Chapter 3

Bread lined the counter of Lyra’s perfect, beautiful kitchen. Fresh white bread, banana nut bread, and her father’s favorite cinnamon rolls. A fresh cup of coffee sat at her elbow, and a recipe book spread out on the table in front of her as she attempted to find the directions for the etouffee she wanted to try.

The cookbook was no more than several hundred pages, some handwritten, some typewritten, and others printed from the computer and bound haphazardly over the years. Her mother had started it, and now Lyra added her own recipes to it as well as using those already present.

The soft tunes of a new country band were playing on the stereo in the living room, and her foot was swaying in a cheerful rhythm along with the music.

“Do you actually like that music?”

A shocked squeak of fear erupted from her throat as she jumped from her chair, sending it flying against the wall as she nearly threw the coffee cup across the room.

And there he stood.

Her nemesis.

The man had to have been placed here just to torment and torture her. There was no other answer for it.

“What did you do?” She turned and jerked the chair from where it had fallen against the wall, snapping it back in place before turning and propping her hands on her hips. He was here. And acting just a little bit too awkward to suit her. He had to have messed up something again. He stood just inside the doorway, freshly showered and looking too damned roughly male for any woman’s peace of mind. If he were conventionally good-looking, she could have ignored him. But he wasn’t. His face was roughly hewn, with sharp angles, high cheekbones, and sensual, eatable lips.

A man shouldn’t have eatable lips. It was too distracting to those women who didn’t have a hope in hell of getting a taste.

“I didn’t do anything.” He ran his hand along the back of his neck, turning to look outside the door as though in confusion before returning his gaze to her. “I came to apologize.”

He didn’t look apologetic.

He looked like he wanted something.

He rubbed at his neck again, his hand moving beneath the fall of overly long, light-brown hair, the cut defining and emphasizing the harsh planes and angles of his face.

Of course he wanted something. All men did. And she doubted very seriously it had anything to do with her body.

Which was really just too bad. She could think of a lot of things that tough male body of his would be good for.

Unfortunately, men like him—tough, buff, and bad— generally never looked her way.

“To apologize?” She caught the half-hidden, longing look he cast to the counter and the cooling bread there.

“Yes. To apologize.” He nodded ever so slightly, his expression just a shade more calculating than she would have liked.

She firmed her lips, very damned well aware that he was not there to apologize. He was wasting her time, as well as his, by lying to her.

He wanted her bread. She could see it in his eyes.

“Fine.” She shrugged dismissively. What else could she do. “Stay the hell away from my plants, and I’ll forgive you. You can go now.”

He shifted, drawing attention to his wide chest and the crisp white shirt he wore. He had changed clothes as well as showering. He wore form-hugging jeans with the white shirt tucked in neatly. A leather belt circled his lean hips, and the ever-present boots were on his feet, though these looked a little better than the previous pair.

His gaze drifted to the bread once again.

It figured. And the hungry, desperate gleam in his eyes was just about her undoing. Just about. She was not going to let him sweet-talk her out of it, she assured herself.

She stared back at him coolly as her hand clenched on the back of the chair. He was not going to eat her bread. That bread was gold where her father and brothers were concerned, and she desperately needed the points it would earn her. It was the only way she was going to get her pretty wooden shed built, and she knew it.

He glanced back at her, this time not even bothering to hide the cool calculation in his gaze.

“We could make a deal, you and I,” he finally suggested, his voice firm, almost bargaining.

Uh-huh. She just bet they could.

“Really?” She let go of the chair and leaned against the counter as she watched him with a skeptical look. “How so?”

Oh boy, she just couldn’t wait to hear this one. It was going to have to be good. She knew men, and she knew he had obviously been preparing the coming speech carefully.

But she was intrigued. Few men bothered to be straightforward or even partially honest when they wanted something. At least he wasn’t pulling out the charm and pretending to be overcome with attraction for her to get what he wanted.

“However you wish,” he finally stated firmly. “Tell me what I would have to do to get a loaf of that bread and a cup of coffee.”

She stared back at him in shock.

She wasn’t used to such straightforward, fully mercenary tactics from anyone. Let alone a man.

She watched him thoughtfully.

He wanted the bread; she wanted a shed. Okay, maybe they could trade. Not what she had expected, but she was willing to roll with the opportunity being presented.

“Can you use a hammer any better than you can a weedeater?” She needed that shed.

His lips thinned. He glanced at the bread again with a faint expression of regret.

“I could lie to you and say yes.” He tilted his head and offered her a tentative smile. “I’m very tempted to do so.”

Great. He couldn’t use a hammer, either.

She stared back at the muscular condition of his finely honed body. A man didn’t look like that as a result of the gym. It was natural muscle and grace, not the heavy, packed-on appearance guys got from the gym. But if he couldn’t cut his own lawn or swing a hammer, how the hell did he manage it?

She shook her head. Obviously nature really, really liked him, because Tarek Jordan was so not an outdoor sort of person.

“Let me guess. You’re really good on the computer?” She sighed at the thought. Why did she attract the techies instead of the real men?

“Well, I am actually.” He offered her a hopeful smile. “Does yours need work?”

At least he was honest—in some things. She guessed that deserved some compensation, though she fully admitted she was just too nice sometimes.

“Look, promise to keep your machines away from my property line, and I’ll give you some coffee and a slice of bread,” she offered.

“Just a slice?” His expression fell, rather like a child whose favorite treat had been jerked from his hands.

Men.

She looked over at the counter. Hell, she had baked too much anyway.

“Fine. A loaf.”

“Of each kind?” Hope sprang in those golden eyes, and for a moment it made her wonder… No, of course he had eaten freshbaked bread. Hadn’t everyone? But there was a curious glimmer of vulnerability there. One she hadn’t expected.

She glanced at the counter again. She had four loaves of each kind and plenty of the cinnamon rolls. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough.

“Come on in.” She turned to get an extra coffee cup when she stopped and stared at him in surprise.