Love Came Just In Time Part 40

He tapped the end of her nose. "Go take a nap, sweetheart. Your eyelids are already at half-mast. I'll wake you up in time for dinner."

"Apricot chicken?"

"What else?"

She hopped off the counter and pushed him out of the way. "I suppose this is a good thing," she said, trying to sound businesslike. "I guess it's about time I got married, and I'm sure not attracting any prospects the way I am."

He smiled. "We're doing each other a favor. All I'm getting is my b.u.t.t pinched the way I am now. I'd like to be respected for my prowess in the tool shed."

Sydney nodded and left the kitchen. She was happy. For the first time in years, she was happy. And that happiness lasted until she closed her bedroom door and flopped down onto her bed. Then her happiness was replaced by hollowness. How many nights had she lain in that very bed and dreamed of a man who would want her? Too many to count. She'd pretended it hadn't hurt her feelings. Men were stupid, and she hadn't wanted any part of them.

Until Sam. He was handsome and funny and kind. And he couldn't stand Melanie Newark's mother. That said a great deal about his character. He wasn't afraid to bake mouthwatering cakes. He couldn't start a fire on his own, and she half wondered how he managed to work the oven without help.

But she wanted him to want her. She wanted him to look at her with those leaf-green eyes, smile that secret little smile of his, and say, "Yes, Syd, I think you're perfect and I want you." And if he thought the perfect woman was a woman who could cook like a French chef, then that's what she would become.

She closed her eyes and fell asleep, dreaming about flour and sugar.

Chapter Six.

Sam came out of the bathroom a week later to the sound of pots clanking and a certain wilderness woman cursing. He walked through the living room and stopped just shy of the kitchen, curious as to what Sydney was up to. The smell of burnt eggs immediately a.s.saulted his nose.

"d.a.m.n it, anyway, I'm going to burn all the winter supplies before November if somebody doesn't start cooperating right now! Go down the disposal, you ungrateful little sonsa-"

Sam indulged in a grin. It was no wonder Sydney had such a tough reputation as a trail guide if she talked to her city boys the way she talked to her breakfast ingredients. The woman was adorable. Sam could hardly stop himself from striding into the kitchen and kissing her senseless.

No, that wouldn't do. In the first place, he'd promised to be a gentleman. In the second, he had the sinking feeling that she had her heart set on Frank Slater. Why, Sam didn't know. The guy was a wuss. All right, so he wasn't exactly a wuss. He could hunt and fish and do all those Alaska things, but he couldn't tell the infinitive form from the subjunctive, and Sam had his doubts he knew what a p.r.o.noun was. And he was dating Melanie. If that didn't say something about his character, and his intelligence, Sam didn't know what did. No, Frank Slater wasn't for Sydney.

Now to convince her of that.

Carefully.

Sam cleared his throat and entered the kitchen.

"Hey, Syd, what's for breakfast?

"Oh," she said, blinking innocently, "eggs. Just like you taught me, Sam. I'm just getting ready to cook them," she added, waving the pan around, probably to make the smell of burned eggs dissipate.

"It sounds great. Want me to make the toast?"

"No. You just go on in and sit down in the living room. I'll call you when it's ready."

Sam let her off the hook and went to hide in the living room. After a week of lessons, Sydney still couldn't scramble eggs to save her life. They were either too runny or too dry. Sam didn't care either way. One day she'd be making runny eggs just for him, and he'd eat them with just as much gusto then as he did now.

Half an hour later, he sat facing a plate of quivering eggs. It was a lucky thing he usually liked his over very easy or he might have been slightly sick at the prospect facing him. Sydney looked like she wanted to cry, so he ate not only his breakfast but hers, then he made her some un-burned toast. And he started to gird up his loins for his humiliating part of the bargain: his wilderness-man studies.

He didn't care about hammers. He didn't care about wrenches or screwdrivers or power tools. He didn't care about what made the generator tick. It provided light and heat, and power for his computer. He didn't want to know where that power came from or what to do when the power was off. Sydney would be around for that.

But today was different. He was going to learn how to fish. Sydney promised him she would teach him what kind of lures lured what kind of fish. Sam could thread a needle about as easily as he could jump over the moon, so he antic.i.p.ated a great deal of difficulty in hooking the lures to the string. Fis.h.i.+ng line. Whatever they called it, he knew it was going to give his fingers fits and Sydney would have to give him a great deal of help.

And if that wasn't enough to make a man grin, he didn't know what was.

He buzzed through four chapters of the revisions his agent had requested, then cheerfully waited in the living room for Sydney to go get their fis.h.i.+ng gear. She came in with a tackle box and two rods. Sam opened the box the moment she set it down and peeked inside. He held up a little silver fish with three hooks hanging from his underbelly.

"Cute," he noted.

"No, not cute," Sydney corrected. "Clever. Efficient. Practical. Lures are never cute, Sam."

"I'll keep that in mind. Whatever happened to salmon eggs? Or worms?"

"Minor-league stuff," Sydney said, reaching for a rod. "You're fis.h.i.+ng with the big boys now, Sam."

"Do your city boys know all about this when they come up?"

She shrugged. "Some do. Some would like to think they do."

"Why do I have the feeling they don't like hearing what they're doing wrong from a woman?"

"Because you're very bright, Sam. Now, pay attention. I'm going to explain the parts of the reel to you."

He leaned back against the couch and moved just the slightest bit closer to her. "I'm listening."

"This up front is the drag k.n.o.b. It adjusts the tension. Then we have the spool. See how the fis.h.i.+ng line is wound around it, then fed through the guide?"

