Assuming Caleb and the appraiser would be hungry when they finished their work, she put the chicken breast in the microwave and set it to defrost. She found a thick skillet, flour, shortening and a rolling pin, and started mixing up a batch of homemade tortilla shells.

When Caleb walked in half an hour later, she was chopping her way through a ripe tomato on the island’s counter, the chicken frying on the stove.

She glanced up to see Caleb alone. “Where’s the appraiser?” she asked.

“On his way back to Lyndon.”

“He wasn’t hungry?”

Caleb snagged a chunk of tomato and popped it into his mouth. “He didn’t know there was anything on offer.”

“You didn’t offer to feed him?” It was more than two-and-a-half hours back to Lyndon.

“I didn’t think it was worth the risk.”

She gave him a perplexed look.

“I don’t cook,” he clarified.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She turned her back on him to flip the last of the tortillas frying in the pan. “Everybody cooks.”

“Not me.”

She threw the vegetables in with the chicken. “How is that possible? You said you lived alone. Please, don’t tell me you have servants.”

“I don’t have servants. Does anybody have servants in this day and age? I live in a high-rise apartment in downtown Chicago. I’m surrounded by excellent restaurants.”

“You eat out every night?” She couldn’t imagine it.

“I do a lot of business over dinner,” he told her easily. “But most of the restaurants in the area also offer takeout.”

“It’s hard to believe you survive on takeout.” She turned back, returning to chopping the tomato on the island. How could he be so fit eating pizza, burgers and chicken?

“There’s takeout. And then there’s takeout.” He spread his arms and rested the heels of his hands against the lip of the granite countertop, cornerwise from where she worked. “Andre’s, around the corner from my apartment, will send up filet mignon, baby potatoes in a sweet dill sauce and primavera lettuce salad with papaya dressing.”