Cowboy In The Kitchen. Mae Nunn
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a split second Gillian was tempted to give in to Hunt’s hopeful voice and appealing eyes just to make him go away and let her return to work. But the moment passed. She’d do things her way, and neither Hunt Temple nor James Moore would tell her what to do. Still, there was a story behind the pieces that added ambience, albeit in the wrong place.
She offered a compromise. “We can use them in the spa. We’ll work the doors into the decor of the juice bar.”
“Spa? You haven’t mentioned a spa.” Hunt’s brows scrunched in concern.
“Phase II,” she explained. And that was all the explanation he’d get on her future plans. She could just imagine his objections when he found out that smelly Caddo well would be filled in and covered over with a tile floor when she enclosed the courtyard. She’d keep that to herself until he needed to know, if ever.
Hunt squinted in thought, as if he was considering her alternative suggestion for the doors. Not that she could let his opinions matter too much in the end. Gillian would only get one grab at the brass ring. She hadn’t put her reputation and her parents’ retirement fund on the line to have her plans questioned by a professional foodie.
Even if the foodie was the talented, unpredictable and quite handsome Cowboy Chef.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I HAVE A better idea for the doors.” Hunt tilted his head and motioned with his hand for Gillian to follow him. He smiled at the tapping of her heels behind him. He was making progress with the boss lady already.
“Hunt, I’m too busy for this right now.”
Maybe not so much progress after all.
He continued toward the old kitchen.
“You’re not listening to me,” she insisted, but remained close behind. “I’m booked solid this afternoon, and I have to return that call. Your granddaddy’s rustic old doors have been collecting dust for decades. There’s no reason to get in a dither about them right this minute.”
“All evidence to the contrary since you were about to put a piece of Texas history on the scrap pile. I’d say a dither is exactly what’s called for, and you might agree in about thirty seconds.”
He crossed the scuffed terra-cotta tiles that led to the large walk-in pantry. Once inside, he reached up to tug a length of kitchen twine dangling from overhead, weighted decades ago by a lead swivel sinker from somebody’s tackle box. A single bulb lit the space dimly, but the light was sufficient to make Hunt’s point. The roomy closet was lined with thick slabs of knotty pine, the golden color deepened with age to the hue of maple syrup.
Gillian stepped forward, ran her palm across the smooth wall, her face giving away her appreciation of the reclaimed timbers.
“I hadn’t given this closet any attention. Is this the same wood?”
Hunt nodded. “When the drilling derrick at Temple One was torn down to make room for a mechanical horse-head pump, Pap hauled the lumber here to be used in the construction of his home.”
“So, Mason Dixon Temple was a conservationist before conservation was cool.”
“I guess that’s as good a way to put it as any. How about if we hang those doors here? I presume you plan to offer an in-kitchen dining experience, and this pantry could be a focal point with an interesting story.”
“To be honest, I hadn’t considered the idea of special seating in the kitchen but I understand it’s become quite popular. If we include that in the plan, won’t the diners be in your way?”
“We’ll have plenty of additional space once that far wall is blown out to accommodate the walk-in cooler.” He pointed toward the row of windows she’d marked for demolition to expand the footprint. “We’ll put seating for eight along the south wall, and the pine pantry will be storage for our selection of fine wines. A dinner party in our kitchen will be on every hostess’s wish list for the New Year.”
The nod of her head was nearly imperceptible, but it was enough. He’d scored a point. She stepped into the open space he’d envisioned for the prep stations and cooking surfaces.
“Have you given any thought to the layout of the countertops and appliances?”
It took every shred of manners his mama taught him to hold back the rude response that rushed to his lips. Gillian Moore wasn’t stupid, and he was pretty sure she wasn’t downright mean. He could only surmise it hadn’t crossed the woman’s mind that he’d wandered the halls of Temple Territory for countless hours, dreaming and planning of what he’d do with the place. But he’d never imagined it would all be for somebody else.
“I’ve laid out this kitchen nine ways from Friday and I’ve planned out exactly how it should operate. I’ve been remodeling it in my mind since I was sixteen and fried my first green tomato.”
“Then why didn’t you make it happen yourself?” There was annoyance in the way she barked the question.
“I never imagined anybody would make the investment in this place, given its reputation.” Hearing his excuse made Hunt feel like the whiner his brothers had accused him of being that very same morning.
“Well, you were wrong. It only took me one walk-through to realize this property could be spectacular.”
“So you’ve already told me.” He scuffed his hand through his hair, Gillian’s aggravation spilling over to him. “Just give me the budget and I’ll get the best return for your investment.”
She retrieved a notepad from her purse, flipped over a few pages and then held it up so Hunt could read the bottom-line figure, circled in red ink. “We must stay within that amount.”
Hunt exhaled a soft whistle. He’d be bitter about her ability to exercise such generosity if he wasn’t going to enjoy spending the rich girl’s money.
“Well, can you make it work?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He feigned uncertainty. “There’s wiggle room, of course.”
“None whatsoever.” She flipped her notepad closed and poked it into her bag. “I don’t intend to rob Peter to pay Paul during this project. I’ve worked this budget out with my financial advisor nine ways from Friday, as you so eloquently put it. There’s no reason we can’t open Moore House on schedule and without breaking the bank.”
Moore House. Cold chills rippled up Hunt’s spine each time he heard the name. Surely the sensation was caused by Pap rolling over in his unmarked grave.
* * *
MOORE HOUSE. JUST the mention of it comforted Gillian like a thick quilt on a bleak winter day. Her parents’ investment of their years of vigilant saving simply had to bear fruit, and in a big way. There could be no other outcome, or her folks would be working the rest of their lives, and she’d never hear the end of it from her father.
Gillian loved the hospitality business and would work in corporate service if there was no other choice. But caring for her own guests under her own roof was her dream.
She’d been short with Hunt just now about his ambitions, but the man had dragged his feet and let a golden opportunity pass him by. That was his issue. She had plenty of her own.
Highest on the list was to meet her grand opening deadline to make the most of the holiday season. To do it, she’d personally have to watch every penny, and that meant keeping a close eye on Hunt. Everything he put on his inventory list had to be absolutely necessary and the best value possible. She’d drive a rental truck to Dallas and pick up the stainless-steel appliances herself if it would save a buck.
“You’re the boss,” Hunt reminded Gillian, returning her attention to their discussion. “Far be it from me to argue if you want to cut corners.”
“You can’t be serious.” His crooked smirk revealed that