Country Heaven by Ava Miles Read Free Book Online Page B

in the kitchen—a frilly confection of white lace and pink fabric that made her want to blush. Who made aprons like this, anyway? Frederick’s of Hollywood? She wasn’t surprised the former cook had slept with someone in the band. This was an apron with an agenda, and the only reason she was wearing it was because bacon grease stained like ballpoint pen ink. But you could bet your britches that a new apron was at the top of her shopping list.
    “I’ll…have breakfast up in a second.”
    She swiveled around and mixed the two bowls together. She added the chocolate chips to the batter and checked the griddle. It was smoking hot. Perfect.
    Tory looked over her shoulder. He was already sitting at the booth, reaching for the remote, and morning news filled the silence.
    “You look kinda cute in that apron.”
    Oh, great. Of course he had a comment.
    “It’s not what I would call a normal apron,” she muttered. “It’s the only one I could find.”
    “Looks fine to me.”
    Of course it did. It was a costume straight out of one of his country music videos. Sighing, she picked up the bowl and dobbed batter on the griddle. After making four circles, she shut the heat off under the bacon and dropped the glistening, steaming strips on a paper–toweled plate. The apron came off, and she gleefully stuffed it back into its drawer, hopefully forever.
    “You want coffee?”
    “That’d be great. And orange juice.”
    She served up his requests, watching the pancakes bubble as they cooked.
    He reached for the coffee and sipped. “I’m sorry about last night. You’re right. This will be your home for the next few months, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Won’t happen again.”
    Well, that was much more agreeable than she’d expected. “Thank you.” Her sensitive nose detected that the pancakes were ready to be flipped, so she turned them over. She started the microwave to heat the maple syrup.
    Minutes later, she set everything in front of him. He grabbed a bacon strip and popped it in his mouth. “Nothing better than bacon in the morning.” He looked at the pancakes. “Those aren’t blueberries.”
    “No. Chocolate chips. It’s my Grandma’s recipe.”
    Rye bowed his head and then forked the whole stack onto his plate, pouring enough maple syrup on them to drown a city. Tory started to clean up, listening for his reaction. The first groan soothed the ball of tangled Christmas lights in her stomach.
    “Like them?” she asked, smiling easier.
    He gave humming sound. “They’re like chocolate chip cookies, but spongier. Incredible.”
    Thank you, Grandma. She loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed the pans.
    “You’re not eating?”
    When she turned to look at him, he was wiping his mouth with the blue cloth napkin.
    “No, I…”
    He pointed to the feast in front of him. “You eat everything you make, okay? Unless you don’t like it.”
    She noticed his orange juice was gone, so she poured him more. “I don’t make anything I don’t like.”
    He leaned back in the booth. “That your cookbook?” he asked, gesturing to the thick blue binder on the counter.
    “Well…it’s a family cookbook I’ve been working on it since my grandma died. It’s a collection of recipes with stories about her and her philosophy.”
    Rye drained half the orange juice before setting his glass down with a thunk. “You should publish it. If the other recipes are anything like these pancakes or the meal you made for me last night, you’d make a mint. Got any of your own recipes in there?”
    Standing while he was sitting felt awkward. “Yes, I’m an intuitive cook—just like she was.”
    His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
    “Well, I seem to have a knack for inventing food. Knowing what people like.” She wouldn’t discuss her grandmother’s belief that good food could sway people’s moods and emotions. That was like talking about acupuncture to a doctor. “My grandma said it was a gift, like