She concentrated on mixing the ingredients without screwing up the measurements. Usually, she made pancakes from scratch, but this wasn’t the morning to attempt it. Jack took pity on her and didn’t ask any more questions. As she poured the first batch on the new griddle, Dean sauntered in, all scruffy high style, his jock stubble as rugged as his father’s rocker stubble. Maybe it was genetic. The perfect number of wrinkles creased his periwinkle T-shirt, and his khaki cargo shorts fell on his hips at exactly the right point. He didn’t look at Jack. Instead, he took her in from head to toe before he settled on her face. “Makeup? What happened? You look almost female.”

“Thanks. You look almost straight.”

Behind them, Jack chuckled. Ohmygod, she’d made Jack Patriot laugh.

Dean leaned down and kissed her—long, cool, and so premeditated that she barely let herself get worked up about it. This was his opening move in another game, the one he played with the parents he hated. He was marking her as his teammate so that Jack knew it was now two against one.

Only after he drew away did he acknowledge his father’s presence with a crisp nod. Jack nodded back and tilted his head toward the windows in the dining niche. “This is a nice place. I never figured you for a farmer.”

When Dean didn’t bother to respond, Blue broke the tense silence. “First batch of pancakes coming up. Dean, see if you can find syrup in those bags in the pantry. And grab some butter, will you?”

“Be glad to, sweetheart.” He pecked her forehead with another strategic kiss. As she reached for the plates, she wondered if her life could get any weirder. Her life savings had been handed over to a band of South American guerrillas, she had a phony engagement to a famous football player, she was homeless and jobless, and she was making breakfast for Mad Jack Patriot.

As Dean came out of the pantry, Jack gestured toward Blue. “Where’s the engagement ring?”

“She hated the first one I got her,” Dean said. “The stones were too small.” He had the nerve to tweak her chin. “Nothing but the best for my sweetheart.”

She hummed the Speed Racer theme song.

By avoiding looking at Jack, she managed to deliver his pancakes without sliding them into his lap. Dean ate his standing up, hips resting against the counter. He talked to her as he ate, but made sure he directed an occasional comment to Jack so he couldn’t be suspected of ignoring him. She’d practiced the strategy too often herself not to recognize it. Don’t let anyone see the hurt. She didn’t like how well she understood him.