Page 102 of First Bride to Fall
Nell bit her bottom lip, holding back a roar of laughter. “All wounds.”
“What?”
“The expression isall, Grant.”
“Oh? Is it? Well okay then! Good to know.”
Nell sat at the kitchen table. “Can I help with anything?”
He exhaled sharply, then drew in a breath, appearing grateful the Robby conversation was over. She kind of regretted that herself. She’d had the time of her life with it.
“Not at the moment.” He shook his head. “But you can make the hot dogs later, if you’d like?”
“Ooh, we’re having the hot dogs for dinner? Great.” She wasn’t sure how good they’d be. Hopefully better than the bacon, but at least they wouldn’t be trout. She was tempted to bring up Charlotte’s chicken parmigiana, since there was still a lot of that left, but then she decided enough was enough with the poultry teasing. She wasn’t sure how much more of that Grant could take without literally flying the coop, and she didn’t want him leaving just yet.
She intended to learn what he had in mind for today in his dastardly plan to drive her away so she could thwart it with Operation Ditch Me. She liked staying one step ahead of him. It made her feel empowered, and empowered was good. It was…freeing. All the years she’d spent worrying about everyone else, it felt nice to be powerful in her own right. She’d probably never go back to being the family fixer again.
Just because she basically only had work and her knitting didn’t mean she had to drive everyone to their doctors’ appointments all the time or run people’s errands for them ceaselessly. She also needed to stop making lunches for her sisters, except for on special occasions. They weren’t little kids in school anymore. Besides all that, Nell’s special services would stop the moment she stepped onto that plane to London. She’d only be looking out for herself after that.
Oh yeah. She would also be helping her family. And saving their family business.
But those were just bonus points.
“Brunch is served.”
She stared down at the plate Grant set in front of her, and her blowtorch-powerful thoughts flickered down to a dim flame. He’d blackened the fish, and it smelled a little spicy, with hints of smoked paprika and cayenne. He’d also loaded her plate down with grits. Her stomach lurched. People seriously did this? Eat fish for breakfast? Never mind that it was after noon. It was still kind of morning to her. But wait. She was strong. Tough enough to chop wood and wield that nasty toilet brush. She picked up her fork, determined not to let him see her flinch.
She roused her enthusiasm instead. “Looks yummy.” At least he’d already deboned it for her, presenting her with two meaty fillets.
“I blackened it Louisiana style,” he said, joining her at the table. “Goes great with grits.”
She was glad there were lots of those, because that’s what she intended to fill up on. “When did you learn about Louisiana cooking?”
“When we lived there.”
“Oh?”
He shrugged. “Lived lots of other places, too.”
“I heard you’d moved around,” she said, “but I didn’t know where.”
He removed the teabag from his mug and wrung it out around a spoon. “New Orleans, Asheville—”
“North Carolina?”
“Yeah.” He dropped the teabag onto his plate, which was even more loaded down with fish than hers was. “Savannah, Georgia, too.”
“That’s a lot of moving around for a kid.”
“That was a lot of moving around for high school.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You mean, when you moved here your senior year…?”
“I’d already been in three other high schools, yeah.”
She took a sip of coffee. “I’m impressed you settled in so well.” He began eating and motioned for her to go ahead. She planned to. Soon. She was working her way up to the fish by getting caffeinated first.
He shrugged. “I became a chameleon. I adapted.”
