A Cowboy's Christmas Wedding. Pamela Britton
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a plate full of chicken. Once his belly was full, it was hard to resist the urge to hide in his office for the rest of the night, but a beep on his phone, followed by a voice announcing, “I’m done,” preempted the notion. Someone had taught her to use the intercom system. Great.
He took his time walking down the steps that ran alongside the back wall of the feed room. The smell of sweetened oats filled his nose, and the quiet nickering of horses soothed his frayed nerves. The twelve-stall barn was only a couple of years old, built when they opened the ranch to visitors, and it housed the horses they used for their therapy program. Fluorescent lights hung from the middle of the barn aisle. Horse heads popped up one by one as he walked by. They’d installed an arena off the front, and to his left and out back behind the barn stretched acres and acres of pasture, but for now he headed right and toward the pathway that led to his house. Through the tall pines he could make out his study light, and above that, Rana’s bedroom light. She must have left it on. Darn kid. One of these days he was going to make her pay the power bill.
That sweater of Saedra’s really did hug her every curve. He had occasion to notice the moment he walked in the door, since the woman all but bounded out of the kitchen and into the foyer. What the sweater didn’t cover, skintight black leggings did, the ends tucked into lamb’s fleece and brown suede boots.
“I hope you like sweets.”
Only if she was on the menu.
He winced. She didn’t seem to notice—she was too busy motioning toward the kitchen and the pink boxes, which she’d moved onto the bar-height kitchen table. “I thought we could listen to the music I downloaded earlier while you do some tasting.”
“Terrific.”
He couldn’t have sounded more sarcastic if he tried. He knew that. Told himself to lighten up a bit. He’d morphed into some kind of computer program that went into nasty default mode whenever she stood near.
“Okay, here we go.” His tone of voice didn’t appear to get her down. If anything, she seemed to perk up even more, even waved her iPod at him. “Let me just plug this into the player I brought down earlier.” She spun toward a long counter that separated the kitchen from his family room. Two seconds later the soft voice of Clint Black filled the room. She turned back to him with a smile. “You like that?”
“I think it’s more important that Trent and Alana like it.”
“I know, but Trent loves this song, and I just wondered if Alana might like it, too.”
“If it’s country, she’ll like it.”
“Perfect.” She patted the back of a bar stool. “Now sit.”
He cocked his head. “Just cut me a slice and I’ll taste.”
“Nope.” She opened one of the pink boxes. “We’re going to have some fun while you do this.”
“Fun?”
When she faced him again, long blond hair shimmering, she seemed on the verge of a laugh. “Yes. You remember what fun is, don’t you?”
“Of course.” What kind of person did she think he was? “I just don’t see what it has to do with tasting cake.”
“It turns out there’s a plethora of bakers in the area. Most of them were kind enough to whip something up for me today given the short notice, so I need you to tell me which of the six cakes you like.”
“Six?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve already made my choice. Now it’s your turn.”
He scouted the table. “Where’s a fork?”
“Oh, no. I don’t want you to see who’s made what in case you know these people. I want only the best for Alana and Trent.”
“What? You think I’d choose a cake because it’s someone I know?”
“You might play favorites, and so I’m going to blindfold you.”
He gaped, but only for a moment. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Come on.”
She couldn’t be serious.
He glanced at the cake in question. “Just pull them out of the boxes so I can’t tell which one came from which store.”
She seemed startled by his suggestion. She, too, glanced at the boxes before turning back to him with a frown. “What’s the fun in that?” And she sounded so disappointed it was almost comical. “C’mon.” She tipped her head sideways and gave him a look meant to charm him into cooperating. “You need to loosen up. Even Rana thought it was a good idea.”
“Then I suggest you play pin the tail on the cake batter with Rana.”
She plopped down in the chair next to him, and if he were honest with himself, he could admit to feeling just a little bad about spoiling her mood. Just a little.
“Okay, fine. Open your mouth.”
“Excuse me?”
She picked up a fork, opened one of the boxes, then stabbed a piece of cake. “Open.”
“I’m not three years old.”
“Of course not, but you’re still going to do a blind taste test. Well, sort of blind. Here. Open.”
She adopted such a look of ferocious determination that he found himself opening his mouth despite himself. Sugar and lemon and vanilla filled his mouth. Cabe suddenly felt self-conscious as he chewed.
“Tastes like cake.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Her left brow lifted. “Well?”
“I guess it’s okay.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Wow. What a ringing endorsement. Okay. Next.”
Before she could stuff another forkful in his mouth, he lifted a hand. “Why don’t you and Rana just decide?”
“Because you’re a part of this wedding, too, and with Trent and Alana not here, we’re it. So, open.”
Once again, he did as instructed even though a voice inside his head told him to put his foot down. Utter nonsense.
But the piece of cake she fed him was good.
“Oooh. You like that one, don’t you?”
“Wait,” he said through a mouth full of white cake with some kind of strawberry frosting that was so good he wanted another bite. “What makes you think I like it?”
She reached for another box. “You’re like a newspaper. I can read the headlines from a mile away. Here’s another one.”
How the hell did she do it? How had she gotten him to eat—almost literally—out of her hand, and why was he fighting so hard to keep his face free of expression as he tasted the next piece?
“You don’t like that one, either. Okay. Next.”
“What?” He swallowed. Actually, he almost gagged. Ugh. Nasty, greasy frosting. “You didn’t even give me time to taste it.”
“I could tell the minute your mouth closed, and I don’t blame you for disliking that one. I didn’t like it, either.”
“Ah,” he muttered. “So you’re the one that’s biased. See. You should just decide for me.”
“I’m not biased. Some of the cakes I really liked and other ones I didn’t. Rana, too. You’re the tiebreaker.”
She held up the fork again. He eyed the piece she was about to feed him. After that last one, he should be more cautious.
“I’m not a big fan of cream fillings,” he admitted, eyeing the white cake and white frosting.
“Me, neither, but taste it just the same. You might