Or maybe he’d pick up a pizza and take it over to Brooke’s house.
The latter was definitely the more appealing option, except that it would be a violation of her rules.
He should be satisfied that he’d had her in his bed and move on. Except that he wasn’t ready to move on, and he didn’t believe she was, either. His reputation aside, he wasn’t really a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. Maybe he hadn’t had many long-term relationships, but he wasn’t in the habit of moving directly from one woman to the next, either. Well, not since college, anyway. After his breakup with Kari, he’d perhaps been a little indiscriminate in his effort to forget her betrayal.
But that was a lot of years ago. He’d not only got over Kari, he’d moved on—again and again.
Or maybe he hadn’t been as over his cheating ex as he’d wanted to believe, because although he’d dated some really great women since then, he’d never let himself get too attached to anyone. He’d never even been tempted. Until now.
Until Brooke.
* * *
It wasn’t until Brooke got home and looked in the refrigerator for something to eat that she realized she’d forgotten to stop at The Trading Post. The mostly bare shelves would definitely need to be stocked before her son came home the following day, but she didn’t feel up to the task of grocery shopping tonight.
Her stomach growled in protest, as if aware that she didn’t have the usual option of going next door to see what her mom was cooking because her parents were out of town with Brendan. She’d been happy enough to send her son off with his grandparents because she knew he’d have a great time in Cedar Hills with his cousins. She hadn’t considered how empty the apartment would seem or how lonely she’d be without him.
Of course, she hadn’t really missed him the night before, because Patrick had kept her completely and thoroughly distracted. So much so that her body ached all over, and she shivered as she remembered the way he’d touched and kissed her, eliciting shockingly intense responses from her body.
But that was last night.
Tonight, she was on her own. And instead of focusing on how quiet the apartment was without her little boy, she decided to take advantage of the solitude to do the things she didn’t usually do when she had a curious seven-year-old underfoot.
She started by indulging in a long bath with mountains of frothy bubbles and scented candles. She even poured herself a glass of her favorite pinot noir—or half a glass, as that was all that was left in the bottle—and savored each sip.
But then the half glass of wine started to give her bad ideas—such as texting Patrick to inquire about his not-at-all colicky horse. Thankfully, she was sober enough to realize that kind of overture might seem like a booty call.
Which, of course, it would be.
Because apparently one passion-filled night after eight years of celibacy wasn’t enough for her.
Well, it was going to have to be, she admonished herself as she released the tub stopper. Because she’d made the rules and now she had to play by them.
She reached for a towel and rubbed it briskly over her body, ignoring the way her nipples tingled in response to the brush of the soft cotton, teasing her with memories of a different touch.
As she tugged on a pair of leggings and a shirt, her stomach growled again, reminding her that a half glass of wine was no substitute for dinner. She should probably go out to pick up something from Diggers’ or a slice of Jo’s pizza, but both options would require her to put on real clothes and leave her warm apartment, neither of which appealed to her. Which meant that she was going to have to be satisfied with frozen pizza tonight.
Brooke had just set the oven to preheat when there was a knock at the door. She didn’t often get company, and nine times out of ten, when someone did knock on her door, it was either her mom or her dad. The tenth time it was usually the boy across the street, wanting to know if Brendan could come out and play.
Since she knew it couldn’t be either of her parents and it was too late for Russell to be out, she peeked through the peephole before opening the door. Her heart jolted inside her chest when she identified her unexpected visitor as the cowboy of her fantasies.
She lifted a hand to push her hair—still damp from her bath—away from her face and considered pretending that she wasn’t home. She definitely wasn’t prepared for company. She had no makeup on and hadn’t even bothered with a bra because she was alone.
Patrick knocked again, a little louder, making her realize the futility of pretending she wasn’t there when her vehicle was in plain sight in the driveway. And truthfully, she really wanted to invite him in.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
His gaze skimmed over her, from the thick wool socks on her feet to the damp mass of hair spilling over her shoulders. “You look like you’re settled in for the night,” he remarked, the corners of his mouth curling with the hint of a smile.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” she said, hating that he’d caught her so unprepared when he looked so darn good.
“It was an observation, not a criticism,” he assured her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her gaze shifting from the handsome man to the grocery bag he carried.
“I came into town to grab a bite and it occurred to me that, after a day of surgeries, you might not feel up to cooking.”
“I didn’t, which is why I was just going to throw a frozen pizza in the oven,” she said.
