Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

If I could only find the box of flour that I know for a fact is somewhere in this damn kitchen.

After twenty minutes of looking, I decide I have three options. Drive into town to get more flour. Quit making ravioli altogether. Or walk over to the Hawthorne house and snag the bag that I know is on the left side of the pantry.

Since I’ve had a few glasses of wine—the burden of being a chef forced to pair dishes with a wine list—driving into town is out.

So … Hawthorne house it is.

I knock on the front door first, still wanting to be respectful even though both Sarah and Jack said I was welcome in the house at any time. But when nobody comes to answer after a few knocks, I turn the handle and push inside.

I can hear a quiet hum from somewhere, maybe some light music, but other than that it’s still. So I walk softly through the entry, down the hallway on the left, and into the kitchen.

I’m in the pantry in seconds, and when I spot the bag of flour exactly where I thought it was, I smile.

Plucking it off the shelf, I step back out into the kitchen and thunk it onto the counter. Taking just a little helping for myself seems like a better choice than making off with their entire supply.

I’m digging around in the cabinets looking for plastic bags when I hear a familiar voice from behind me.

“What are you doing here?”

I close the drawer and turn around, my mouth going dry when my eyes fall on Murphy, her hair wet and wrapped in a messy bun on her head. She’s wearing a pair of tiny sleep shorts and a tank top that’s a little too see-through for my liking.

Or exactly see-through enough, depending on where you’re coming from.

I clear my throat and turn back to the cabinets, continuing my search.

“Borrowing some flour,” I tell her. “I’ll be gone in just a minute.”

“You making something?”

I pause just briefly in my perusal of the contents of the top drawer next to the cutlery, considering the best way to respond.

“Ravioli,” I reply, figuring I can go with one-word answers.

Be curt, but not unkind. That’s my plan.

Though I can’t say it was my plan yesterday afternoon, when I narrated my own personal erotic romance into Murphy’s ear outside my cabin. My palms start sweating a little at the brief remembrance.

God, I’d had her on the verge of panting at just the idea of the two of us together, without so much as touching her … until her brother showed up and ruined it.

I can’t even say she caught me at a weak moment. I hadn’t been drinking, hadn’t been feeling particularly emotional or in turmoil or any other certain way that might lead me to bad decision-making.

I’d just seen her there, looking fairly similar to how she looks right now—damp hair, tight shirt, fresh face—and couldn’t push her away anymore the way I have been, when all I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met her was pull her close.

Part of me wonders if I crossed a line. Scratch that. I know I crossed a line. But I’m finding it difficult not to push the boundaries when Murphy is around.

I find the plastic bags in the next drawer and turn to where I placed the flour on the island, only to find Murphy resting her elbows on the marble, her tits squished together. And what’s worse, I can tell by her body language that she isn’t posing for me, so I can’t even be irritated at her.

“I used to work at an Italian place that made the best butternut squash ravioli,” she says, an easy smile on her face. “I swear I gained ten pounds working there because I kept ordering that dish to go after every shift.”

I try to keep my eyes on the task at hand as I dump a healthy serving of flour into the plastic bag. Only once I’m rolling up the top of the flour bag do her words register.

“That’s actually what I’m making,” I say before I can stop myself.

Of course her eyes light up.

“Really?”

I nod.