Shawna Delacorte – Wyoming Wife? (страница 8)

After twenty minutes of careful, conscientious work she had an attractive salad on the table along with formal dinner place settings. She pursed her lips and frowned as she continued to stare. She could be happy with a salad for dinner, but she knew a hardworking rancher would be needing something a lot more substantial than that.

She again stared at the contents of the refrigerator. The only meat she saw that was not frozen was a chicken—a whole chicken that had not been cut into individual pieces. She grabbed the package and set it on the counter. She had never even attempted to cut up a chicken before. She picked up a sharp knife, hesitated a moment, then put it down. She clenched her jaw in determination. For some insane and totally unfathomable reason she had volunteered to fix dinner, and that was what she intended to do. She picked up the knife again.

Jace printed out a report then turned off the computer. He had stalled long enough. There was nothing left for him to do but return to the kitchen. He pushed back from the desk, rose from his chair, took a deep breath and left the room.

He paused at the kitchen door. Samantha had a knife in one hand and a chicken in the other. He wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to accomplish, but whatever it was, she was making a mess of it. If he didn’t stop the disaster, there wouldn’t be enough of the bird left to serve as dinner for even one person, let alone two people.

Jace crossed the room and took the knife from her, pausing a moment to use the blade to poke at the heap on the cutting board. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?” He suppressed a little chuckle. “You’ve hacked at this poor bird until it’s almost unrecognizable.”

She looked at her miserable attempt, then back at Jace. To have taken offense at his accusation would have been a waste of time. The evidence was obvious, his statement could not be denied. A hint of embarrassment surrounded her words. “I—I’ve never had to do this before. The ones in the grocery store are already cut up.”

“What were you planning to do with this poor chicken after you finished torturing it?” He noticed that she had selected the wrong type of knife, so he retrieved the proper one from the drawer and expertly separated the thighs from the legs and split the breast in two.

“I—I’m not sure. I guess cook it...somehow. Maybe in...uh...well, there’s the oven.” She made a feeble gesture toward the stove, then shrugged in a halfhearted manner that said she clearly did not have any sort of a plan in mind. In an attempt to salvage whatever credibility she could, she pointed to the table in the dining room. “I made a salad.”

“So I see.” He also saw that the table was set for a dinner party, not for dinner. She had made a salad but had nearly destroyed a chicken. He folded his arms across his chest and leveled an appraising look at her while doing his best to hide his amusement.

Samantha steeled herself against Jace’s penetrating gaze. She made her living with her communication skills. Her strengths centered on her ability to analyze a problem and pinpoint an efficient and logical solution. However, this one had her stumped. She had nowhere to go and no viable excuse to offer. She had only the truth, as mortifying as it was. She looked at him, squared her shoulders, took a determined breath, then blurted out, “I can’t cook. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.” She glanced around the kitchen, then returned her attention to Jace. “Maybe if you had a microwave...”

He stared at her for a moment, disbelief covering his face. “You don’t know how to cook?”

“I’ve never had occasion or the time to learn. I’ve been too busy, first with school and then with my career.” She tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to keep the edge of irritation out of her voice. “The fact that I’m a woman doesn’t mean I was born with a fully realized set of domestic skills.”

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