“Warning taken.” He was still smiling.

“I just-I thought you’d rather not have it blabbed all over about…you know. And Thad is worse than an old woman when it comes to gossip. Mostly because he makes it his business to know every last thing about everyone within a fifty-mile radius of the town limits, and given we’re not exactly riddled with crime, and with the resort hotel more than half empty, he doesn’t have much else to do except run his mouth. So I’ll apologize up front if you’re suddenly inundated with questions from nosy townsfolk.”

He slid the long loaf of bread from her hands and merely smiled at her as he put it in the cart. “There’s only one nosy townsperson I’m interested in talking to at the moment. What do you say we blow this pop stand? Do we have everything we need?”

“I have wine back at the inn, so…yes, I think we’re good.” She looked in the cart. “Wait, where is the spaghetti sauce?”

He pointed to the cans of tomatoes and tomato sauce. “Right there. You have a decent spice rack?”

“Um…well. Like what, exactly?”

“Oregano, salt, maybe a little garlic to make garlic toast with the bread. Butter?”

“Maybe we should hit the spice aisle. Just in case.” She silently groaned, thinking that getting there entailed crossing to the opposite end of the store again. All she needed was for them to cross paths with Thad again, or Helen, or anyone else Thad had cornered in order to share his latest piece of news.

Brett’s long-legged stride kept up pretty easily with her sprinting pace. “Hungry?” he asked as she took the spice and condiment aisle almost on two wheels.

“Just not big on dawdling.”

He plucked the appropriate spices off the shelf so easily it was clear he’d made his way around them in the past. “Or cooking,” he said, half teasing, half asking.

“I do okay.” As long as it came out of a box, can, or prepackaged tray. And was only responsible for feeding herself. There was a reason the only actual full meal she offered was a box lunch. Sandwiches and chips she could do. Bagels, muffins, little boxes of cereal in the morning, some hot coffee and juice? Check. She’d been doing setups for that stuff since she was six years old and had proved to Mabel, the resort dining room manager, that she could reach the countertops without knocking anything over. But cooking where actual ingredients and a hot burner or three were involved? Yeah, the fire department could only do so much. Why risk it? Not to mention that poisoning her guests by actually preparing full meals from scratch generally wasn’t seen as a good business-building tool.

“Just okay?” he asked, that teasing glint surfacing again. And she realized then what she’d missed before, when he was talking to Thad.

His smile had been easy enough, his body language friendly and open, but his easy smile hadn’t reached his eyes. She wondered if it was sort of like a role he played. It went past just being polite to charming enough that most folks probably didn’t notice they were bothering him. Both Helen and Thad had surely felt like he’d personally connected with them.

“All right, barely okay,” she said, figuring what difference would the honesty make at this point. “I’ll be in charge of chopping up the fresh things that don’t require a stove.”

“Ah,” he said. “Got it. But you’re safe with knives?”

“I can chop anything from an onion to firewood. But you’re only supposed to burn the latter one. I know my limits.”

“Ah. So was that the reason for the last-minute change in menu at dinner?”

“In my defense, the pot roast barely fit in my Crock-pot after adding the potatoes and other stuff. I’m usually good with the Crock-pot. Okay, I usually only use it for mulled cider, but it just didn’t look all that hard.”

Brett was grinning again. “Well, I appreciate the effort. And the chicken and biscuits were wonderful.”

She gave him a little curtsy. “Thank you.” They moved to the front of the store and she scanned the check-out stands but didn’t see Thad or Helen, or anyone else likely to interrupt their progress in getting out of the store without being further accosted.

Brett leaned in as she stopped her cart by the conveyor belt. “So, how is it that a person who dreamed of being an innkeeper doesn’t know how to cook?”

She started setting items on the conveyor belt. “It’s not for lack of trying. I learned early on to go with your strengths. I figured if I ever became wildly busy and folks were clamoring for home-cooked food after a day on the slopes, I’d hire someone. Frankly, running a full house doesn’t really leave any time for that anyway.” She glanced up at him as he leaned past her, his chest brushing her shoulder, to help her unload the cart. “So, how is it that a professional poker player also knows how to make his own spaghetti sauce from scratch?”

“Man can only live on room service for so long.”

She pretended to pause and think about that, then said, “Right. I could see where that would get old. Ordering from an extensive menu and having one of the world’s best executive chefs in a world-renowned Vegas resort hotel whip something up, then having it delivered to your door, and, oh, right, no cleanup, either.” She patted him on the arm. “I don’t know how you managed.”

He smiled. “It’s a trying existence.”

He resumed putting things on the conveyor belt, but Kirby was left thinking about his life. He was a professional poker player, which essentially translated to professional gambler. It was funny, but she’d always kind of pictured gamblers as either a seedy, desperate bunch, spending their days and nights in smoke-filled rooms, never knowing if the sun was shining or the stars were out, drinking too much, losing too much. Or the opposite, with flashy bordering on tasteless fashion choices, overly groomed hair, too much jewelry, expensive dental work, and at least two surgically enhanced companions hanging on their arm at all time.

Both were the extreme clichés and she should be embarrassed by thinking like that, because, clearly, Brett Hennessey with his fine cashmere sweaters and well-maintained cuticles was hardly seedy or trashy-flashy. Actually, he was more college professorial than anything else. She hid a private grin. Yeah, if there was such a thing as a really hot, Harley-riding professor.

Still, it made her wonder what it was really like, to be a high roller, to live like that. Although technically she supposed high rollers were men who had made their fortunes in other realms and simply enjoyed the luxury of risking gambling huge chunks of it away whenever the whim struck them. Men who made huge fortunes usually were risk takers, so she could see the draw.

But that wasn’t Brett, either. He did it for his livelihood. What must that be like? According to Thad, Brett was very successful, so it was doubtful he was scrabbling to keep a roof over his head these days, especially if that wad of bills was anything to go by. But he had to have started somewhere. And where was that, she wondered? What led a person to that career path?

“Kirby?”

She blinked and looked up to find their purchases bagged, paid for, and back in the cart. “Oh. Sorry, my mind was drifting there.”

Brett and the check-out guy both smiled indulgently, but only Brett’s expression was tinged with a little something else. He knew where her train of thought had gone. She sighed inwardly. So much for keeping their respective jobs off the conversational table. If she was going to spend continued time with him, then there were things she was curious about, wanted to know. She’d just have to find a way to make him understand that whatever money he did or didn’t have, wasn’t of any interest to her.

He was. All of what he was. Or wasn’t.