Angels Fall

set it on the stove to scald. She got out her brand-new knife block—she was spending too much of her paycheck on kitchen equipment. It was insane, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Waiting inside the roaster she pulled out next was a pork loin soaking inside a sealed bag of marinade she'd mixed up the night before.
    Setting it aside, she put the wine in the refrigerator to keep it chilled, then did a quick inspection of the contents.
    Worse even than she'd imagined. And a good thing she d brought absolutely everything she'd need with her. He did have a couple of eggs, a stick of butter and some slices of American cheese. Pickles, milk that was already past its recommended expiration date and eight bottles of Harp. Two rapidly shriveling oranges sat like dour wallflowers on the bottom shelf. There wasn't a single leafy vegetable in sight.
    Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
    Still, as she poured the hot milk over the scalloped potatoes, she caught the scent of pine cleaner. She had to appreciate he'd troubled enough to clean up before she got there.
    She slid the casserole into the oven, set the timer.
    When Brody walked in thirty minutes later, she was sliding the roast in beside the casserole. The table was set with his plates and candles she'd brought with her. along with dark blue napkins, wineglasses, and a little clear bowl that held what he thought were miniature roses in sunny yellow.
    There were the scents, as he'd imagined. Something succulent from the oven, something fresh from the pile of vegetables on the counter. And a combination of both the succulent and the fresh that was Reece.
    When she turned, he didn't see the nerves and the sorrow in her eyes. They were deep, they were dark, they were warm.
    "I thought I'd… Oh."
    She took a step back as he strode to her, and a flicker of those nerves skipped across her face as he took her arms, lifted her to her toes.
    But it was the warmth he tasted when he took her mouth, the warmth flavored very subtly by the nerves. It was, for him, irresistible.
    Her arms were pinned between them, then her hands curled on his chest, gripped their way up to his shoulders. He swore he felt her melt.
    He released her, stepped back and said, "Hi."
    "Yeah, hi. Ah, where am I again?"
    He grinned. "Where do you want to be?"
    "I guess I want to be right here. I was about to do something. Oh yeah. I was going to make martinis."
    "No shit?'"
    "Absolutely none." She moved to his refrigerator for ice to chill the two glasses she'd brought along. Then stopped. "You don't like martinis?"
    "What's not to like? Jeff didn't say you'd picked up any vodka."
    "Jeff?"
    "Liquor Store Jeff."
    "Liquor Store Jeff," she repeated with a nod. Then sighed a little as she dumped ice in the martini glasses. "What, do they post a list of my alcoholic purchases somewhere? Am I heading the line as town drunk?"
    "No, Wes Pritt's undefeated in that category. I called in because I figured you'd want wine. And if you'd already picked it up, I'd save myself the trip to town."
    "Well, that was efficient. I didn't think of martinis until I was putting everything together to come by. I borrowed the glasses and shaker from Linda-gail. She got them to make Cosmos a couple years ago."
    He stood back, watched her measure and shake, toss the ice, pour, add olives on long blue picks to the drinks. Then he studied the results in the glass she handed him.
    "I haven't had a martini in… I don't know. It's not the sort of thing you order in Clancy's."
    "Well then, to a touch of urban sophistication in the List." She touched her glass to his, waited until he'd sipped.
    "Damn good martini." He sipped again, studying her over the rim. "You're something."
    "Or other," she agreed. "Try this."
    She lifted a small dish in which what looked like stuffed celery was arranged in some intricate geometric pattern. "What's in it?"
    "State secret, but primarily smoked Gouda and sun-dried tomatoes."
    He wasn't a big fan of raw celery, but figuring the vodka would kill the taste, he gave it a shot. And changed his position. "Whatever the state secret might be, it does a hell of a lot more for celery than the peanut butter my mother used to dump on it."
    "I should hope so. You can sit down, enjoy." She picked up her glass for another tiny sip. "I'm going to make the salad."
    He didn't sit, but he did enjoy watching her roast pine nuts. Imagine that, she was roasting pine nuts. Then he saw her putting leafy stuff in the skillet.
    He had