And he still had questions about why she was in Alaska by herself. She wasn’t typical of those intrigued by the frontier life. Hadn’t arrived with a boyfriend. Wasn’t one of the youngsters who were traveling for the hell of it. That type usually grabbed a job at the resort or in Anchorage.

No, she’d picked a tiny town named Rescue.

In the kitchen, she started water to boil and pulled out a sauté pan.

He planned to help as needed and also assess the dishes she’d make for the first “Italian” night as well as seeing what to order as far as food, spices, and equipment.

Speaking of which, “Do you have the store receipt so I can reimburse you? Would you prefer a check or a direct deposit to where your paycheck goes?”

“Yes, thank you.” As she handed the receipt over, she bit her lower lip. “The price of everything was pretty high.”

“Welcome to Alaska.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “Not to worry. When I buy in bulk, the price goes down, and if this works, my Homer restaurant will have theme nights, too.”

“Your Homer restaurant.” Holding a big pot, she gazed over her shoulder at him. “You know, I heard you say restaurants—as in plural—before, but thought it was just a slip of the tongue. You own more than one?”

“One in Homer, this roadhouse, and a restaurant-brewery in Anchorage.”

Bending over, she pulled out a long casserole pan, saying in a grumpy tone, “At one time, I thought you were just a plain old bartender.”

He laughed.

They worked well together as he’d already discovered when they made breakfasts. She took over as chef, directing and putting everything together while he stepped in to do some of the prep work in between making notes.

She was cooking a complete menu to be added to a pared-down roadhouse menu. An antipasto platter, crostini appetizers, and soup. A caprese salad, garlic bread, and bread sticks. Then the three main courses—lasagna, an herbed fish dish, and a chicken parmesan variation. There would also be some side dishes like garlic-prosciutto Brussels sprouts that he couldn’t wait to sample. The dessert menu would have tiramisu and pistachio ice cream added on.

“What are you going to do about the Mexican night?” She was layering the lasagna noodles, ricotta, and meat sauce. “Do you have a chef for that?”

“I’ll handle that night. Cazador brings back recipes whenever he visits Mexico. We might add in a Russian theme night—or even an Asian one, since Hawk picked up some good recipes when he was stationed there.”

A noise caught his attention. Someone had tapped on the back door.

Frankie opened the door, then stepped outside to talk to whoever it was.

After a second, Bull recognized the voice—nineteen-year-old Amka, one of the restaurant waitstaff.