Free Rekindled by Barbara Delinsky Page B

my life. I’ve done just fine on my own for the past eleven years. I plan to do it a while longer.” Her hand was shaking. She jammed it into the back pocket of her jeans. “I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.” With a whirl that sent her hair flaring out behind, she strode from the room, ran up the stairs to her room, and firmly closed the door.
    Trembling uncontrollably, she collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her ragged breathing was the only sound that broke the night’s quiet-that, and the opening and closing of the front door when Ross left the house.
    For what seemed like hours she agonized, locked in silent battle with a horde of private ghosts. If only she had never seen Ross again. To be free, once more, of this gnawing at mind and body.
    But she had seen him again and, if he stuck to his plan, would see more of him before he left. There was only one solution, as she saw it. Indifference. What man would put up with that for long? Indifference. It would turn him off, wouldn’t it? Surely then he would leave her in peace.
    She awoke the next morning on an optimistic note, showered, dressed, and sailed downstairs for breakfast. It was with momentary dismay that she found her kitchen in use-until she recalled the night’s resolve, tilted up her chin, and advanced.
    “Ah,” she said as she helped herself to a cup of the coffee he had brewed, ” you’ve made yourself at home.”
    His grin was as bright as the morning sun that slanted across the porch beyond the screen. “It’s a luxury. I’m enjoying it. It’s not every day that I get to putter around a cozy kitchen, much less wait on a princess.”
    “Flattery will get you nowhere.” She hoped, prayed it was so. By way of diversion, she eyed the stove. “Bacon, eggs, home fries? You’re going to eat all that?”
    “With your help.”
    “Ohhhh, no. After a breakfast like that I’d barely be able to keep my eyes open. I have too many things to do-“
    “-for which you need energy. And, anyway,” he called over his shoulder as he turned the bacon, “if you don’t eat breakfasts like this, why such a full stock of goodies? Lee’s refrigerator was bare.”
    “So that’s it, huh?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “You’re starved and my old buddy Lee couldn’t help you out?” She chuckled. “Lee eats out. A lot.”
    “Here?”
    “Do you see him here now?” she shot back.
    “haven’t seen him today, period. He’s not upstairs, is he?”
    Shaking her head, she turned toward the large bay window, whose broad seat was her favorite perch. “That doesn’t deserve an answer.”
    Sipping her coffee, she spoke absently. “As for the state of my ice box, I eat in. A lot. Eggs make terrific dinner omelets, bacon a great BLT, and potatoes are most definitely to be baked, then scooped, mashed with a little Parmesan cheese and cream, restuffed, dotted with butter, and broiled until delicately browned on top.”
    The silence that followed her recitation was enough to get her to look back. Ross’s expression was one of amused astonishment. “You must have memorized the cookbook.”
    “No. I just happen to like my potatoes that way, and I do it a lot.”
    Ross leaned back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “Would you make them like that for me some time-maybe with a few lamb chops, some fresh broccoli, a little wine?”
    He looked dangerous, newly showered and wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. But Chloe had taken a vow of indifference. He’s just a friend, she told herself, no different from Lee. Calmly enough, she said, “I make a meal of the potatoes. If you’d like to do up the rest, be my guest.” She settled on the window seat and looked out at the beach. “It’s another beautiful day.”
    “Uh-huh.” His voice was muffled. He had turned back to his cooking. Chlo soon he was addressing her again. “Sleep well?”
    “Not bad.” Once she had fallen asleep. “How about you?”
    He had turned