The Day Before (21 page)

“Let me guess, your phone broke so you're sending up smoke signals?” MacKenzie asked.

“Go away.”

He made a show of sniffing the air. “Why does it smell like the industrial revolution?”

“Because I wanted steak cooked over a fire. I bought charcoal.”

“Solar grilling works just as well.”

“It doesn't taste the same,” Sam said. She crossed her arms, refusing to be drawn into the conversation.

Mac leaned against his truck with a smile. “Can we talk?”

“No. I want to cook, not talk. Go away.” She reached for the lighter fluid.

“Do you need help?”

“Your cooking expertise begins and ends with pouring things in bowls.”

“I wash dishes, too,” he said cheerfully.

She glared at him. “Go away.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don't ‘Yes, ma'am' me. I am off work. I don't need to deal with that at home.”

“Yes, Samantha Lynn.”

She pivoted, shaking her tongs in his face. “Leave. Me. Alone. I am having a bad day.”

He put his hands up in defeat and walked inside, smirking. Idiot. A few minutes later, he reappeared. “What was the name of your friend from the gym?”

“Brileigh. Why?”

“No reason.” Ten minutes later, the back door slammed shut with a creaking thunk as Mac walked out, white china platter in one hand and her phone in the other. “Turn right there, not left,” he told the person on the other end of the phone. He held the platter out to you. “You left this on the counter.”

“Intentionally.” Sam snatched it away and glared at the fire, pretending not to listen.

“Sure. That will be fine,” Mac told the person on the other end of the phone genially. “Bring both,” he told the phone. “Yeah. See you then. My pleasure.” He hung up, still smiling. “Bri is coming over.”

“Why? I told you I wanted to be left alone.” It was smoke from the grill making her eyes water, nothing else.

“You need to talk to someone.”

“And what gives you the right to tell me that? Is it because you're a man? Or older? Or, what, do tell me, Agent MacKenzie, what gives you the right to run my life as if I were some doll?”

“I don't have any right. I just don't want you burning the house down.” He walked away.

She glared at him and went back to cooking dinner.

Food was so simple. Every single time you did the same thing. Every single time you found the same result on your plate. There were no variables. Cake never failed to rise because it was having a bad day. Steak didn't refuse to cook because you wore the wrong dress. Food didn't judge you. Food didn't play games with you. No one told you to avoid food for the good of your career.

No one sane or worth listening to, at any rate.

Blue and orange flames rolled across the black charcoal, a tiny shimmering sea of plasma. The briquettes charred, turning gray. Pockets of orange-­white hid beneath the coals. She basted the steaks and flipped them. Eager tongues of fire jumped upward to lick the dripping marinade and kiss the meat.

She dropped the corn on the grill and took the steaks off to rest. The corn blushed deep gold as the smell of browning butter and chili tickled her nose. It was so perfect. Churned cream, a touch of chili powder, farm-­fresh corn: three ingredients. No drama.

If weddings were that easy, she would have married Joseph years ago. Man, woman, preacher; it sounded simple, but it wasn't. There were decorations, flower girls, dresses, colors. Who needed colors at a wedding? The bride wore white, the groom wore a tuxedo. The person who introduced the idea of ribbons and knickknacks should have been beaten to death with a cheap plastic cake topper.

She pulled the corn off the grill and took the food to the house. There were fresh peaches sitting by the apples. Delicious. Leaving the steak and corn in the oven on warm, she took the peaches outside to the grill. Brushed with a little butter, drizzled with a little honey and a pinch of cinnamon, there was dessert perfection in under five minutes. Black grill marks added visual contrast any professional chef would have been proud of. Sam smiled. The door swung open as she walked back to the house.

“Feeling better?” Mac asked with a knowing smile.

She glowered at him. “I don't need an intervention.”

He looked away rather than answering. “Are you going to share any of this with me?”

She looked at her feast. There was more than enough for her, Mac, Hoss, and everyone else in the county. “I was planning on eating alone.”

“All right.” He headed for the dishwasher, pulled out a bowl, and went straight to the cereal cupboard.

Sam groaned. “Fine. I'll share. Anything to save you from another bowl of chemicals.”

“There are grains.”

