| |
For some reason, Matt thought being in Jena’s house would be more comfortable than bunking down in the church. He was wrong. As he looked around her kitchen, he felt the hairs on his arms stand in protest. Even a night on the vicar’s old couch was better than this.
“We can’t stay here.” Just standing in the house was giving him hives. He’d never be able to sleep in it.
“Sure we can.” Jena threw her huge bag on the rickety old dining table, making it wobble. “I stay here every day.”
“In this?” Matt looked around in disgust.
Jena’s cheeks flushed slightly. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Is that what you call it?” Matt would call it a disaster zone. Then he’d cordon off the area and call in a demolition crew.
The state of the overgrown garden—complete with the burned out shell of a car—should have been a hint at the horrors to be found inside the house. Unfortunately, Matt missed the hint. And now he was standing in the aftermath of a war zone. Wallpaper, turned brown with age, peeled from the walls. Cracked linoleum curled up under his feet. Cabinet doors were missing. The counter was chipped and warped, making it look more like a rollercoaster track than a place where you prepared food. The ancient electric cooker had lost the oven door. Three mismatched metal bistro chairs sat beside the table, and two of the seats had been mended with duct tape. A pane of glass in the window was covered with card. The fridge was about a million years old, the white stained yellow with age, and it made the same noise as an airplane engine.
Matt shook his head in wonder. “You’ve been living here?”
Jena opened the fridge. It took two hands and a hefty yank. “Where else would I live? This is my house. I bought it.”
Matt noticed that every surface, no matter what state it was in, was scrubbed clean. There wasn’t a cobweb or a smidgen of dust anywhere. The knowledge that she’d cleaned the place made him relax—slightly. “Even after you saw a picture of this?” He motioned around the room.
Instead of handing him a can of Coke, Jena slammed it into his stomach. Her face an irritated scowl. “They didn’t post photos of this room on the real estate site. And the exterior photos they did post turned out to be years old. I talked to a lawyer about suing, but the sellers had covered their asses in the fine print and I don’t have the money to fight the case.”
“I can see how you’d need every penny you have to fix this place.” He popped the can and took a long drink. It was icy cold. At least the fridge worked. He eyed it suspiciously. If it wasn’t so solid, it could possibly fly too. “Why don’t you pay someone to renovate for you?”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Because, Einstein, I don’t have the money to pay someone. I didn’t know the house needed this much work, so I went on holiday on my way to Scotland. If I’d known what I was coming to, I’d have skipped Paris.”
She motioned at a chair for him to sit. Matt tested its strength before trusting it with his weight. Jena rolled her eyes at him.
“Do you think I’d give you a chair you couldn’t sit on?”
“Hey.” He held up his hands. “Men have a tendency to get injured around you. Better safe than sorry.”
She pursed her pretty lips before turning her attention to the cupboards behind her. “Are you hungry? Have you had dinner? Do you like Pop-Tarts?”
“What’s a Pop-Tart?”
She beamed at him, back to being perky and bubbly. “Only the best snack food in the universe. You’re in for a treat.”
It was amazing to watch her sunny personality bounce back into place. An evil part of him wondered what it would take to keep Jena in a bad mood for any length of time. Then he remembered Frank and decided all it took was cheating on her. For some reason he had a sudden urge to break the man’s nose.
If Jena had to pick a movie role for the hunky cop sitting in her kitchen, it would be Wolverine—without all the hair and the claws. He definitely had the same bulk as Wolverine and, unfortunately, the same surly, sarcastic attitude.
“Okay, so I have strawberry, chocolate and s’mores Pop-Tarts. What do you want?” Matt looked at her blankly. “Chocolate it is.” She tried to keep her voice light and cheery. Normally it didn’t take this much effort.
She opened one of the last few boxes of Pop-Tarts she’d had shipped from the States and put four in the toaster. While they were heating, she grabbed another couple of cans of Coke from the fridge. A minute later, the little pockets of sugary goodness were sitting on plates in front of them. Jena grinned with delight as she pulled her chair closer to the table.
