Forget Me Not by Stef Ann Holm Page B

he’d open everything.
    â€œWhat are you making?”
    Her throat was still sore from that butterscotch going down whole. Coughing slightly, she said, “It’s a surprise.” And it would be, too, if everything turned out the way it was supposed to.
    â€œPan-fried steak with tomatoes would be damn welcome.”
    â€œYes, it would.” But it wasn’t on the menu.
    â€œThat’s a nice loin I brought you. I prefer my steaks cut thick. We’ve got plenty.”
    She gave him a noncommittal response.
    J.D. whipped through all the cans in no time, leaving their jagged tin lids on. “What do you need the milk for? The boys don’t like it in their coffee.”
    â€œThat’s good to know,” was all she replied, not telling him what the milk was for.
    Stepping back, his gaze fell on the black powder staining her cuffs. Then his eyes traveled up her arms, the column of her throat, her lips, and lastly her eyes. The way he carried on with his thorough inspection had her flustered inside to distraction. She didn’t know where to look, what to look at, or what to say. She’d never felt so exposed in all her life.
    â€œYou should have put on something more appropriate,” he remarked in a deep voice. “Out here women don’t have much call for fancy duds like what you’ve got.”
    That was all he’d needed to say to make her cry,only she refused to let her tears fall. Her poor attempt at opening the eans, her misunderstanding of how the dampers operated, her uncertainty of her abilities, the sheets on the floor, her lost valise, her missing five hundred dollars. She had but to pick one, and she could turn herself loose in a monumental crying spree. Throw in the fact that she had but one spring suit to wear, and her not knowing how to iron it was enough to send her to her room to claim a headache from now until late next week.
    The problem with that scenario was J.D. McCall would most likely drag her from her sickbed and demand she fry eighteen thick steaks. She had the strongest urge to feel utterly and completely sorry for herself. But that was no way for a woman of independent means to behave. She had longed for this moment—albeit with a faceless opponent—when she could stand on her own two feet and speak for herself. To make her own views clear. People with “guts” didn’t snivel. They were courageous and faced their opponents head-on.
    â€œIf you recall,” she said, keeping her eyes level with his, “my valise was taken from me. This is the only dress I own.” As she spoke the well-aimed words, her rapid heartbeat grew deafening in her ears.
    If he felt any compassion for her, he certainly didn’t exhibit it. “When I carried your case, it felt heavy enough to have clothes inside.”
    She was appalled that he would make reference to her personal belongings in such a frank manner. Refusing to retreat no matter how embarrassed she was, she said simply, “The clothes in that valise were intended for another type of woman.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    The thoughtless cad wanted her to spell it out. “A woman with a different bone structure than myself.” On that note, she plopped the contents of a tomato can—lid and all—into a round-bottom pot. Moisturebroke out on her palms; her staid barriers were teetering. “Now, if you don’t mind, your presence is destroying my creativity.”
    She turned away from him, then proceeded to dump out the tomatoes from the remaining cans. Their juice splashed her hands. Seconds ticked by. She fished out the lids and stacked them. Perhaps a full minute passed. When she could abide the strain no longer, she looked up.
    Mr. McCall was gone. For a big man, he moved quietly. She’d forgotten to thank him for opening the cans. But she consoled herself with the reminder that he’d insulted her mode of dress. When she’d first worn