A Cowboy In The Kitchen. Meg Maxwell
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the expected conversation, to ask how long she was staying, if she was having a nice visit; West Montgomery wasn’t one for small talk.
He glanced at his watch and said, “Is your grandmother here? I need to sign up for her cooking class that starts tomorrow.” So much for pleasantries. For anything resembling regret for how he’d treated her.
Annabel couldn’t help staring at him, her gaze going to the one dimple. The man was impossibly good-looking, so good-looking she almost missed what he said.
“You want to sign up for the cooking class?” she asked. West in a kitchen. She couldn’t even imagine it. Her grandmother had been offering cooking classes every season in their big country kitchen for as long as Annabel could remember. When Annabel was in middle school, her older sister had pointed out that Gram had to start the cooking classes to make extra money because she’d taken in her three orphaned granddaughters. Annabel had started helping out in the kitchen from that day forward.
He glanced past her at the counter, where ingredients for Gram’s Famed Country Biscuits and homemade apple butter were spread out. “Is there room in the class?” He held up the checkbook. “I’ll pay double if it’ll get me in.”
Double? What was that about? “Actually we had to cancel the spring session. My gram’s not well and is getting lots of tests done.” At the thought of her beloved grandmother, Essie, collapsing in the kitchen, the weight of a pan of grits suddenly too heavy for the fit seventy-five year old, Annabel closed her eyes for a moment, worry and fear snaking their way inside. She should have been here. Instead she’d been hours away in Dallas, trying to make her life work—for seven years. She could feel the guilt flaming her cheeks and turned away.
He took off his hat and held it against his chest. “That’s why you’re back,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about your grandmother. A few months ago, I ran into her in the supermarket when I was buying a birthday cake for my daughter. I told her my attempt caved in on itself, and she told me to put the store cake back, that she’d bake one for me. I tried to tell her that wasn’t necessary, but she insisted and asked what my daughter’s favorite things were. The next morning she brought over a cake in the shape of a tree, decorated with green leaves, branches, crab apples and a climbing girl all set in icing. Lucy flipped. She still talks about her birthday cake.”
That was Gram. Always helping, always going the extra mile. Annabel smiled at her grandmother’s kindness, but at his little girl’s name, her chest tightened. Though she’d only been back to Blue Gulch for holidays and birthdays, she’d once run into West’s heavily pregnant wife at the grocery store and another time she’d seen West with a toddler on his shoulders at a parade, a little girl with huge hazel eyes and wisps of dark hair like her daddy’s. Lucy must be six now.
She headed back to the counter and gave the biscuit batter a stir. “Why do you want to take a cooking class?” she asked to change the subject.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him, looking everywhere but at her. “I need to learn some basics. Omelets, fried chicken, maybe chicken salad with the leftovers for sandwiches. That kind of thing. And biscuits like your grandmother makes.”
She noticed he didn’t answer the question. “Your wife could teach you that, I’m sure,” she said like an idiot, the face of Lorna Dunkin Montgomery pushing into her mind. Of all the beautiful young women in town, the guy of Annabel’s dreams had fallen for the meanest, the ringleader of the group back in high school that had dubbed Annabel “Geekabel” and made her feel ashamed of her scrawny figure, frizzy reddish-brown hair and home-sewn clothes, and how foolish she’d been to even dare have a secret crush on a boy like West. Back then, Annabel had had exactly two conversations with West, both making clear that the maverick in the black leather jacket and combat boots, his hair slightly too long, was as complicated and kindhearted as he was absolutely gorgeous. But falling for Lorna? Marrying her? She’d never gotten that. And she’d never gotten over it either.
A few months after her...moment with West in his barn, she’d happened on the bride and groom coming out of the church, their families throwing rice. He must have gotten her pregnant, she remembered meanly thinking, to marry her after just a few months of dating. Gram had brought her tissues and homemade fudge brownie ice cream, and by the end of their conversation Essie Hurley had convinced Annabel to accept the scholarship she’d been offered to a culinary school in Dallas—her dream—rather than stay in town to help Gram with the restaurant. Maybe Annabel would come back to Blue Gulch; maybe she wouldn’t, Gram had said. Follow your heart, wherever it leads. She’d wanted to come back home, cook for Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen, maybe add a bit of city to the menu here and there to bring in business from the fancy steak house that had opened a few doors down. But then she’d seen pregnant Lorna. Seen West with his little girl and couldn’t imagine watching the man she loved with another woman, a child. And so she’d stayed in Dallas, where she didn’t belong.
“Lorna was killed in a car accident a little over a year ago,” West said, his gaze going to his watch.
Shame at how she’d remembered his late wife came over her. “I’m very sorry, West. For you and your daughter.” Annabel had heard through her grandmother that West’s parents had died from smoke inhalation in a fire not too long after she went to cooking school. He’d lost his brother, his parents, his wife. So much loss at such a young age.
He held up his checkbook. “I made it out to Essie already. I realize you probably don’t have a lot of time between the restaurant and seeing to your grandmother, but maybe you could squeeze in a lesson or two?”
Why was it so important that he learn how to make an omelet and a chicken salad sandwich?
She could help him out. A quick look at the books late last night made it clear that Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen had been losing money left and right the past six months—probably when Gram’s health started failing. Essie had kept it a secret from everyone, even Clementine, Annabel’s younger sister, who worked as a waitress at the restaurant. Annabel could use the money to keep inventory up, at least. For a few days anyway. Again she wondered if her older sister, Georgia, would come home. A businesswoman in Houston, Georgia was sorely needed at the restaurant to run the office, manage the financials. But she hadn’t responded to Clementine’s or Annabel’s calls for two days now.
“Hattie, Gram’s assistant cook, could probably teach you,” Annabel said, realizing that despite needing his three hundred dollars for the six-week course, she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with him in close quarters, reminded of the night they’d shared, how she’d almost given all of herself to him and how he’d taken up with Lorna Dunkin the next day.
The next day. All over each other on the flat-topped boulder near where she went to pick herbs every afternoon. Their rock. She’d seen them with her own eyes.
Annabel turned away for a moment, chastising herself for how much it still stung, still hurt.
“Please, Annabel. I’m desperate.”
“Desperate to learn to make biscuits?” she snapped before she could catch herself. Seven years ago was seven years ago. You’re not eighteen and he’s not nineteen. He’s a widower, for Pete’s sake. A single father. And for some reason, he is desperate to learn to make biscuits.
He frowned as he stared at her. “Will you teach me to cook or not?” The hat went back on. “You can condense the class if you want, an hour a few times a week for two weeks, early in the morning before opening or after closing—whenever’s convenient.” He took a pen from his back pocket, filled out another check, and held it out to her. “A thousand dollars. Please, Annabel.”
A thousand dollars? Oh, heck. That she couldn’t turn down. You’ll get through it, she told herself. You’ll show him how to roast a chicken and cut up potatoes and that’ll be that. No big whoop. She glanced at him, then began stirring the biscuit batter even though it had thickened too much and was a lost cause. “The restaurant is closed on Mondays, so we might as well take advantage of using the kitchen. Be here at six sharp tomorrow. I’ll assume you don’t have your own apron.”
His