reasonable request until she remembered, "Pumpkin needs me to walk him. My plants must be watered and talked to every day."
Warmth flowed over them as Drake swung open the carved wooden door. A scratching against the floorboards greeted them, accompanied by the astounding sight of the huge dog skittering towards them along the polished floor. As he draped his paws against Drake's shoulders in a doggy show of affection, Drake managed to say, "I've take care of Pumpkin. Your plants are in the living room. Your clothes are upstairs."
"You had no right," Miranda stormed. She tossed off her wool coat and grabbed Pumpkin's collar with both hands. "Down," she ordered. The dog pushed off from Drake and landed lightly for such a big animal. He followed wherever his new master went.
Drake brushed dog fur and slobber from his coat then shrugged out of it. "It's just not working for me to stay at your place all the time. Besides the inconvenience to me, it sure as hell looks funny to my associates."
"Like who?"
"Batgart for one. The CEO of Batcorp is wondering why I'm not home at night to return calls. We have a major investment in their good will. I have to be available."
"And your cell phone is where? That's just not enough to justify this move without asking me first."
Drake rubbed the back of his neck. When he moved down the hallway Miranda had little choice but to follow. He let them into a large kitchen. She watched him open the refrigerator and pull out a beer.
"Want one?" he asked.
"No." She tapped her foot. "I want to go home."
"You said you'd help me find out who's been fooling around with company stock. You're the one who convinced me to take advantage of our domestic arrangement while it was in force. No one will believe we are happily married if we live apart, and no one in their right mind would believe that you prefer staying in that tiny apartment when you could live here." Exasperation colored his voice. He slouched on a stool that stood adjacent to the large center counter.
Miranda sighed. "I like my little place. I have neighbors who care about me. People I like. What do I have here?"
"Just me," Drake said. His face was a mask.
Nodding, she wandered around the large room. It smelled of garlic and cinnamon in an appealingly comforting mix. If she didn't know better she'd swear this was a kitchen designed for a gourmet chef.
The island counter where Drake sat was on casters that locked or unlocked with clever latches. A large wooden cutting board sat beside an array of knives in all shapes and sizes nestled into the top of a chunk of wood. A variety of pots and pans and kitchen utensils hung from a ceiling rack. Ropes of chili peppers, garlic bulbs, onions in baskets, and other green things she couldn't put a name to hung from the ceiling.
A large stainless metal door hung on one wall. Through the small pane of glass Miranda glimpsed what appeared to be packages of frozen food. The stove had gas burners. Long counters ran along each wall.
She completed her circuit of the kitchen, arriving back to face Drake who had remained motionless during her inspection.
"Who's your chef?" she asked.
"You're looking at him."
"You cook?" The idea struck her as ludicrous.
"Didn't Lucy ever tell you how much she loved coming home and finding me in the kitchen?" Drake crossed his arms.
"Did she?"
"Did she what?"
"Love to come home to find you puttering around in the kitchen?"
"I don't putter. I create."
"I don't believe it. Drake McLain, CEO chef. What next?" She sank onto the stool across from him, unsure of whether to believe him or not.
"Everyone needs a hobby. Yours is taking care of Pumpkin and Alice and your plants and that giant who thinks he's your personal bodyguard. I cook."
"Okay." Bemused and more than a little hungry, she hadn't eaten much at the social hour, she couldn't think of a better retort. At that moment her stomach answered for her.
Drake grinned. "I think that's my cue to prove my culinary
Warmth flowed over them as Drake swung open the carved wooden door. A scratching against the floorboards greeted them, accompanied by the astounding sight of the huge dog skittering towards them along the polished floor. As he draped his paws against Drake's shoulders in a doggy show of affection, Drake managed to say, "I've take care of Pumpkin. Your plants are in the living room. Your clothes are upstairs."
"You had no right," Miranda stormed. She tossed off her wool coat and grabbed Pumpkin's collar with both hands. "Down," she ordered. The dog pushed off from Drake and landed lightly for such a big animal. He followed wherever his new master went.
Drake brushed dog fur and slobber from his coat then shrugged out of it. "It's just not working for me to stay at your place all the time. Besides the inconvenience to me, it sure as hell looks funny to my associates."
"Like who?"
"Batgart for one. The CEO of Batcorp is wondering why I'm not home at night to return calls. We have a major investment in their good will. I have to be available."
"And your cell phone is where? That's just not enough to justify this move without asking me first."
Drake rubbed the back of his neck. When he moved down the hallway Miranda had little choice but to follow. He let them into a large kitchen. She watched him open the refrigerator and pull out a beer.
"Want one?" he asked.
"No." She tapped her foot. "I want to go home."
"You said you'd help me find out who's been fooling around with company stock. You're the one who convinced me to take advantage of our domestic arrangement while it was in force. No one will believe we are happily married if we live apart, and no one in their right mind would believe that you prefer staying in that tiny apartment when you could live here." Exasperation colored his voice. He slouched on a stool that stood adjacent to the large center counter.
Miranda sighed. "I like my little place. I have neighbors who care about me. People I like. What do I have here?"
"Just me," Drake said. His face was a mask.
Nodding, she wandered around the large room. It smelled of garlic and cinnamon in an appealingly comforting mix. If she didn't know better she'd swear this was a kitchen designed for a gourmet chef.
The island counter where Drake sat was on casters that locked or unlocked with clever latches. A large wooden cutting board sat beside an array of knives in all shapes and sizes nestled into the top of a chunk of wood. A variety of pots and pans and kitchen utensils hung from a ceiling rack. Ropes of chili peppers, garlic bulbs, onions in baskets, and other green things she couldn't put a name to hung from the ceiling.
A large stainless metal door hung on one wall. Through the small pane of glass Miranda glimpsed what appeared to be packages of frozen food. The stove had gas burners. Long counters ran along each wall.
She completed her circuit of the kitchen, arriving back to face Drake who had remained motionless during her inspection.
"Who's your chef?" she asked.
"You're looking at him."
"You cook?" The idea struck her as ludicrous.
"Didn't Lucy ever tell you how much she loved coming home and finding me in the kitchen?" Drake crossed his arms.
"Did she?"
"Did she what?"
"Love to come home to find you puttering around in the kitchen?"
"I don't putter. I create."
"I don't believe it. Drake McLain, CEO chef. What next?" She sank onto the stool across from him, unsure of whether to believe him or not.
"Everyone needs a hobby. Yours is taking care of Pumpkin and Alice and your plants and that giant who thinks he's your personal bodyguard. I cook."
"Okay." Bemused and more than a little hungry, she hadn't eaten much at the social hour, she couldn't think of a better retort. At that moment her stomach answered for her.
Drake grinned. "I think that's my cue to prove my culinary
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