Free Thunder Canyon Homecoming by Brenda Harlen

country thought of that possibility and made her lips curve. “No, I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan.”
    â€œAre you a picky eater?”
    â€œThere are some things I don’t like,” she admitted, “but I’m not picky.”
    â€œWhat don’t you like?”
    â€œPeas. Pickles. Pineapple.”
    He lifted his brows. “You have something against the letter ‘p’?”
    â€œI don’t like squash, either.”
    â€œLike…pumpkin?”
    She smiled again. “Any kind of squash.”
    â€œWell then, I think we’re pretty safe,” he told her. “Because there are no peas, pickles, pineapple or squash in my red sauce.”
    â€œI do like red sauce.”
    â€œHow do you feel about pasta?”
    â€œI love pasta.”
    He grinned. “Then let’s go shopping.”

Chapter Five
    I f she’d been surprised by his offer to cook for her, she was even more so by the ease with which he pushed the cart around the grocery store. He didn’t just toss the vegetables into a bag, he checked the color of the tomatoes, tested the firmness of the garlic, gauged the texture of the peppers.
    She made a face when he was sniffing the mushrooms. “Those aren’t one of my favorite foods,” she admitted to him.
    â€œThese are shiitake, not porcini,” he teased.
    â€œI’m just not a fan of any kind of fungus,” she said.
    â€œYou won’t even taste them.”
    She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, she was going to sit down for a home-cooked meal that she didn’t have to prepare, and she was curious about his skill in the kitchen. Okay, she was curious about his skill in other areas, too, but she refused to let her mind go down that path. Again.
    He added a head of romaine lettuce, a bag of carrots, a bunch of green onions and a cucumber.
    Moving out of the produce department to the bakery, he grabbed a loaf of French bread, then a package of fresh fettucine, extra virgin olive oil, basil, oregano, a hunk of parmesan cheese and a bottle of red wine.
    â€œYou’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
    He took a mental inventory of the ingredients as they moved along the conveyor belt toward the cashier. “I hope so.”
    â€œDo you do this often?”
    â€œShop for groceries?”
    â€œCook.”
    â€œDo you mean cook for a woman or just cook in general?”
    â€œCook in general,” she said, unwilling to admit that she was just as curious to know if he was in the habit of cooking for his female companions.
    â€œI have to eat,” he said logically.
    â€œBut—” She bit her lip, stifling the reply that had almost spilled out uncensored.
    â€œBut,” he prompted.
    She felt her cheeks burn. “I just thought you’d probably have women lining up to cook for you.”
    â€œWell, if you’re offering …” He grinned.
    â€œYou said you were cooking for me,” she reminded him.
    â€œTonight,” he agreed. “But maybe next time you could show off your culinary skills.”
    â€œYou’re assuming there will be a next time.”
    â€œNot assuming,” he denied. “Just hopeful.”
    She had enjoyed the time they’d spent together today and, so long as he wasn’t looking for anything more than friendship from her—and so long as she remembered that shewasn’t in a position to offer anything more—she wouldn’t object to spending more time with him.
    â€œI do make a mean enchilada,” she told him.
    â€œSpicy?”
    â€œI guess I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
    â€œI’ll look forward to it.” He smiled before he turned to the cashier to pay for his groceries.
    Â 
    Corey put Erin to work washing the lettuce and other vegetables while he got busy chopping and dicing. Her kitchen was laid out almost identical to the one in the condo he was renting,