Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2)

by Smartypants Romance

  When he hears the door snick shut, he stands and faces me, turning his back to her.

  With wide eyes and lips pressed tight together, she silently yet clearly communicates her thoughts on this tableau.

  “Odin said you have other plans tonight.” She grins before he can turn his head and catch her smug expression. “We can totally reschedule for another time. In fact, we should have a girls’ night soon, watch a movie or something.”

  In spite of her friendly tone, I’m suspicious. We’ve never hung out just the two of us. Girls’ night? She sounds like Kacey, which is hysterical because Gaia’s about as girly as I am.

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Sounds good. Nice to see you.” She addresses Odin. “Have fun!”

  None of us move to leave. We can’t descend the stairs because she’s blocking them.

  “Shall we go?” I step down off the porch.

  Gaia catches on and moves out of the way.

  I glance around. “Where’s the van?”

  He points to a very nice black truck at the end of the road. “I didn’t need it today.”

  “It’s kind of fancy,” I joke.

  “Like my dog?” He opens my door for me.

  “Exactly.”

  “Beats the van. When you see Patsy, don’t tell her it kind of smells like a pig sty in there.”

  It hits me: I’m going to his house. Goin’ to the holler. I feel like I’m being invited to a secret lair.

  The reality is he lives down a dirt road in a log cabin surrounded by fields, gardens, and greenhouses. Unless he has a secret bunker, he really is a farmer and not a supervillain.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Odin

  After a brief tour of the gardens and greenhouses, I lead Daphne up to the porch. The reality of what I’ve done hits me. Not only did I kiss her, I casually invited her over to dinner like it’s something I do all the time. The opposite is true. I can’t think of the last time I had someone over for a meal. I don’t even feed the cousins who load the produce for the farmers’ markets and food pantries.

  Something happened in her cabin. One minute we were arguing about the location of my orchard and the next, I was kissing her like a desperate man, starved for human contact. In some ways, I guess that’s the case but I never pined for a woman’s touch. Now I can’t stop thinking about kissing Daphne. The drive back here was one long torturous exercise in keeping my hands to myself and my eyes on the road.

  She’s standing near the porch railing, giving me a funny look, and I realize I haven’t said anything in the last minute or so. Could have been longer.

  “You okay?” Her teeth worry her bottom lip. “If you’ve changed your mind …”

  I rest my hand on the back of my neck and give her a slow, shy smile. “I’m out of practice. I should invite you inside and offer you something to drink.”

  “I’d like that.” Crossing the short distance between us, she rises on her toes and tentatively touches her lips to mine. It’s a balm to my nerves and an invitation.

  Kissing her is easy, effortless. If I quiet my brain and let my body’s instincts take over, I’m fine. She twines her arms around my shoulders, and I rest my hands at the dip of her lower back. We have a few moments of awkwardness. Our teeth bump and we’re not quite sure where our noses should go, but we laugh our way through until the clumsiness passes.

  Once again breathless, we break apart, our chests heaving, and my heartbeat throbbing.

  “Right. Okay. Dinner.” With my thumb, I trace the rosy swell of her bottom lip.

  I wasn’t thinking when I asked her to come here for dinner. If I had been, I probably would’ve considered taking her out. It never occurred to me to go somewhere else. Where would I have taken her, anyway? Genie’s for fried chicken? I don’t go to any of the other restaurants in the area, mostly because I’m a better chef than all of those hacks. Now, if we were going for pie, Daisy’s Nut House has me beat. Pastry is not my strength.

  I leave Daphne to hang out with Roman in the living area while I figure out what the hell I’m going to make us for dinner. Pulling open the fridge door, I inventory the contents and come up with a plan. Nothing fancy but it will be good. Better than boxed soup or a frozen meal.

  Daphne sits on the floor and lets Roman crawl on her. Patsy’s outside enjoying the mud in her pen; she’ll need a bath before she’s allowed back in the house.

