Totally Texan. Mary Baxter Lynn
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this lifetime.
“Sure.” Ruth’s tone was a tad cynical. “You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”
Kelly laughed again. “Gotta run. I just heard the buzzer.”
Before Ruth could reply, Kelly hung up. Setting her smile in place, she came from behind the counter, only to pull up short and stare. Later, she didn’t know why she had behaved in such a manner. Perhaps it was because he was so tall and handsome.
Or better yet, perhaps it was the way he was looking at her.
Was this the “hunk” Ruth had just told her about?
To her chagrin, the stranger’s dark blue eyes began at the tip of her toes and worked slowly upward, missing nothing of her trim frame. He gave a pointed glance at her breasts and hair, making her strangely glad she had recently placed highlights in her short, sherry-colored tresses.
When those incredible dark eyes whipped back up to hers, the air was charged with electricity. Stunned, Kelly realized she was holding her breath.
“Like what you see?” she asked before she thought. God, where had that come from? Her real job. Being bold and forward was what had pushed her to succeed in her profession.
The big guy grinned, a slow, sexy grin. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
For the first time since her husband’s death four years prior, Kelly was completely unnerved by a man’s stare. And voice. She sensed, however, this stranger wasn’t just any man. There was something special about him that commanded attention. Rugged was the word that came to mind.
She wasn’t used to seeing men in worn jeans, washed so much that their color had faded, plus a flannel shirt, scarred steel-toed boots and a hard hat in his hand. Even in Lane, this caliber of man was rare.
He was still staring at her. Kelly shifted her feet and tried to look away, but failed. That ruggedness seemed to go hand in hand with his six-foot-plus height, muscled body and slightly mussed, sun-kissed brown hair.
Big and dangerous. A treacherous combination.
God, what was she thinking? No matter how attractive or charming the man, she wasn’t interested. If so, she would’ve encouraged other men’s affections—in Houston. He was probably up to his armpits in women, anyway, even in Lane.
No man would ever measure up to her deceased husband, Eddie. Having drawn that conclusion, Kelly had concentrated on her career and made it her reason for living.
Breaking into the growing silence, she asked in her most businesslike tone, “What can I get you?”
“What’s the special today?” he asked in a deep, brusque voice that matched his looks.
Kelly cleared her throat, glad some normalcy had returned. “Coffee?”
“That’ll do for starters,” he responded, striding deeper into the shop, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
“The specials are on the board.” To her dismay, Kelly was rooted to the spot like a tongue-tied imbecile. Then, red-faced, she finally whipped her gaze to the board behind the counter, which always listed the day’s coffee and food specials.
“Not this time,” he drawled, “unless I’ve lost a day.” He paused. “Today’s Wednesday, not Tuesday. Right?”
Convinced her face matched the color of her hair, Kelly nodded. She hadn’t changed the sign, which under ordinary circumstances wouldn’t have been a big deal. But for some reason, this man’s comment made her feel inadequate, a condition she despised.
Shrugging her shoulders, Kelly gave him a sugary smile and said, “French vanilla latte is the coffee flavor for the day.”
He rubbed his chin for a moment, then frowned. “Too bad a fellow can’t just get a plain cup of joe?”
Realizing that he was teasing her, she kept that smile in place and said, “Sorry, this is not that kind of shop. But then you know that. So if it’s supermarket coffee you want, you’ll have to make your own.”
He chuckled. “I know.”
Despite her reluctance, she felt a grin toying with her lips.
“I’ll take the plain brew that’s closest to normal old coffee.”
When she returned with the cup and placed it in front of him, Kelly didn’t look at him, hoping to discourage further conversation. Despite his good looks, for some reason, this man made her uncomfortable, and she wanted no part of him. Still, she handed him a menu.
He glanced at it, laid it aside, then looked back up at her. “So you’re the new Ruth?”
“Hardly.”
“So where is she?”
“Out of state caring for her ailing mother.”
“You’re filling in, huh?”
“For a while, anyway.”
His thick eyebrows bunched together as his gaze locked on her again. “By the way, I’m Grant Wilcox.”
“Kelly Baker.”
Instead of offering his hand, he nodded. “A pleasure.”
Every time he spoke, she had a physical reaction to his voice. It was like being struck by something you thought would be severe and bruising, so that you recoiled inwardly. Only it wasn’t at all. It was pleasant, in fact.
“You from around here?” he asked after taking a long sip of his coffee.
“No,” Kelly said hesitantly. “Actually, I’m from Houston. How about yourself?”
“Not originally. But I am now. I live about ten miles west of town. I own a logging company and recently bought the timber on a huge tract of land. So I’m stuck in Lane. At least for the time being.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he was smiling now. “We’ve just started cutting, and I’m happy as a pig in the sunshine.”
Was he deliberately trying to sound like a hick or was he trying to tell her something by using that off-putting terminology? “That’s good,” she said for lack of anything else to say. Despite her reaction to Grant, intellectually she couldn’t care less what he was or what he did. So she asked if he’d like something to eat now.
As if he picked up on her attitude, a smirk crossed his lips, then he said, “I’ll have a bowl of soup and a warm-up on my coffee.”
All he needed to add was “little lady” to go with that directive. He definitely didn’t seem to be the world’s most progressive guy. Was it so obvious she was out of her comfort zone? Or was he just intuitive? It didn’t matter. What did matter was that his condescending manner not only infuriated her, but also made her more determined than ever to serve him with perfection.
Grabbing the pot from behind the counter, Kelly made her way back toward his table, a smile plastered on her lips. She picked up his cup, and that was when it happened. The cup slipped from her hand and its contents landed in Grant Wilcox’s lap. He let out a shout.
Speechless with horror, Kelly watched as he kicked back his chair and stood.
“I’d say that was a good shot, lady,” he said.
Though her empty hand flew to her mouth, Kelly’s eyes dipped south, where they became glued to the wet spot surrounding his zipper.
Then they both looked up at the same time, their gazes locking.
“Fortunately, none the worse for wear,” he drawled, a slow smile crawling across his lips.
Horrified, mortified—you name it—Kelly could only stammer, “Oh my God—I’m so sorry.” Her voice sounded nothing like her own. “Stay put and I’ll get a towel.”
Whirling, she