didn’t you, Emma?
Not that she’d admit it to Sam.
When she returned, Mr. Major League himself was emerging from his tent. His exaggerated yawns hinted he’d slept no better than she had. Even in his jeans and loose windbreaker, his stretching gyrations displayed his muscular form and wide shoulders. When he saw her, he blinked like an owl and muttered something unintelligible.
She grinned. Capable of only an inarticulate rumble, Sam needed fuel to start his early-morning engines. “I fixed the coffee pot last night. Give me a sec,” she whispered, not wanting to wake the others so early.
Sam rummaged in a cooler, and with a sigh of relief, withdrew a packet of orange juice. He tore into it and gulped.
Annie struck a match and lit the Coleman stove under the coffee pot. “Carl and I are making pancakes and sausage. At least, he said he knew how to do pancakes.”
A grunt muffled by a mouthful of oatmeal and raisin cookies was his reply.
“Yes, I know it’s a recipe you have already measured out.” This morning sluggishness didn’t fit with his usual energy and vitality. “Anyone would think you hit the sauce every night. You always wake up like this?” She turned down the flame under the pot.
“Always,” he growled. “Need coffee. Need sugar.”
“You sound like a caveman. Come to think of it, that’s not too far off base.” There. The flame was set. They just had to wait for the coffee to perk. It wasn’t her Chemex, but this primitive method made darned good coffee.
“Need woman.” This time the rumble was right behind her. His breath warmed her ear and thrilled down her spine.
When she turned, devilment danced in eyes golden and warm like the sun. The chemistry between them was pure alchemy.
The ascending sun filtered through overhead branches, splashing everywhere, blinding her to everything but Sam. His masculine scent, his bristled jaw. His sculpted mouth so close, so tempting. With the stove behind her, she couldn’t back up. Kissing him again wasn’t a good idea, no matter how provocative his mouth was. She’d get swept up in an affair she didn’t want, didn’t need, with the wrong kind of man.
Before her racing pulse changed her mind, she slid sideways and escaped to the opposite end of the table. “You need coffee, Sam, not this woman.”
“Damn. If I was more awake, you wouldn’t get away.” He peered at the percolator. “Come on, come on.”
She blinked in the sunlight. A glance at the table glued her in place. “Sam.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be okay after a few dozen cups of coffee.” He swigged more juice. “I always wake up like a zombie. When I was a kid too. Once all my circuits fire, I’m finest kind. I need caffeine and food to jump-start me.”
“No. No kidding around.” She stared at the table. “It’s a dead chipmunk. On the table.”
His shoulders straightened and alertness banished lassitude. “What the hell?”
In the middle of the table, on a spread-out napkin as if arranged for viewing, lay the small, furry body. The faint, sour scents of blood and decay laced the air. Where the head should be gaped a raw wound.
“Frank might have done some of that other stuff,” Sam muttered, “but could he do this? Is he angry enough to lure a wild animal close, then kill it?”
“This is the product of a sick mind, all right. But Frank?” She clutched at Sam’s arm. “No blood on the table. Killed in the woods maybe. Could some animal have killed it? Then somebody found it and put it here?”
“A two-legged animal. No claws or teeth slice that cleanly. Someone used a sharp blade.” He shook his head. “I’d bet my outfielder’s glove it’s not Frank.”
Annie pressed a hand to her stomach and willed away the bile that crept up her throat. “Whether the boy did it or not, I don't want him to see this abomination.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He carefully folded the napkin around the small corpse.
The coffee began to perk as it had
Not that she’d admit it to Sam.
When she returned, Mr. Major League himself was emerging from his tent. His exaggerated yawns hinted he’d slept no better than she had. Even in his jeans and loose windbreaker, his stretching gyrations displayed his muscular form and wide shoulders. When he saw her, he blinked like an owl and muttered something unintelligible.
She grinned. Capable of only an inarticulate rumble, Sam needed fuel to start his early-morning engines. “I fixed the coffee pot last night. Give me a sec,” she whispered, not wanting to wake the others so early.
Sam rummaged in a cooler, and with a sigh of relief, withdrew a packet of orange juice. He tore into it and gulped.
Annie struck a match and lit the Coleman stove under the coffee pot. “Carl and I are making pancakes and sausage. At least, he said he knew how to do pancakes.”
A grunt muffled by a mouthful of oatmeal and raisin cookies was his reply.
“Yes, I know it’s a recipe you have already measured out.” This morning sluggishness didn’t fit with his usual energy and vitality. “Anyone would think you hit the sauce every night. You always wake up like this?” She turned down the flame under the pot.
“Always,” he growled. “Need coffee. Need sugar.”
“You sound like a caveman. Come to think of it, that’s not too far off base.” There. The flame was set. They just had to wait for the coffee to perk. It wasn’t her Chemex, but this primitive method made darned good coffee.
“Need woman.” This time the rumble was right behind her. His breath warmed her ear and thrilled down her spine.
When she turned, devilment danced in eyes golden and warm like the sun. The chemistry between them was pure alchemy.
The ascending sun filtered through overhead branches, splashing everywhere, blinding her to everything but Sam. His masculine scent, his bristled jaw. His sculpted mouth so close, so tempting. With the stove behind her, she couldn’t back up. Kissing him again wasn’t a good idea, no matter how provocative his mouth was. She’d get swept up in an affair she didn’t want, didn’t need, with the wrong kind of man.
Before her racing pulse changed her mind, she slid sideways and escaped to the opposite end of the table. “You need coffee, Sam, not this woman.”
“Damn. If I was more awake, you wouldn’t get away.” He peered at the percolator. “Come on, come on.”
She blinked in the sunlight. A glance at the table glued her in place. “Sam.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be okay after a few dozen cups of coffee.” He swigged more juice. “I always wake up like a zombie. When I was a kid too. Once all my circuits fire, I’m finest kind. I need caffeine and food to jump-start me.”
“No. No kidding around.” She stared at the table. “It’s a dead chipmunk. On the table.”
His shoulders straightened and alertness banished lassitude. “What the hell?”
In the middle of the table, on a spread-out napkin as if arranged for viewing, lay the small, furry body. The faint, sour scents of blood and decay laced the air. Where the head should be gaped a raw wound.
“Frank might have done some of that other stuff,” Sam muttered, “but could he do this? Is he angry enough to lure a wild animal close, then kill it?”
“This is the product of a sick mind, all right. But Frank?” She clutched at Sam’s arm. “No blood on the table. Killed in the woods maybe. Could some animal have killed it? Then somebody found it and put it here?”
“A two-legged animal. No claws or teeth slice that cleanly. Someone used a sharp blade.” He shook his head. “I’d bet my outfielder’s glove it’s not Frank.”
Annie pressed a hand to her stomach and willed away the bile that crept up her throat. “Whether the boy did it or not, I don't want him to see this abomination.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He carefully folded the napkin around the small corpse.
The coffee began to perk as it had
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