  I get lost in the prep and production of cooking, occasionally glancing over at the beautiful woman across the room. It’s strange but not unwelcome to have her in my house. Other than family, she’s my first visitor in a long time. Memories of her mouth and her body pressed against mine flash through my mind in a welcome highlight reel.

  “What’s for dinner?” Not tall enough to look over my shoulder, Daphne peers around my upper arm, inhaling deeply. “Smells delicious.”

  Fresh, not floral or cloying, the scent of her shampoo—or maybe her perfume—teases my nose.

  Shifting to the left, I block her view into the pot I’m stirring. “I’m not telling until we sit down.”

  “What if I have a deadly food allergy?” Undeterred, she stands on her toes, her hand pressing against my shoulder blade. She’s close enough for me to feel the warmth of her body close to mine.

  “I imagine you would’ve told me when I asked if you had any food sensitivities on the drive over here. If my memory is correct, you said as long as snails, squid and sea urchin weren’t on the menu, you’d probably be fine.”

  “You’ve only listed a few of the S foods. I have more.”

  “Yes, I know—turnips remind you of feet.” I bump her out of my way with my hip.

  “You remember me saying that?” Her eyes widen with surprise. “That was over a month ago.”

  “You made an impression.” I steal a kiss. “How could I forget your love of iceberg and the Bible quote?”

  “I like what I like.”

  “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re a picky eater ?” I reply dryly. “I have a feeling you like what you know.”

  “Also true.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “You might like a lot more things if you’re open to trying them.”

  Her nose wrinkles as she scrunches up her face in disgust. “If you’re making sea urchin and snails, I can tell you right now, I’m only going to eat bread.”

  To placate her, I lift the lid from the cast iron Dutch oven. “Give it a sniff.”

  She leans closer and inhales deeply. “Smells like chicken soup.”

  I don’t miss the slight flatness in her voice. “Chicken and dumplins to be accurate. Disappointed?”

  Stepping to my left, she leans a hip against the counter next to the cook top. “A little.”

  “What if I told you it was squirrel?” I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on stirring the stew.

  “It isn’t!” She jumps away. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Your face.” The laugh I’ve been suppressing breaks free. “Calm down. It’s chicken.”

  “Promise?” Genuine worry creases her forehead.

  “I’ll swear on something, if you’d like. My life? If I had a Bible, we could use it.”

  “No, no. No need for anything so drastic.” She holds up her hands.

  “You should try squirrel sometime, though. It’s especially delicious in Brunswick stew.”

  She fake-gags. “I’ll pass.”

  “You might like it. Tony Beard was a fan.”

  “Then Tony and his beard can have my share.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “A fan of eating rodents?”

  “And snails. Beyond those two dishes, he was one of the greatest chefs in the world.”

  She observes me as if seeing something new.

  “What?” The familiar heat of discomfort crawls up my neck.

  With a shake of her head, she dismisses my question. “Nothing. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Tony was one of the che
fs I admired most when I was working my way up in restaurant kitchens.”

  “You haven’t always been a farmer?”

  “No. This is fairly new.” I remove the quick dough from the fridge where it’s been resting. “Want to help make the dumplins?”

  “Say it again.”

  Confused, I repeat the question. “Want to help make the dumplins?”

  “I love your accent.” She sighs, her eyes all dreamy like I’m her favorite boy band member.

  “Okay.” I never know what to say when someone tells me that. Half the time it’s a backhanded compliment, but coming from Daphne, I think it’s genuine.

  I set the bowl on the counter and peel away the flour sack towel I covered it with. “Have you ever made dumplins, darlin?”

  “Now you’re using your voice as a weapon. Completely unfair.”

  I laugh at her pouting. “I thought you loved it.”

  “I do, but it distracts me. If you want me to help, you need to cool it with the drawls.” Her exaggerated glare only makes me laugh harder.

  “Okay. Here’s what you need to do.” I hand her a spoon. “Scoop some up and drop it in the pot. Think you can manage that?”

