Page 54 of Men or Paws

I understood she had some baggage from her past, but why did she have to take it out on me? She was acting like I was the one who caused her pain.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, setting the jar of capers back down on the counter.

She huffed and crossed her arms. “You and I both know you’re the kind of person who prefers poached chicken. I can just drop it into a pot of boiling water until it turns to rubber, then you can eat it with some boring, flavorless vegetables instead of pasta. Just like a savage.”

What did I miss? It was like someone had moved on to the next scene without telling me and hadn’t given me an updated script.

Was she being sarcastic?

If so, she had the perfect poker face, because I couldn’t tell.

Still, there was an edge to her voice that made me believe she meant it.

Beth cleared her throat. “You really should get to work. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Well, I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

She didn’t think that was funny.

Beth just stared at me.

I got the hint.

She didn’t want me there.

I had no idea what I’d done, but it was time to leave before she castrated me.

“Okay then . . .” Walking over to Houdini, I bent down and kissed him on the head. “You be a good boy.” I turned back to Beth. “I’ll see you later.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything else.

Walking back to the main house, I wondered what the heck had happened to Beth. Our chemistry was off the charts on the couch, but then she suddenly turned as cold as the vanilla bean ice cream in my freezer.

Did she think I was hinting that I wanted to eat with her? Or that I expected her to cook for me? That certainly wasn’t the case, so what was it about the chicken piccata that rubbed her the wrong way?

The truth was, I absolutely loved chicken piccata, the lemon, the capers, the butter, the spices and herbs, including the fresh parsley. I’ve eaten it so many times that based on the smell in the kitchen, I could almost guarantee that Beth prepared a fantastic version of it.

But why would she think I liked it plain?

Wait a minute . . .

I had ordered it plain one time at Santo Domingo Grill.

Was it possible Beth had been the chef at that restaurant?

I remembered it like it was yesterday because it was such a negative experience. The chef was being a pain in the butt and refused to customize the meal that I had ordered to go, no matter how many times I sent it back to the kitchen.

It was chicken piccata.

Ultimately, I did end up getting the meal the way I wanted it, but not until after I asked to speak with the manager. I had told him why it was so important I needed the dish prepared in a very specific way. Luckily, he’d said he would make it happen.

I glanced back at the guesthouse.

If Beth had been the chef that night, it would explain so much, not only her being testy about the chicken piccata when we talked about it, but also her attitude toward me from the very first time we chatted on the phone.

It made total sense in my mind, but I had to confirm my suspicions.

One thing was for certain, I needed to make sure there were witnesses nearby when Beth and I chatted, just in case things escalated and she tried to remove my head with her bare hands.