I set the knife down on my cutting board and turned to face him, an appalled look on my face. “Anson Bartholomew Cattigan.” That lip twitch was back, a little stronger this time. “You know that’s not my name, right?” “Well, I don’t know your full name, and I needed three names for emphasis.” “It’s Anson Sutter Hunt.” It was my turn to scowl at him. “God, that’s a good name. But that’s not the point. We do not eat store-bought salsa in this house.”