  “Yes, Chef.” She salutes me.

  “No one has called me that in a long time.” I chuckle. “And no one salutes in a kitchen. We’re all too damn busy for that sort of nonsense.”

  She tentatively drops her first spoonful into the gently boiling liquid.

  I kiss the top of her head, surprising myself and her. I recover and say, “Well done.”

  Pride in her eyes, she beams up at me.

  I never imagined enjoying having someone in my kitchen but I’m loving having Daphne here. Her laughter is quickly becoming one of my favorite sounds.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Daphne

  I successfully complete my task of scooping and plopping the sticky dough into the pot, and now I’m washing dishes while Odin works on the rest of the meal. I suspect he’s making a salad, but I’m too afraid to examine the ingredients closely. I highly doubt he has a bottle of ranch dressing hiding in his refrigerator.

  While Odin preps dinner in the kitchen, I hang out with Roman, playing keep-away with one of his toys, sitting on the floor with the dog, gives me an opportunity to check out the house. The old beam and log interior must be a hundred years old, if not older. His furniture is simple but has an expensive quality and I suspect some pieces are real antiques. Nothing he owns is from Ikea or the home section of Target.

  Like me, he doesn’t have a bunch of family photos or sentimental knickknacks cluttering flat surfaces. The most personal touch I can spy is what decorates his refrigerator.

  “You said you don’t get out much, but you have all these postcards from around the world. Do you ask people to send them to you when they travel?” I point at a picture of the Colosseum in Rome held on the door with a magnet.

  He glances over his shoulder. “No, those are all mine.”

  “All of them?” I try to quell my rising jealousy. His postcards are my Pinterest boards come to life. “You’ve been to Italy?

  “Yep.” He doesn’t expand or explain.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “I’ve traveled around some.” He pours oil into his bowl.

  “All these places?” I point at a rocky coast. “Where’s this?”

  “Australia.”

  “Wow.” There are landmarks I recognize like the Eiffel Tour and the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, but most of the images are only vaguely familiar. He’s so nonchalant about visiting destinations that are castle in the sky dreams for me. How can a farmer living in a holler afford to travel the world? I want to ask him all the questions, instead I point to a brightly lit cityscape. “Is that Tokyo?”

  He glances over his shoulder at the night scene. “Yes.”

  If he’s not going to share more than one-word sentences, I guess it’s up to me to keep the conversation going.

  “I remember the first time I flew on an airplane at night. Dark, inky expanses of nothing broken up by small galaxies of lights from towns and cities of varying sizes. Glowing street and porch lights, sprinkled like stars, creating unfamiliar constellations. The disappointment that my first flight wasn’t during the day quickly faded as I pressed my forehead against the window and pretended to be zooming through space.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere exotic like Australia. My best friend Isaac and I went to Arizona so I could see the Grand Canyon on my nineteenth birthday. That’s the trip where I fell in love with national parks.” It was also part of my first adventure away from home.

  “I never flew anywhere either until I turned twenty. Guess we were late bloomers.” His smile brightens his whole face. “Look at us having something in common.”

  “We also enjoy walking in the woods.”

  “We’re practically the same person.” His grin widens before he kisses me again.

  I discover it is nearly impossible to kiss someone while laughing. In so many ways we couldn’t be more different.

  “What’s so funny?” He pulls away but holds on to my hips, slowly walking me backward until I’m up against the counter and can’t escape.

  “Nothing.”

  He drags his beard along my cheek, causing me to shiver at the sensation. “Are you sure? If I’m a terrible kisser, you can tell me. Be gentle, though—I’m not sure my tender male ego can handle it.”

  His statement makes me giggle. He has to be kidding, right? Demigod or mortal, he’s the best I’ve ever had.

  “That bad, huh?” He closes one eye and ducks his chin.

  “Horrible.” I nod, silly-grinning.