Matt stared at the food. He poked it with a fingertip. Suspicion oozed from him when he turned to her. “What is this?”
“Dinner.” She lifted one of the brown rectangles. “Be careful, the filling is hot.” She took a bite from the corner. Her eyes shut in delight. Delicious.
When she looked back at him, Matt was holding a Pop-Tart in front of his nose. He sniffed. “Are you sure this is food?”
“Take a bite, you big coward. It won’t hurt you.”
He frowned at her before biting into the tart. It was as though she’d asked him chow down on live worms.
“Good, right?” She reached for the second tart.
He chewed laboriously, swallowed hard, reached for his can of Coke and gulped until it was empty.
“That”—he pointed at the tart—“is the most foul thing I’ve had in my mouth since my cousin Flynn dared me to eat mud when I was a kid.” He gave her a look of utter horror. “It’s like sugar-coated cardboard.” He pushed the plate away. “It doesn’t taste anything like chocolate. I’m not sure it even qualifies as food.”
Several thoughts fought for prominence in Jena’s head. One—he’d dissed her all-time favourite food. Two—he was being rude in her home. Three—she’d tried Scottish food, and he had a damn cheek calling Pop-Tarts cardboard. Four—she’d just wasted two of them on the jerk. She felt her fragile grasp on a good mood snap. She pointed a finger at him.
“That criticism is hard to take when it’s coming from a guy whose country thinks deep-fried Mars bars are a gourmet treat. The same country that gave us haggis-flavoured chips. The people who claim that blood-soaked oats fried in fat is breakfast. You wouldn’t know decent food if it bit you on the ass. Give me that.” She reached for his rejected Pop-Tart and took a bite out of it. “Mm, mm, delicious.”
“There’s nothing wrong with haggis or black pudding.”
She shuddered before cramming her mouth with more rejected tart.
“Mature.” His censure was ruined by his grin. “Do you have any proper food in here?”
She waved at the fridge. “Be my guest. Make yourself some proper food.” She had no idea what constituted proper food for the surly Scot, but she was pretty sure she didn’t have it. Since money was tight, she’d been living on Pop-Tarts, and the mushrooms and eggs Abby gave her.
He opened the fridge, peered inside then turned to her in disgust. “One egg and a handful of mushrooms?” He stretched up to his full height, which had to be way past six foot, because, at five foot four, Jena felt dwarfed in his presence.
He folded his arms over his black T-shirt, making his muscles bulge, and for the first time in memory, Jena was distracted from her Pop-Tarts. Her mouth watered. There was actually something out there that was more enticing than a warm chocolate tart.
“What do you normally eat?” he demanded, breaking the spell his muscles had cast on her.
Jena pointed to the empty plate in front of her, while wondering if there was an IQ test to become a cop. Had he passed?
“I don’t understand how you manage to look the way you do,” he said. “The problems must be hidden under the skin. You’re probably a walking time bomb for diabetes and heart disease.”
“Well, thanks for that cheery thought.” She stuffed the last of the Pop-Tart into her mouth.
“While I’m here, I’ll take care of the food. There’s no way I’m living on those.” He pointed at the empty plate in disgust.
“Nobody put a gun to your head and forced you to eat it.”
Matt frowned, reached into the back of his jeans and came out with his phone. Still glaring at Jena, he dialled.
“Dougal, can you find someone to bring a couple of meals to Jena’s place?” A pause. “That would be great. There’s nothing to eat here.” Another pause. “Oh, you heard. Yeah, we’ll be needing breakfast as well. I’ll go shopping tomorrow and stock up. Thanks Dougal.” With a swipe of his thumb, he ended the call.
Jena noted that he didn’t even identify himself or say goodbye. Typical macho-man phone etiquette. Emily Post would turn in her grave.