Clifton before shift the day before to pick it up.
He set the box on the island. “Open it.”
When she opened it and saw the kremšnita , her eyes met his and she placed her fingers over her lips as if she might be trying to stanch emotion.
A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.
“What is it?”
“This is so sweet. Hvala! Thank you!” She came around the island and wrapped her arms around his waist.
He let himself be wrapped in her appreciation. He sniffed her hair and closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember having such an instant connection with anyone before. She was the wild card in the super-crappy hand he’d been dealt nine months ago, and he didn’t know how to feel about that.
He certainly hadn’t been in the market for a mail-order bride when he’d signed up for the service, but now he’d begun to wonder if maybe fate had had a hand in her sudden appearance in his life.
Friday, November 28—5:00 p.m.
Oakley Neighborhood, Cincinnati, Ohio
“What are you doing?” Deck asked as he came into the kitchen. His hair and face were damp, and droplets of rain darkened his snug dark blue T-shirt. He’d only run over to the convenience store for milk. It must be coming down harder than she realized. She peeked out the kitchen window. Torrents of rain fell from dark gray skies and streams trickled down the window pane.
Finally, she remembered his question. “Cooking?” she asked.
“It concerns me that that sounded like a question,” he said.
She’d asked rather than told because she was fairly certain that the contents of the pot on the stove would prove lethal within seconds of consumption.
“ What are you cooking?”
“It says ‘easy,’” she said, holding up the empty package of five-minute rice.
Deck made slow progress across the kitchen and opened the lid on the saucepan.
“Uh, Dana…” He shook his head.
She could understand his confusion. It looked like burned glue. “I’m a bad cook.” However, she had to do something to avoid going nuts at the lack of progress on this case…and her lack of involvement in that progress.
“After yesterday, that’s not a newsflash,” he said, softening his words with a grin. She recognized that Thanksgiving had been saved only because Deck was fairly handy in the kitchen. Dana’s culinary expertise was not in question. She had none.
“In your profile, you said you were a good cook.”
Given his hatred of liars, she had to tread softly here. “I want to be a good cook. Baka was good cook. My mother was good cook. I hoped to make it come true.”
“Maybe we can eat it,” he said, sounding as if that might be the last thing on earth he wanted to do.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Okay. Maybe not.” His grin was rueful. “There are still a lot of leftovers from yesterday. We can reheat that for dinner.”
“Not mad?”
“Of course I’m not mad.” He lightly rubbed her between her shoulder blades with his fingertips, and it took everything in her not to lean into his touch.
“I want to show you something.”
“What?” she asked.
“Follow me,” he said, tipping his head in the international sign for “this way” and began making his way across the kitchen to the door to the garage. He opened the door and stepped out of the way.
Dana’s eyes immediately tracked to a trembling mound huddled on the bare concrete floor. It was a dirty white mop sporting black eyes nearly hidden beneath a matted clump of hair on its forehead and a black button nose. The mop shuddered and began to slowly swish its tail against the floor.
The dog—and she used the term loosely—appeared to have a smattering of terrier and maybe Bichon Frise and probably about eight or nine other breeds. The ears definitely shouted cocker spaniel. It continued to tremble on the floor until Dana knelt down, and then it launched itself into her arms, all wriggling excitement and bad smell.
It—or rather he, she realized—licked her chin in
He set the box on the island. “Open it.”
When she opened it and saw the kremšnita , her eyes met his and she placed her fingers over her lips as if she might be trying to stanch emotion.
A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.
“What is it?”
“This is so sweet. Hvala! Thank you!” She came around the island and wrapped her arms around his waist.
He let himself be wrapped in her appreciation. He sniffed her hair and closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember having such an instant connection with anyone before. She was the wild card in the super-crappy hand he’d been dealt nine months ago, and he didn’t know how to feel about that.
He certainly hadn’t been in the market for a mail-order bride when he’d signed up for the service, but now he’d begun to wonder if maybe fate had had a hand in her sudden appearance in his life.
Friday, November 28—5:00 p.m.
Oakley Neighborhood, Cincinnati, Ohio
“What are you doing?” Deck asked as he came into the kitchen. His hair and face were damp, and droplets of rain darkened his snug dark blue T-shirt. He’d only run over to the convenience store for milk. It must be coming down harder than she realized. She peeked out the kitchen window. Torrents of rain fell from dark gray skies and streams trickled down the window pane.
Finally, she remembered his question. “Cooking?” she asked.
“It concerns me that that sounded like a question,” he said.
She’d asked rather than told because she was fairly certain that the contents of the pot on the stove would prove lethal within seconds of consumption.
“ What are you cooking?”
“It says ‘easy,’” she said, holding up the empty package of five-minute rice.
Deck made slow progress across the kitchen and opened the lid on the saucepan.
“Uh, Dana…” He shook his head.
She could understand his confusion. It looked like burned glue. “I’m a bad cook.” However, she had to do something to avoid going nuts at the lack of progress on this case…and her lack of involvement in that progress.
“After yesterday, that’s not a newsflash,” he said, softening his words with a grin. She recognized that Thanksgiving had been saved only because Deck was fairly handy in the kitchen. Dana’s culinary expertise was not in question. She had none.
“In your profile, you said you were a good cook.”
Given his hatred of liars, she had to tread softly here. “I want to be a good cook. Baka was good cook. My mother was good cook. I hoped to make it come true.”
“Maybe we can eat it,” he said, sounding as if that might be the last thing on earth he wanted to do.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Okay. Maybe not.” His grin was rueful. “There are still a lot of leftovers from yesterday. We can reheat that for dinner.”
“Not mad?”
“Of course I’m not mad.” He lightly rubbed her between her shoulder blades with his fingertips, and it took everything in her not to lean into his touch.
“I want to show you something.”
“What?” she asked.
“Follow me,” he said, tipping his head in the international sign for “this way” and began making his way across the kitchen to the door to the garage. He opened the door and stepped out of the way.
Dana’s eyes immediately tracked to a trembling mound huddled on the bare concrete floor. It was a dirty white mop sporting black eyes nearly hidden beneath a matted clump of hair on its forehead and a black button nose. The mop shuddered and began to slowly swish its tail against the floor.
The dog—and she used the term loosely—appeared to have a smattering of terrier and maybe Bichon Frise and probably about eight or nine other breeds. The ears definitely shouted cocker spaniel. It continued to tremble on the floor until Dana knelt down, and then it launched itself into her arms, all wriggling excitement and bad smell.
It—or rather he, she realized—licked her chin in
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