“Or I could make you my to-die-for grilled cheese instead,” he suggested.
“I thought that was a second-date meal.”
“So we’ll consider this our second date,” he said.
She opened the door wider to allow him entry, because any kind of grilled cheese shared with the handsome cowboy was better than eating alone—especially if she could have him for dessert.
Except that they’d agreed to one night together and that night was over, she reminded herself.
So why was he here now—offering to cook for her again and calling it a second date? she challenged herself.
Oblivious to her inner struggle, Patrick held up the six-pack in his other hand. “I brought beer, too.”
“Good call,” she said. “Because the only beverages I could offer are tap water, milk approaching its best-before date or juice boxes.”
“What kind of juice boxes?” he asked, making her smile.
“Apple, grape or fruit punch.”
“I think I’ll start with a beer,” he decided, following her into the small kitchen and setting the grocery bag and beverages on the island.
“Do you want a glass?” she asked.
“Bottle’s fine for me,” he said, twisting the top off one and offering it to her.
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I already had half a glass of wine and I’m on call this weekend.”
He put the bottle down and began to unpack the groceries: a loaf of twelve-grain bread, a stick of butter, three different kinds of cheese, a small bottle of honey and a plastic bag with green leaves in it.
She lifted a brow.
“I brought that from home,” he said. “Because The Trading Post doesn’t usually have fresh basil.”
“What’s the basil for?” she asked. “And the honey?”
“Why don’t you sit down and relax while I make dinner?” he suggested.
“Because now my curiosity is piqued as much as my appetite,” she said.
He put his hands on her shoulders and steered her toward the living room. “Go.”
“You’re bossy,” she told him.
“And you’re nosy.”
Instead of arguing, she retreated to the living room to relax, as he’d suggested.
She could hear drawers and doors opening and closing as he rummaged around for the equipment he needed, but he didn’t
ask for help, so she didn’t offer it. It was a strange experience to have someone else preparing food in her kitchen, but not an unpleasant one. And as the scent of grilled bread made its way to the living room, her stomach growled in anticipation.
A short while later, he carried a tray into the living room with sandwiches and drinks. “Is it okay to eat in here?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’s a little roomier and definitely more comfortable than the kitchen.”
“I like your place,” he said, as he set a glass of water and a plate in front of her.
“It’s small,” she acknowledged. “But it works for me and Brendan.”
“It’s cozy and warm,” he countered. “And—” his gaze narrowed on the antique sideboard her mother had refinished and Brooke was using as a TV stand “—is that a Chippendale?”
She nodded. “One of my mother’s flea-market finds. It was painted mint green when she brought it home.”
“She’s got a good eye,” he remarked.
“So do you,” Brooke noted. “Not a lot of guys recognize specific furniture styles.”
“My parents have a lot of Chippendale furniture at their place,” he said.
And not a single piece that had come from a flea market, Brooke surmised, as she lifted half of the grilled cheese to her mouth and took a bite.
“Ohmygod.” She closed her eyes as she chewed, savoring the contrasting flavors and textures, with just a hint of sweetness. “This is sooo good.”
“That’s what you said last night,” he said.
Her eyes popped open then, and he winked boldly, making her blush.
“I did not,” she protested, though she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t.
“Maybe not in those words,” he said. “But I read between the lines of your moans and whimpers.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have to worry about listening to a repeat performance,” she responded in a prim tone.
He grinned, unrepentant. “What if I said that I love the noises you make when I touch you? That they’re an incredible turn-on? And that I’ve been walking around in a semi-aroused state all day thinking about your body shuddering beneath mine?”
“I’d think that maybe this grilled cheese was just a prelude to a booty call,” she said. “Was it?”
“That’s entirely up to you,” he said. “But since you made it clear that you weren’t going to come back out to the Silver Star tonight, I thought I’d come here.”
“You have to know it isn’t location that’s the problem.”
“After last night, I’m having a little trouble believing that there is a problem.”
“I’m not the kind of woman who has affairs, Patrick.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that once or twice before,” he said.
“And you’re not the kind of man who does relationships,” she said.
“Not according to the rumor mill in town,” he agreed.
“And as a single mom of an impressionable seven-year-old son, I don’t want to add any grist to that mill.”
“I know how to be discreet, if that’s your concern,” he assured her.
“Patrick, you can be with any woman you want.”
“And I want you,” he said.
