“Quit whining and get your hands dirty,” he drawled. Southern biscuits and ranch biscuits were different, yes. She’d balk up a storm and make fun of him if he did something sacrilegious to the unspoken recipe, as Luke was well aware. He’d grown up in a family of farm-addicted workaholics. There hadn’t been a lot of wiggle room for making anything from scratch. Surrounded by some of the best meat and produce in the country, and he ate frozen meals for dinner more often than not. Any cooking he’d picked up, he’d taught himself. “I know plenty.” A lie. “Mind yourself.”

He laughed with a mouthful of beer when she dropped the sausage patties on the counter, and he moved them towards the wall and away from the edge. When her elbow went for the flour jar, he moved that too. Luke made a mental note to carve out a few extra hours if he ever again had the bright idea to cook with a drunk Charlie.

She asked if he met anyone at the bonfire and he gave her a sharp look. There was just Sutton Ambrose, who wasn’t a romantic prospect, rather someone he needed to keep his eye on. He had a feeling that Anna was on to something when she mentioned the farm. There was no way in hell she just knew nothing at all about it. But that was a sober thing to talk about  -- land, lawyers, deeds. Because Sam hadn’t left a will, everything was technically Charlie’s. Luke didn’t want to get into it all now.

“Anna tried, but I wasn’t there for that. Part of this – running it and running it right – means being a part of the community. And it’s something I’ve neglected most of my life. I’ve been thinking lately that maybe I was too closed off.” Her question was aloof, like she was asking about the weather tomorrow. He would’ve asked about Noah, but he’d seen it with his own eyes – and the way he would’ve asked wouldn’t have been anywhere near aloof. He didn’t need her summary. He also didn’t need her pissed at him for putting his nose where it didn’t belong.

The last thing to mix in was the cubed butter, but he wanted to wait until the last minute, when the oven was heated. He pre-set it, and when there wasn’t much left to do, he looked at her, long and hard and openly.

Her fucking accent could take him to church. They had a different kind of way with their talking up in Montana. Her several years there had changed the way she spoke a bit, but Lord the things he’d do to feel those words against his skin.

[i]There’s nothing about this right now that I want to rush,[/i] he thought. [i]Not a goddamn thing.[/i]

Luke’s beer was empty, so hooked a finger around the neck of hers and urged her to take a step or two closer to him. “I don’t know.” His voice was stuck somewhere in the back of his chest. He pulled the bottle some, until it touched the front of his stained t-shirt. “Depends on how much trouble you end up causing me.” When he pictured “taking care” of her in the morning, it had not a single thing to do with coffee and Advil. He needed to stop staring at her mouth, because if he wasn’t careful, he was going to do something about it.

A sharp bark outside made him step away from her. It was Jake asking to be let in.

He opened the sliding door and was hit with a cool rush of early-September air, as well as a reality check. [i]Make biscuits. Eat. Go to bed. Close your eyes. Wake up tomorrow.[/i]

The shepherd went to his water bowl, and Luke got a fresh beer from the fridge. He wiped any flour off on his jeans, took the butter from the freezer, and started to cut it into cubes. “You know where that biscuit mold is?” he asked. He knew he’d spend ten minutes looking for it and get annoyed in the meantime.

As he put the biscuits on the tray, he put a question out there before he thought better of it. “What in the hell is the lard for, Charlie?”