“Gen-­engineered rice as the fortieth ingredient does not count as a serving of grains.”

He read the box with theatrical slowness. “It's not the fortieth.”

“I stand corrected,” she said dryly.

“It's thirty-­ninth.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Put it away, and I'll share.”

“Thank you.”

She snarled at him, but he didn't seem to mind. Loading her plate with steak, salad, corn, and peaches, she sat. Where to start? With the peaches, obviously. Hot, grilled peaches. She closed her eyes, savoring a bite. Juice dribbled down her chin, and she licked it away. “Perfect.”

“Indeed.”

She shot MacKenzie a sharp look, but he was cutting another bite of steak.

“What marinade is this? I've never tasted it before.”

Sam took a bite of steak before answering. “It's blueberry teriyaki.”

He paused midbite. “Blueberry?”

“Is there a problem?” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to fight.

He swallowed. “We might run out of steak. Can we talk now? I have news.”

“I don't care if you're the new Pope. I'm eating dinner. Unless you need the ER right now, it can wait.”

Mac shrugged. “Sure. It can wait.”

The doorbell rang when she was finishing her second helping. Hoss went wild, jumping and barking like a fiend. “That's probably Bri,” Mac said, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “I can take care of the dishes.”

A healthy meal was enough to take the edge off her temper. Sam smiled. “Thank you.”

Bri stood on the porch, supported by her husband, a short, plain man only made attractive by stunning aquamarine eyes.

“You didn't have to come,” Sam said by way of apology.

“Nonsense.” Bri balanced a hand on Sam's shoulder.

“She needed to get out of the house,” Jake said. “The kids and the mess are driving her crazy. If you can keep her entertained for a ­couple of hours, I can get everything cleaned up, and maybe tomorrow she won't threaten to bulldoze the house and build a new one.”

“I think it's a fabulous idea,” Bri grumbled. “Jake, baby, carry me over to the couch, would you?”

Jake set Bri on the couch, with her leg set on the new coffee table. “When'd you get this?” Bri asked, running a hand along the couch. “It's comfy.”

“It's Mac's. One of the few things he managed to rescue from the flooding.”

“And where is Mac?” Brileigh craned her neck, looking purposefully at the stairs.

“In the kitchen. We just finished eating.”

“Oh?” Bri patted the couch. “Come sit, Sammie.”

“What time do you need your coach, pumpkin?” Jake asked.

“Give me four hours,” Bri said, and she blew her husband a kiss. “Love you!”

He winked and waved good-­bye. “Love you, too.” He blew Bri a kiss and left.

“He's sweet,” Sam said.

“He's amazing.” Bri smiled. “And you, I hear, are having a miserable week. Why did your roommate call me?”

“Because he's a meddlesome fool?”

“Sammie,” she said reprovingly. “He seems sweet.” She craned her neck again, looking at the door this time. “Will I get to meet him?”

“No. Bri, please, don't. I should have called you back and told you to stay home. I'm not good company today.”

“What happened?”

“I called my mother.”

Brileigh curled her lip in disgust. “Why? I only call my mother if someone dies, and even then, it has to be someone I like.”

“It's her birthday.”

“That's what e-­cards are for. Why waste phone time? Think of the poor starving birthday-­card artists who will go without pay this week because you didn't buy your mother a card. What did she do, try to set you up with a new boyfriend?”

“Some politician's son in Madrid. She said she wants wedding invitations for her birthday. I should have stayed with Joseph.”

The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. “Excuse me?”

Sam pulled her knees up, curling into a ball at the end of the couch. “If we'd stayed together, we could have had a fall wedding.”

“Not just no, sweetie, but never. Dumping him was a good thing, I promise. You can't let your mother bully you like this. It's your life, you don't need to live it to please her.”

Sam sniffed. Tears blurred the already-­dim room.

“Listen,” Bri said, “you don't really feel this way about Joseph. He was a cheating scumbag, someone you once called—­and I quote—­‘a tiny-­dicked douche bag' that you hoped ‘caught syphilis from his own mother.' Sound familiar?”

Sam rubbed her hand over her eyes. “I never called him ‘tiny-­dicked.' ”

“I assumed.” Bri grinned. Sam couldn't help it: she grinned back.

