Read Online Dancing on the Wind by Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Free Book Online

eat all that!” she said as he placed her lone cup of coffee in front
    of her.
    “Down to the last greasy globule,” he assured her, throwing a leg over the back of
    his chair and sliding down into the seat. “I’m a growing boy who needs loads of carbs
    and fatty foods to start his motor running every morning.”
    “Not a very healthy outlook for a physician,” she teased.
    “I’m Gaelic,” he said then shrugged. “What can I tell ya?”
    “Are you in charge of the med unit here?”
    He shook his head. “No, I do research when I’m not doing the Doctors Without
    Borders thing. I am one helluva plastic surgeon in my spare time.”
    “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I really admire you guys.”
    He shrugged. “I just want to help. It’s rewarding to reconstruct the face of a child
    born with a harelip or a deformity that hinders them from a normal life.”
    “Again, I truly admire you for that,” she said.
    As he dove into the large breakfast before him, she leaned back in her chair with
    both hands wrapped around her mug of coffee and sipped the piping-hot liquid.
    “So you’re from Georgia,” he said in between mouthfuls of egg and jam-smeared
    toast. “Where exactly?”
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    “Albany,” she replied, and at his nod, she asked if he’d ever been there.
    “I was there to attend the funeral of a college friend,” he said.
    “Are you from Iowa?” she asked.
    “God, no!” he stated with a snort. “I was born and raised in South Carolina but
    grew up in Florida.”
    “A Southern boy,” she said, liking him better with each passing moment.
    “Yeppers,” he agreed, and slathered raspberry jam on another slice of toast. He
    motioned toward her with his bread. “The one thing they don’t have in this place is
    grits. Do you like grits?”
    “I love grits,” she said with a smile. “With lots of butter and salt and preferably
    mixed with cut-up patty sausage.” When he frowned sharply, she asked why.
    “Another thing they don’t have here is good sausage. Iowa food tends to be bland
    and their sausage sucks.” He looked down into his plate. “That’s why I order bacon or
    ham steak with my breakfast.”
    “How ’bout boiled peanuts?”
    “Nectar of the gods,” he said with a sigh then arched his brows. “Collard greens?”
    “Only with a very healthy dollop of pepper sauce.”
    “Fried okry?”
    “You betcha,” she answered.
    “Rutabagas, fried eggplant?”
    “Egg pie?” she countered, and he sighed loudly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    “I haven’t had egg pie in years,” he told her then shot out a hand to grip her upper
    arm lightly. “Tell me you know how to bake one and I’ll marry you this very day!”
    “I do, but let’s forego the marriage until you see if my cooking is any good or not,”
    she warned.
    “You’re a Georgia woman and you’re Celtic,” he said. “You were born to cook.”
    Keenan laughed. “Then what time should I reserve the reception hall for?”
    Her teasing seemed to please him and he grinned around the gob of food in his
    mouth. His eyes were sparkling, assessing her with an intensity she found both
    complimentary and a bit unsettling. She had to look away from his handsome face for
    heat was climbing into her cheeks.
    “He’s not a bad guy, but he’s gonna give you as much grief as you’ll allow him to,”
    Groves said, and she looked back around.
    “Who?”
    “Misha,” Groves answered. “He can be a mean son of a bitch.”
    It took her a moment to realize he meant Mikhail Fallon. “Is his mother Russian?”
    she asked.
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    Groves nodded. “Yeah. I guess with a nickname like that it was fairly obvious.” He
    scraped the last of his eggs onto a piece of bacon then popped them into his mouth. “He
    never knew his father. All he was ever told about him was that his last name was Fallon
    and he’d been a hit man for the I.R.A.”
    “Are his parents still