Breaker's Passion Read Online Free PDF Page B

spaghetti sauce from a jar. Occasionally she grilled a burger, but more often than not she pulled a box or can off the shelf and opened it. If her microwave ever went on the fritz, she’d probably starve.
    In her previous life she never had to cook. She never had to shop, for that matter. First she lived at her parents’ house, then went to college and ate in the cafeteria or grabbed a bite where she could. Then came Gretchen, who shopped and cooked and did all the other household duties, which freed Colby to concentrate on her career. When she came home, dinner was miraculously on the table. She had no idea what it took to get it there, but she certainly enjoyed the result.
    Now, however, she had to cook, and she didn’t know if she didn’t like it because she wasn’t any good at it or if she was no good at it because she didn’t like it. And postponing shopping until absolutely necessary more than likely added to her dislike of the event. She had tried several times to make a list but gave up and now simply trolled, grabbing whatever caught her eye.
    She filled clear produce bags with half a dozen apples and twice as many oranges, and grabbed a pre-wrapped carton of six tomatoes. Seeing nothing else that enticed her, she moved to the next aisle, tossing a couple loaves of bread and a package of English muffins and one of tortillas into her cart. At least they were whole wheat. Wanting to get out of the crowded store, she moved at a rapid pace up and down each aisle. Chips, beer, cans of soup. God, she ate like this in college and here she was twenty years later, eating like she was nineteen again. She grabbed two gallons of milk, rounded the next corner, and ran right into the cart of a shopper approaching from the opposite direction.
    “Shit,” she murmured, and looked into the same eyes she had seen just twelve hours earlier. But more important, those eyes looked back at her in recognition. Under the bright fluorescent lights she had the chance to see the woman much more clearly than she had last night on the beach. She was a little shorter than Colby’s five foot ten inches, her hair tied back in a ponytail high on the top of her head. A white tank top over pale blue shorts did little to hide long, firm legs from Colby’s appreciative eyes. When she retraced a path up the woman’s body, she was momentarily stunned by her beauty. Her face was free of any makeup and clear green eyes sparkled in amusement.
    Should she apologize for blatantly cruising the woman in front of the peanut-butter-and-jelly display in aisle nine? No. The woman had done the same to her last night when she walked across the sand, and as an attractive woman she should expect it.
    Elizabeth was frozen to the spot, oblivious to the other shoppers jockeying around her as the surfer from last night slowly ran her eyes up and down her body. She flushed all over, as if the woman was caressing her with her hands instead of those black eyes staring at her now. The surfer should say something, apologize, or at least acknowledge that she had run into her.
    In the few seconds they both stood there, Elizabeth glanced at the contents of the woman’s cart. Everything was either frozen, prepackaged, or in a jar. Her own cart was filled with fresh fruit, veggies, and spices—everything she needed to fix herself several meals during the next few weeks. Not only were they a different height, build, and hair color, but chose very different food. How could the woman have such a fabulous figure with all the carbohydrates, fats, sugars, and sodium she had loaded in her cart?
    If she asks me to dinner I’m definitely cooking or we’re going out. The thought came out of nowhere and shook Elizabeth out of her stupor. The woman was looking at her, clearly waiting for a reply.
    “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
    “I said sorry. For running into you.” The voice was as smooth as Elizabeth remembered. The woman handed her the grocery list she had dropped during