Reese's Wild Wager. Barbara McCauley
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table. “Or maybe I’ll have you put on a tux and wait on tables. There are plenty of people who’d pay to see that.”
“Not as many who would pay to see you wearing a wench outfit toting a load of drinks.” Reese shoved his chips across the table. “Hell, I’d give a month’s salary for that, myself.”
They stared at each other, neither one flinching.
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Reese raised one corner of his mouth.
Sydney laid her cards on the table without even looking at them. Reese glanced down. Without any expression at all, he laid his hand down, too.
Breath held, she slowly lowered her gaze.
Three tens.
And a one-eyed jack.
Four of a kind.
Her breath shuddered out of her. She felt a pounding in her head, as if her skull were a tin drum and someone was beating on it. Boomer, who’d started this whole business in the first place, lay under the table, softly snoring.
But she could hardly blame the dog for her own stupidity.
“We don’t open until ten tomorrow,” Reese said cheerfully. “But show up at eight to get ready for Sunday breakfast. The Philadelphia Gazette ran an article about the tavern winning the Chamber of Commerce award, so I’m expecting a crowd.”
Numbly, she rose from the table, every limb stiff and cold. She’d lost. Dear Lord. Two weeks. She had to work for Reese Sinclair for two entire weeks. Under his “personal supervision” as he’d put it.
She couldn’t think right now. Couldn’t let Reese see how completely humiliated she was.
She’d never let anyone see her like that again.
“All right, then.” Drawing in a deep breath, she tightened the belt of her robe. “Eight o’clock it is.”
“Sydney.” Reese shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t think I was serious about this, do you? I was just having some fun.”
She lifted her chin and narrowed a cold look at him, praying he wouldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking. “That’s just one difference between you and me, Reese. Everything’s a big lark to you, a game. You don’t take anything seriously, where as I intend to honor my bet and the deal we made. I said I’d be here at eight, and I will.”
A muscle jumped in Reese’s jaw, and she watched as his eyes darkened. “Have it your way, Syd,” he said with a shrug. “Just remember if it gets too rough for you, that I gave you an out.”
“I can handle whatever you dish out,” she said in a voice so serene it surprised even her. “What remains to be seen is if you can handle me.”
His brow shot up at that, and she simply smiled, turned on her muddy, slippered feet and walked calmly out the door.
She intended to give Reese Sinclair two weeks in his life that he’d never forget.
Two
Sunday was the only morning that Reese allowed himself to sleep in. He cherished that day, was grateful that he had a manager like Corky to come in early, start the coffee brewing, the grills heating, and the cinnamon rolls baking. Squire’s Tavern and Inn was well-known not only for their hamburgers and pizza, but also for their breakfasts—plump sausages, country potatoes, biscuits that melted in your mouth and eggs so fresh they were still warm from the nest. He loved the smells and the sounds of his business: the food grilling, people laughing, having a good time while they ate and talked.
It reminded him of meals in his house when he was a kid. With five kids at the table—four of them boys—you had to yell to be heard over dinner in the Sinclair house. His father had always joined in with his children’s antics, while his mother frowned and made a convincing effort to keep order. But as strict and rigid as she’d tried to be, they’d have her laughing and acting silly right along with the rest of them before the meal was over.
He missed those meals almost as much as he missed his parents. Twelve years had passed since the car accident that had taken them both. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday, other times it seemed like an eternity.
Yawning, he rolled into the softness of the mattress and his pillow, cracked one eye open to glance at the bedside clock. Eight o’clock. He frowned and slammed his eye closed again, shutting out the early-morning light that poured through the open slats of his wooden blinds. He was up every other morning by six, but he never woke up before nine-thirty on Sunday. He still had an hour and a half to go, and he intended to savor every minute of it. The cottage he lived in was directly behind the tavern, a redbrick carriage house he’d converted into living quarters after he’d bought the abandoned tavern and completely renovated it four years ago. He was close enough to his business to handle whatever problems might arise, but it offered enough privacy for him to have alone time when he needed it. Or to entertain company.
Specifically, female company.
He was a man who fully appreciated women. The female gender, with their exotic smells and delicious curves, fascinated him almost as much as they intrigued him. They were complicated and mysterious; sweet and coy one minute, difficult and confusing the next. An absolute enigma that completely enchanted him.
Fortunately for him, women enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed theirs. He understood the game well enough to know that, as an unattached male, he was open season for all the single women. But he was honest and up front with every woman he dated: he wasn’t looking for marriage. Still, they had a way of pausing at jewelry-store windows, dragging him to movies that included at least one wedding, and somehow ending up in the department store housewares section, specifically china and silver.
But he was content with his life exactly as it was. He loved his business and his freedom. No one telling him what to do or when to do it. He never had to answer to anyone. No complications, no problems—
He buried his head in his pillow and groaned.
Except for Sydney Taylor.
Damn.
Sydney was one big problem.
He’d really never expected her to take him seriously when he’d made that bet with her, and he’d certainly never expected her to know how to play poker, let alone be so good at the game. But if there was one thing predictable about Sydney, it was the fact that she was unpredictable. He knew he never should have challenged her like that, but once he had, and she’d refused to back down, he couldn’t just walk away. A guy had his pride, after all, and Sydney had tweaked his.
Knowing the woman, she was probably in the kitchen with Corky right now, telling him what to do and how to do it. Corky would have a fit about that, Reese knew. The man had been in the New York restaurant business for twenty-five years before he’d given up the fast pace of the big city and moved to Bloomfield. He’d applied for the position of chief cook and bottle washer one week before Squire’s Tavern and Inn had opened its doors. For the past four years, Corky had been more like a partner to Reese than an employee, and even more, he’d been a good friend.
But Corky was particular about his kitchen. He had his own way of doing things. He wouldn’t like Sydney messing with his pots and pans. Reese could see her now, with that stubborn little chin of hers pointed at Corky while she informed him of the proper method of cracking an egg or peeling a potato. That long, slender neck stretched high as she swished him out of her way. That sassy mouth giving orders.
Reese had known Sydney most of his life, but had never noticed before last night what a perfect mouth she had. Her lips were wide and full, rosy pink. She didn’t know she did it, but every time she’d have a mediocre hand, she’d catch that lush bottom lip of hers between her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and nibble. More than once, that little action had distracted him. Then he’d remind himself he was thinking lustful thoughts about Sydney, of all people, and force his mind back to the game.
But