He looked pained. “I don’t eat peanut butter.”
That genuinely shocked her. “Who doesn’t eat peanut butter? It’s the perfect food.”
He shuddered. “Even to make up for all the things I’ve done wrong, I don’t think I can do it.”
“For a man who carries around as many weapons as you do, you’re a bit of a baby.”
“It isn’t being a baby not to eat peanut butter. I don’t think babies eat the stuff.”
“That’s un-American.”
“I’m not certain I am American,” he pointed out.
She had to agree with him there. “Fine. You can put peanut butter on waffles. Blythe bought some of those frozen thingies that you put in the toaster. I’m not sure how old they are. Do frozen foods last like four years or more?”
He groaned and dropped into the nearest kitchen chair, pushing his head into his hands. “Death by peanut butter. I never thought I’d go that way.”
Rikki found herself laughing. Nothing made her laugh, not out loud, not hurt-her-tummy laughing, not like this. He looked so dejected— a big, tough man done in by peanut butter.

Christine Feehan