guitar as she plucked an A string. Oh God, she couldn’t accept a Martin. The melody that first wound through her brain at Claire’s made her hesitate.
She chewed on a knuckle. Quickly, she shut the lid and marched it across the hall to set it in front of his door. Still asleep at eight-thirty, it would be a long wait for him to roust himself. Then what would she do if he insisted she keep the guitar?
Pushing away the impulse to take the instrument and run, she hurried back to the kitchen table. She left the kitchen door open to keep a watchful eye on Colton’s door and the guitar. The vision of the beautiful guitar nestled in a plush purple bed, its smell and touch burned in her memory so deep her chest ached.
An urge to retrieve the case made her get up and rummage through the garbage for the peace offering note. She flattened it on the kitchen counter. The note was stuck inside a cookbook as she looked over her shoulder at the open kitchen door and the quiet center of her inn. Would it ever throb with life? Would he ever wake up?
The front door opened making her go see who was there. Colton. Drenched with sweat in a Bullets tee, running shorts, and new tennis shoes, he eyed the guitar in front of his door but didn’t comment.
“You been running?” she said, startled to see he hadn’t been asleep. She leaned a shoulder into the kitchen doorframe and crossed her arms over her midriff.
Without a word, he headed for his room with the guitar and closed the door.
“Well, I see the cowboy has a feminine side and can pout with the best of us.” She unfolded her arms and went back to the table to flip pages on the newspaper. Her ears were tuned to Colton’s door, curious if he would come ask for breakfast or mention the guitar he put out of her reach.
In what seemed an impossibly short time, his door swung open. His sandals padded across the large center room as he marched into her kitchen without so much as a hello and poured himself a cup of coffee. He opened the fridge and helped himself to half-’n-half, stirred two spoons of sugar into his cup, and began searching for a pan.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Making myself breakfast.” Watching him from the corner of her eye, he reopened the fridge and removed eggs. Butter. Jam. Cheese. Onion and a piece of green pepper. He picked up the bacon, must have decided against it, and put it back.
He slipped a knife from the butcher block and chopped vegetables with a vengeance. Fearing he would lop off a finger, Kate jumped to her feet. “Here, what do you want? I’ll make it.”
Colton elbowed her away from where he was working and threw the onion and pepper into a bowl of eggs.
“You should sauté the onion and pepper then add the eggs to the pan.”
He ignored her comment and whisked the bowl’s contents into an angry froth and set it aside. “Don’t want you feeling indebted to me. I’ll make my own breakfast in the future. For as long as I’m here. You can go about your own chores.” He fixed a mean topaz eye her direction.
Holding her coffee cup, Kate rested a hip against the cabinets to watch butter melt in a fry pan. “Go,” he told her. “I’ll clean up after myself.”
“I’m not going anywhere. This is my kitchen, you overbearing jerk.”
“Then go back to reading the paper.”
She thumped her cup on the counter, sloshing coffee over the edge. “You are so...so infuriating,” her voice rose before she pursed her lips.
“Why—because someone wants to be nice to you and you can’t handle it? Because someone wants to give you a helping hand for no reason other than you’re a nice person in need of a fresh start? Because I wanted to show your daughter a helluva safe barn where a real horse might live? Oh, don’t start crying, Kate. I’m too damned mad to be softened with a fall of tears.”
“You called my dad. Y-you dumped a pile of rockers and tables on my front porch and gave me an expensive guitar. No,
She chewed on a knuckle. Quickly, she shut the lid and marched it across the hall to set it in front of his door. Still asleep at eight-thirty, it would be a long wait for him to roust himself. Then what would she do if he insisted she keep the guitar?
Pushing away the impulse to take the instrument and run, she hurried back to the kitchen table. She left the kitchen door open to keep a watchful eye on Colton’s door and the guitar. The vision of the beautiful guitar nestled in a plush purple bed, its smell and touch burned in her memory so deep her chest ached.
An urge to retrieve the case made her get up and rummage through the garbage for the peace offering note. She flattened it on the kitchen counter. The note was stuck inside a cookbook as she looked over her shoulder at the open kitchen door and the quiet center of her inn. Would it ever throb with life? Would he ever wake up?
The front door opened making her go see who was there. Colton. Drenched with sweat in a Bullets tee, running shorts, and new tennis shoes, he eyed the guitar in front of his door but didn’t comment.
“You been running?” she said, startled to see he hadn’t been asleep. She leaned a shoulder into the kitchen doorframe and crossed her arms over her midriff.
Without a word, he headed for his room with the guitar and closed the door.
“Well, I see the cowboy has a feminine side and can pout with the best of us.” She unfolded her arms and went back to the table to flip pages on the newspaper. Her ears were tuned to Colton’s door, curious if he would come ask for breakfast or mention the guitar he put out of her reach.
In what seemed an impossibly short time, his door swung open. His sandals padded across the large center room as he marched into her kitchen without so much as a hello and poured himself a cup of coffee. He opened the fridge and helped himself to half-’n-half, stirred two spoons of sugar into his cup, and began searching for a pan.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Making myself breakfast.” Watching him from the corner of her eye, he reopened the fridge and removed eggs. Butter. Jam. Cheese. Onion and a piece of green pepper. He picked up the bacon, must have decided against it, and put it back.
He slipped a knife from the butcher block and chopped vegetables with a vengeance. Fearing he would lop off a finger, Kate jumped to her feet. “Here, what do you want? I’ll make it.”
Colton elbowed her away from where he was working and threw the onion and pepper into a bowl of eggs.
“You should sauté the onion and pepper then add the eggs to the pan.”
He ignored her comment and whisked the bowl’s contents into an angry froth and set it aside. “Don’t want you feeling indebted to me. I’ll make my own breakfast in the future. For as long as I’m here. You can go about your own chores.” He fixed a mean topaz eye her direction.
Holding her coffee cup, Kate rested a hip against the cabinets to watch butter melt in a fry pan. “Go,” he told her. “I’ll clean up after myself.”
“I’m not going anywhere. This is my kitchen, you overbearing jerk.”
“Then go back to reading the paper.”
She thumped her cup on the counter, sloshing coffee over the edge. “You are so...so infuriating,” her voice rose before she pursed her lips.
“Why—because someone wants to be nice to you and you can’t handle it? Because someone wants to give you a helping hand for no reason other than you’re a nice person in need of a fresh start? Because I wanted to show your daughter a helluva safe barn where a real horse might live? Oh, don’t start crying, Kate. I’m too damned mad to be softened with a fall of tears.”
“You called my dad. Y-you dumped a pile of rockers and tables on my front porch and gave me an expensive guitar. No,
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