Windstar by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Read Free Book Online

“Spend today laying with me on the bear rug and reading really bad scripts. Okay?”
    She nodded. “What would you like for lunch? I’ll fix it first and then we can recline decadently on the rug and read.”
    “Samitch would do fine,” he said as he went in search of the scripts. “Salami on rye with dill pickles and chips and some of that tea you said you could make.”
    She’d already steeped a pan of tea on the stove and made the simple syrup to go with it, instructing him to squeeze lemons to keep him from under foot. Another thing she’d learned about him was that he was constantly near her, watching her, keeping up a running conversation that more times than not was aimed at making her blush or sputter with laughter.
    He was already stretched out on the rug with pillows propped behind his head, script in hand, when she brought their lunch tray over. He glanced over at her, frowned when he saw the old-fashioned glasses on the tray. “What is that?”
    “That’s the bloody Mary mix from yesterday,” she replied.
    “No booze?”
    “None. Just good stuff in it.”
    “Yeah,” he said with a secret smile. “But what is that green shit floating in it?”
    “Green beans, asparagus, green onions, and wedges of the dill pickles you ordered with your samitch.”
    He stared at the red liquid suspiciously. “And you expect me to put that in me mouth and do what with it?”
    “You chew food, you drink liquid. Aye, boss, that I do.” She stuck her fork in his glass and brought up a spear of asparagus, extending it toward him with the palm of her other hand under the dripping vegetable to keep the liquid from his bare chest.
    He reluctantly took a bite, chewed silently, swallowed, and then obediently opened his mouth again.
    Angela grinned. “See? I won’t steer you wrong.” She pierced a green bean and fed it to him.
    “You’ll do, wench,” he said and reclined there opening and closing his mouth, chewing quietly until he’d finished the vegetables in the glass then drank the liquid. He closed his eyes as though he’d tasted heaven. “What do you add to it?”
    “Lime juice, celery salt, Worcestershire, a few splashes of Tabasco, and a bit of the liquid from the dill pickles.” She smiled. “Like it?”
    “No,” he said, taking the sandwich she handed him. “I love it and I want yours, too.”
    “Can’t have it,” she said.
    He gave her a wicked look. “Wanna bet?”
    “Eat your samitch,” she ordered. “I’ll make you some more later.”
    He cocked one shoulder and took a large bite of the salami on rye, chewing thoughtfully. “This is really gonna work, wench,” he said and took another bite. “Me and you. It’s really gonna work.”
    She hoped so for she hadn’t smiled and laughed so much in months—maybe years. Rory Keith was good for her and she suspected she was good for him.
    * * * *
    “Tripe!” he exclaimed and threw the script across the room. “God-awful, fucking tripe!”
    “I used to like fried tripe,” she said as she looked up from the western she was reading.
    Rory swiveled his head on the pillows he had insisted she lay on beside him. “Are you kidding me?”
    She shook her head. “No, I really did when I was a child until I found out what it was.” She lowered the script to her lap. “Used to like sardines and fried fish roe, too. Now, just thinking I gobbled that stuff up like ….”
    “Stop saying stuff, wench,” he said, wincing. “You’ve no idea what that word does to me coming out of your mouth.”
    She stared at him a moment then lifted the script up and started reading again. “Do you eat haggis?” she asked.
    “Damned straight I do,” he replied. “It’s good.”
    “Well, don’t expect me to try it. I’m not into sheep.”
    “Me, neither,” he said and chuckled. “Other animals, maybe, but definitely not sheep.”
    She rolled her eyes at him.
    “What else did you eat when you were a kid that you don’t eat now?” he asked.
    She