Sam nodded obediently.

"Now when you're casting, you release the line here, by pressing this b.u.t.ton. Then you drag the lure back toward you by cranking the handle..."

Sam stopped listening after that. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in fis.h.i.+ng. He didn't mind salmon, barbecued with lots of lemon on it. He found he just couldn't concentrate. Sydney was just so doggone

beautiful. He wondered why in the world every male in Flaherty over the age of ten wasn't beating a path to her door. Frank Slater probably was. Sam didn't care for that thought.

"Sam?"

He blinked and realized she was looking at him. Her pale blue eyes were wide and her lips parted just

slightly. Sam had the overwhelming urge to bend his head and capture her mouth with his.

"Sam, you look flushed. Did my eggs do you in?"

"I'm fine," he said. But his voice sounded suspiciously hoa.r.s.e, even to his ears.

"Do you want me to go back over the parts of the rod?"

"No. Keep going."

She launched into a discussion of lures, and Sam did his best to follow. But her perfume kept getting in

his way. He couldn't decide if it was something she'd put on, her shampoo, or the dryer sheets he'd used in the last load of wash. He leaned closer for a better whiff and b.u.mped his chin on her shoulder when she suddenly leaned back.

"Sam!"

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his jaw. "I was just moving in for a closer look."

"Here, let's put the tackle box on your lap. It'll be safer that way."

Sam let her put the heavy box on his lap, then he sniffed un.o.btrusively when she leaned over to pull out a

lure. Could have been shampoo. Could have been the dryer sheet. Whatever it was, it was s.e.xy as h.e.l.l and it was making him lightheaded.

"Sam?"

"I'm just a little dizzy," he said, drawing his hand over his eyes. "It'll pa.s.s. I must have stayed up too late."

"Oh, no," she said, lifting her arm and sniffing her wrist. "It's that insect repellent I put on. I'll try not to get it under your nose again." She met his eyes. "Then again, maybe I should go wash it off."

He felt himself falling. And then he felt himself falling. Literally. Sydney caught the tackle box.

"Sam!"

"Oh, this is bad," he moaned as he lunged to his feet and ran for the bathroom, where he summarily lost

both breakfast and lunch.

"Sam, open up!" Sydney shouted, pounding on the door.

Sam flushed the toilet, then rinsed out his mouth in the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled weakly at the pale shadow that stared back at him. "Sam, good grief, what happened?" Sydney had pushed open the door and caught sight of his face. She blanched to about the same color. "I did this to you," she whispered.

"Bad eggs. Not your fault. Just help me get to bed." She put her arm around him and helped him into his room. Well, now, this had been one way to get her there. Not exactly how his chivalrous self would have planned it, but drastic times called for drastic measures. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." "Honey, it wasn't you," Sam said, sitting down gingerly and willing his stomach to stop churning. "It might not have been the eggs. It could have been the chicken from last night." She looked like she just might cry for real this time. Sam took her hand and squeezed it. "Syd, this is going to give you a great chance to hone your pampering skills. Every man loves to be pampered. I'll show you just what to do." "You're right," she said, sounding relieved. "Let's get you comfortable, and then I'll wait on you hand and foot until you're better." And whoever said food poisoning couldn't be fun?

Chapter Seven.

Thirty-six hours later Sydney sat at Sam's bedside and prayed she hadn't killed him. First had come twelve hours of staying out of Sam's path to the bathroom. She had decided he looked mighty fine in a pair of red-and-blue-plaid boxers.

Then had come half a day's worth of s.h.i.+vers, when she'd piled every blanket she owned on top of him and he still begged her to turn up the heat. Then his fever had raged and he'd wanted nothing on him at all. She'd had to fight to make him leave his underwear on. Now he was sleeping peacefully. He looked like h.e.l.l and she felt like h.e.l.l. She had done this to him, laid this beautiful man low with one turn of her spatula. It was no wonder she couldn't find a man to marry. She leaned forward and brushed an unruly lock of hair back from his face. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Hi," he croaked.

She couldn't return his smile. "Sam, I'm so sorry."

"Hey, you're doing a great job of pampering me."

"Oh, Sam..."

He took her hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. "It wasn't your fault, sugar. It was Joe's fault

for selling us rotten eggs. We'll bake him some brownies with laxative frosting in a few days as repayment."

She pulled her hand away. "I'm never setting another foot in that kitchen." He pulled himself up against the headboard, wincing as he did so. "Oh, yes, you are. When you fall off a horse, you get right back on. Go take a nap, Sydney, while I clean up. Then we'll make soup for supper and find a good movie on television. Tomorrow we'll start over. You promised to teach me how to change the oil. I don't want to miss out on that."

"The Ladies Aid Society thinks I killed you," she said in a small voice.

Sam laughed softly as he swung his legs to the floor. "I'll set them straight next week. Now git."

Sydney rose, then stopped at the door. "I can make soup." She met his eyes. "It comes in a can, you

know."

"Then you go make soup. I'll be out to eat it in half an hour."

She nodded and closed his door behind her. At least soup wouldn't kill him. Saltine crackers would be a

nice addition, especially since someone else had cooked them. And ice cream for dessert. Yes, Sam

would certainly be safe through dinner. Half an hour later, she heard the TV go on in the living room. She brought out a tray with two bowls of soup and a package of crackers. She set the tray down and watched Sam try to start the fire. When he started to swear, she knew the time for aid had come. She knelt down next to him and smiled.