Cowboy In The Kitchen. Mae Nunn
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her bag and swiped at the drizzling droplets of coffee atop it while she considered the appeal of Alma’s homemade pastries, made fresh each day. A smart hotelier offered her guests an experience they could not have elsewhere. What was the use in having the Cowboy Chef in her kitchen even short-term if she didn’t have the tall Texas tales to go along with him?
“Say something. What’s your gut reaction?” Hunt mocked her earlier question.
She shifted her attention from the coffee stain on her favorite purse to the alluring face of the youngest Temple brother. She’d never considered she could attract the reality television celebrity, but that was before her real estate agent had insisted Gillian get on the next flight for a visit to Temple Territory. Finding the perfect property that just happened to be connected to Hunt Temple couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than providence.
Gillian recognized her equal in the man beside her. He’d turned a problem to his advantage, just as she’d have done. Another item on the list of critical information she’d keep to herself.
Hunt still had the body of an athlete, was slap-your-sister hot and possessed a cache of local secrets. He was well traveled in spite of his fear of flying, and probably spoke a few phrases in several languages. So she steamrolled ahead with her plan, just as her father would do in her shoes.
“My gut tells me to meet your condition—if you promise to stay for as long as I require your help.” That would help her rush a grand opening during the holiday season and establish her no-nonsense reputation. Maybe she’d even convince him to stick around longer. Or not.
“I’ll have the agreement drawn up by my lawyer, and he’ll be in touch with you later today.”
She offered her hand to make it official. “Deal?”
He took her fingers gently in his, raised them to his face and kissed the backside of them lightly.
“Deal,” he murmured.
A shiver ran from her knuckles to the pleasure center of her brain. She gave a nod to acknowledge the gesture, and then slipped her hand away from his touch.
Needing a distraction from the warmth of his lips still on her flesh, she glanced down at the paper sack and then reached in for a homemade sopaipilla.
The crispy pastry melted on her tongue, leaving a hint of honey and earthy sweetness.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No,” she mumbled, savoring another bite.
“My brother Cullen’s place is only a couple miles from here. If Alma’s there, she’ll be happy to whip up some killer huevos rancheros. Her tortillas are always made from scratch.” His eyes sparked at the mention of the Mexican favorites.
“Maybe another morning. Today I’m in the mood for something French prepared by my new executive chef.”
“Does an omelet au fromage appeal to you?”
“Does Limburger cheese stink?”
“Well, then, let’s go.” Without hesitation he stood and offered his hand to help her to her feet, then swept his palm toward the side drive where both their vehicles were parked. She stepped toward her rental car with his footsteps a respectful distance behind.
“I’ll follow you in my car.”
He was being suspiciously agreeable. Over the course of their brief negotiation, the man had morphed from righteous indignation to effusive gratitude. Somewhere in that pendulum swing of emotion was the real Hunt Temple, and given long enough she might be able to sift through the chaff and find the grain. If not, that was okay, too.
She’d come to Texas to realize her dream, not analyze a man.
* * *
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Gillian stepped across the threshold of Cullen’s home and followed his lead straight to the kitchen. The hacienda-style room was cozy and welcoming. Hunt pulled a tall hand-tooled stool away from the mosaic-tile counter and held the chair while she stepped up onto it and settled in to watch him work. He took a knee-length white apron from a drawer and secured it around his waist. Then he reached for a skillet, sprinkled it with oil and positioned it on a lit burner.
He grabbed two eggs from the fridge and cracked them against the side of a clear mixing bowl. A shard of white shell fell atop the golden yellow yolks.
“Glad I’ve already got the job,” he said as he fished out the fragment.
“Am I making you nervous?”
“In a way,” he admitted, above the fury of his whisk. “It’s a bit unusual to be hired before you ever serve a meal to the boss.”
“Oh, you’ve served me before.”
Hunt turned puzzled eyes her way, the brows above his slate-colored irises raised in question.
“I was checking out the small hotels in Cancun last summer. I had the opportunity to eat in your restaurant on an evening when you were expediting the kitchen.”
“And how was your meal?” He was fishing for a compliment.
“The snapper was overcooked and underseasoned. I sent it back to the kitchen.”
The ultimate insult hit the chef like a dart to his chest. Hunt melodramatically clutched his heart with both palms and mock-swooned against the kitchen wall, and Gillian could swear her own heart reacted, as well.
Being around this man was either going to be great fun or a great big mistake.
CHAPTER THREE
“DON’T HOLD BACK, little brother. Tell us how you really feel about your rich boss lady.” Joiner, the middle Temple brother, poked fun at Hunt’s diatribe over his new employer.
“I can’t help it. The more I listen to her big ideas, the more they worry me.” Hunt sank deeper into the sofa in McCarthy’s office. McCarthy sat behind the desk, and Joiner sprawled on the sofa beside Hunt. Cullen was in a corner, his nose in a book. “She’s determined to import a bunch of strangers so they can create a new ‘culture.’” He made quote marks in the air. “This is Texas, for pity’s sake. Why would anybody in their right mind want to replace the historical culture of Temple Territory that already exists? She’s on a collision course with reality, and I’m afraid my reputation as a chef could go down in flames with her.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Cowboy Chef,” Joiner said, making fun of Hunt’s television identity. A lifelong lover of horses, Joiner was the closest thing to a real cowboy in the family. He’d always held it over the heads of his younger brothers, whom he’d berated as a bookworm and a kitchen mouse, regardless of the fact that both could have played professional baseball.
“Life will continue,” Joiner insisted. “You have to move on to another dream now that McCarthy’s let the estate get away from you.”
“Just wait a doggone minute.” McCarthy’s dark stare landed on each of his brothers. “I’m fed up with you three holding me accountable for seeing Daddy’s mission to clear our name accomplished. We’ve all wasted a lot of years talking a good game, but none of us ever put our shoulder to the wheel and made things happen. You can’t blame me because the bank finally found a buyer, and reclaiming Pap’s place is never gonna happen.”
Cullen took a break from the textbook he was thumbing through. “I’m not so sure Daddy would want a lot of attention drawn to the Temple name now anyway, not after all the years it took for the gossip to die down. Why, wasn’t he in agreement with Pap’s decision not to come home after he got out of prison?”
“Yes, but he never dreamed he wouldn’t see Pap again,” McCarthy said.
“It’s the old man’s fault for going out to West Texas and getting himself killed working on that dangerous gas well. Otherwise we might have grown up with the flesh-and-blood Pap instead of this infamous