“That's settled, then. No more talk of weddings unless it's about your having met a wealthy, handsome man who brought you to multiple orgasms and you're flying off to Vegas tomorrow. No?” Sam shook her head, and secretly thanked Mac for calling her best friend over. Bri shifted and reached for the table. “Good. I brought some movies for you. How about we watch assassins, soul-­stealing fiends, and an epic battle in the maze of glass?”

“The higher the body count, the better.” Sam sat up, wiping her face on her arm.

Bri handed her the movie. “Here.” Sam put it in the player. “Is the TV new? I thought you didn't have one.”

“Mac bought it yesterday. His insurance money came in, or part of it, at least; I didn't get all the details.”

“And he put it out here?” Brileigh raised an eyebrow. She leaned forward. “You're sharing electronics? Sam, what aren't you telling me? Was I close about Vegas?” She smiled slyly. “The orgasms?”

She studied the remote intently. “Mary have mercy, Bri, drop the roommate thing. Mac shares a kitchen with me, that's it.” Sam wasn't sure why she felt like she was blushing.
Probably because I am
.

But now she wasn't sure
why
she was.

“You call him Mac.”

“And I call you Bri, and myself Sam. I don't like long names.” She sat back, arms crossed across her chest. They were not having this conversation. Ever.

“Fine, forget him. But it's only healthy, Sam. Find some guy you won't mind spending an evening with, go to dinner, and have some wild sex. Or skip the dinner. Just get it out of your system,” Brileigh advised. Her eyes went wide. “That's not why you have the roommate, is it? No, I'm sorry, I promised I wouldn't ask. Wait, no I didn't. So is it? You're going to have an office romance with him, aren't you? Clandestine meetings in the break room maybe?”

“No!” Sam pulled her knees closer. “I'm not dating Mac. We have nothing in common.”

“Well, you work and—­apparently—­live together.” Bri raised an expressive eyebrow. “I think she doth protest too much.”

“You're wrong. There's nothing there. No attraction. No interest. We tolerate each other; and then only when we have to. I'm not going to have anything with Mac except maybe a discussion on how to load the dishwasher correctly,” she said hotly.

The kitchen door creaked shut, and Mac cleared his throat. “Um, sorry. I brought popcorn and walked in on the wrong part of the conversation.”

“Mac!” Bri gushed. “I'd jump up and give you a hug, but I'm not jumping much at the moment. It's so nice to meet you. Sam's been telling me all about you.”

“Really?” Mac sounded dubious. He approached the couch slowly, popcorn held between him and them like a shield.

“Sorry,” Sam whispered, miserable.

Mac gave her a lopsided grin. “You don't need to apologize.”

Bri smiled up at him. “You have gorgeous eyes. Sam, why didn't you tell me he had nice eyes?”

“Because you're married.”

“I could start a collection. MacKenzie, have you ever considered the benefits of living in a reverse harem?” Brileigh asked.

Mac coughed. “Um, no. Thanks though. I'll, uh, um.”

“Mac isn't interested,” Sam translated. “Not every breathing male on the planet falls flat on their face for you. Mac, how do you make this remote work? I want to watch the movie.”

He reached down and hit three buttons. Light flared on the television.

“Thank you.” Sam stared hard at the TV.

“Anytime. I like to pretend I'm useful,” Mac whispered by her ear, and her cheeks grew hot.

“You can cook,” Bri said cheerfully.

“I can pour things in bowls.”

“Sometimes that's all that needs doing—­it's never a bad thing for a guy to know where to put things.” Bri took a handful of popcorn and smiled; Mac blushed. Sam wondered if there was room to crawl under the couch. “You could have far creepier roommates, Sam,” Bri said. “I approve.”

Mac laughed. “You didn't tell her about the screaming.”

Sam leaned her head back to look at him. Bri was right, he did have amazing eyes. She narrowed her gaze to a glare. “I'm still not talking to you, tattletale.” He blinked, looking a little hurt. “Besides, what you scream in bed when I'm in your room is none of Bri's business.” She hit the
PLAY
button while Bri squeaked a wordless demand for information. Mac left laughing, and Sam remained stubbornly silent on the whole subject of nocturnal activities while they watched the movie.