  “I should probably keep practicing.” His lips brush mine in the gentlest caress.

  My exhalations are all trembly. My pulse beats a loud rhythm in my ears.

  He doesn’t deepen his kiss and the teasing drives me mad.

  More. I need more.

  Tangling my fingers in the messy curls at the nape of his neck, I urge him closer. Surprising myself, I take the lead, swiping my tongue into his mouth, exploring him.

  I’m not sure if it’s possible to overcook dumplings, but I think we should forget about dinner for the foreseeable future.

  His kisses embolden me. I wonder what his bedroom looks like. Forget that, I decide. We have a perfectly good kitchen island right here.

  I’ve never been the instigator when it comes to being physical with a man. Odin makes me want to change that.

  More than half my life was spent trying to be a “good girl” and all that idea entails. Chaste, prim, perfect—whatever that means. Turns out, I don’t want to fit into that box, or any box. I’m not a cat.

  Good girl. Bad girl. Virgin. Slut. They’re all just labels slapped on us like rogue bumper stickers. We can’t see them ourselves, but other people can.

  I press my body against his, feeling the planes and angles of his torso. When our hips meet, the thick length of him presses against my abdomen.

  He slows the stroke of his tongue against mine.

  I don’t want slow. I want more. Everything. Now.

  As if reading my mind, he whispers, “There’s no rush. We have time.”

  I’m a bomb with a minute left until detonation. Sweet lord, I don’t want to die of pent-up sexual tension right here in his kitchen.

  “Darlin’?” He tips my chin up with the tip of his thumb. “I want to savor whatever is happening between us. Let me enjoy you. Don’t skip ahead to the dessert.”

  I think that’s chef for Slow your roll.

  Breathless and flushed, I tell the party in my jeans to chill.

  “Wouldn’t sex be the main course?”

  “I prefer to think of the meal as a whole event. Kissing is the amuse bouche to entice our palate.” He proves his point with a nip to my bottom lip.

  “And what’s dessert?”

  “The sweetness that follows everything else, made more enjoyable by
the delicious satisfaction of the previous dishes.”

  Odin is offering me a multi-course gourmet feast when everyone else was fast food. I’m not going to turn down the best meal of my life for mediocre fries.

  With a nod, I agree to slow down. My breath shakes as I inhale, trying to return to a state of normal functioning. I feel like I’m at the top of a rollercoaster when there’s an announcement the ride is broken. If I’m stuck waiting for a while, I can at least enjoy the view.

  Intensely studying my face, he tucks my hair behind my left ear. “I don’t know if I remembered to tell you this before, but I like you a whole lot, Daphne. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to spend time getting to know someone new. Be patient with me. I’m a little rusty at all of this.”

  My cheeks heat as my heart races. “I like you, too,” I manage to whisper while a thousand thoughts swirl like snow in my head. My brain is a snow globe of feelings and words I want to share, and absent among them are embarrassment or shame. Tapping the brakes is the right thing to do. For now.

  Stepping away from me, he announces, “Let’s eat.”

  When Odin places our bowls on the table, the scent of butter and herbs creates a delicious cloud around us. I take a moment to examine the meal he’s prepared. Definitely doesn’t look like any simple home cooking I’ve ever seen. Tiny flakes of parsley garnish the top of the dumplings, and the bowl of “salad” is a riot of colors and textures I’ve never seen in the bagged lettuces down at the Piggly Wiggly.

  “This looks incredible. Thank you for making me dinner.”

  “Bon appetit,” he says softly.

  Without thinking, I interlace my fingers like I did a thousand times growing up. I haven’t said grace before a meal in years but my brain sometimes defaults to its deep-seated training.

  “Amen.” The word escapes my mouth before I realize I’m saying it out loud.

  A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Amen.”

  My head jerks up and I gape at him. “Say that again.”

  “I think once was enough. I don’t want to get struck by lightning.” He digs into a dumpling with the side of his spoon.