corners splashed across the middle in red. Her feet were bare, and her hair looked slightly damp, as if she’d only recently stepped out of the shower.
    She raised her head and caught sight of him, breaking into a sunny grin. “Morning. How’s the foot?”
    “Um…fine.” He watched her walk across to the kitchen counter, where she placed the muffin pan on a trivet. Unless he was very much mistaken, she wasn’t wearing a bra under that T-shirt.
    He went hard almost instantly. Well, crap. Geez, it hadn’t been that long since he’d been with a woman, had it? Apparently, the answer to that particular question was yes.
    He sank into a chair at the sturdy oak table beneath the windows, covering his lap with a napkin. “So you’re…staying?” He was still trying to find a polite way of asking what the hell she was doing in the kitchen.
    “I am, yes.” She gave him another grin. “Alice has hired me to cook. In exchange for room and board.” She glanced down at her chest. “And clothes.”
    He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t realize you needed a job. Or clothes.”
    “I didn’t exactly realize it myself. But here I am.” Another grin. “Of course, the clothes thing was pretty obvious.”
    “Oh.” He watched her upend the muffin tin on a plate. Suddenly he was salivating to go along with the whole sexual arousal thing. Interesting way to approach breakfast. “God, those smell great.”
    “Applesauce muffins,” she explained. “Not exactly inspired, but I was stuck with what was in the pantry and the pantry doesn’t have much. I’ll troll through the general store today and see if there’s anything better.”
    “Don’t count on it,” he