She sighed, both flattered and frustrated by his obstinacy. “Do you really? Or do you just want to be the one who walks away when a relationship is over?”
“Trust me,” he said. “This isn’t about ego. It’s about attraction. I’m here now because I still want you so much I can’t seem to think about anything else.”
“Trust doesn’t come easily to me,” she admitted.
“He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
Brooke knew he was referring again to the man who’d got her pregnant. And though she really didn’t want to discuss her romantic history—limited though it was—she realized that telling him at least a little bit about her past might be the easiest way to make him understand why she was so wary.
“He wasn’t the only one,” she said. “Every time I’ve let myself rely on a man, I’ve been let down. And not just in romantic relationships, either.”
“Tell me,” he said. “I’ll take names, track them down and beat them up.”
She smiled at that. “Well, first there was Hayden Reed, who, in fourth grade, offered to trade his yogurt tube for my string cheese and then ate both snacks.”
“We’re going back that far, are we?” he remarked, sounding amused.
“You asked,” she reminded him. “Next came Christian Harvick, my lab partner in biology, who didn’t bother to do his part of our joint assignment, forcing me to do it so we both didn’t get a zero. Then Mr. Olerud, the high school volleyball coach.”
“I remember Mr. Olerud,” he said.
“He cut me from the team in my junior year in favor of a transfer student, not because Analise was a better player than me but because her father offered to buy new uniforms for the team.”
“That sucks,” he agreed.
But she wasn’t done yet.
“Dr. Etherington was one of my professors at college,” she continued. “He docked me five marks for throwing up during a dissection when I was ten weeks pregnant, because if I couldn’t stomach the job, I shouldn’t be there.
“And then there’s my brother Nathan—a plastic surgeon in LA—who changed his mind about coming to Brendan’s baptism at the eleventh hour because an A-list celebrity wanted a consult. On a Sunday afternoon.”
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.
“Kevin and Vanessa—my other brother and sister-in-law—were there, though. Proudly standing up as godparents for their nephew, along with my best friend, Lori. And my parents, of course.” She set her empty plate on the table. “My dad’s the one man who’s always been there for me.”
“I can see why you have some trust issues,” he acknowledged. “But you can count on me, Brooke. Because I won’t ever make you any promises I don’t intend to keep.”
And maybe, for right now, that was enough, Brooke thought, as he dipped his head to touch his mouth to hers.
Because right now, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. More. She parted her lips for the searching thrust of his tongue, her fingers digging into his strong, broad shoulders, holding on to him for balance as the world tilted and spun. And that was before his hands slid under her top, and he groaned against her lips when he found her breasts unfettered. He cupped them in his palms, his thumbs teasing her nipples so that she whimpered.
“If you want me to go, tell me now,” he urged.
“I don’t want you to go,” she admitted. “But you can’t leave your truck in my driveway all night.”
“I’d ask if you have nosy neighbors, but this is Haven and you have neighbors, so enough said.”
She nodded, grateful for his understanding.
“What time do I have to leave to minimize the gossip?” he asked.
“You don’t have to leave. You just have to park in the garage.”
“I’ll be right back,” he promised.
* * *
After they made love, Brooke drifted off in his arms. And while Patrick was happy to hold her, his stomach was thinking it wanted another sandwich. Carefully untangling their limbs, he slipped out of her bed, pulling the covers up over her so she wouldn’t get cold in his absence.
He was sliding the grilled cheese out of the frying pan and onto a plate when she appeared in the kitchen. Her eyes were sleepy, her hair disheveled, and while he hadn’t really expected that she would wander through her apartment naked, he was disappointed to see that she’d pulled an oversize T-shirt on to cover up her sexy body.
“I was hungry,” he said, as he sliced the sandwich in half.
“And I was thirsty,” she told him.
“Do you want hal
f of this?” he offered.
“No, thanks,” she said, reaching into the cupboard for a glass.
As she stretched, the hem of that T-shirt rode enticingly high on her thighs, and he felt his body stir. Was it normal, he wondered, to want a woman the way he wanted her? Or had she somehow entranced him?
He scowled at the thought as he bit into his sandwich.
“Although I meant to tell you that I agree with your sister,” she said, as she filled her glass from the pitcher in the fridge. “You do make a to-die-for grilled cheese.
“In fact, I was thinking that if you’re not successful in finding a cook for the Silver Star, you could handle the kitchen duties yourself. Omelets for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch and meat loaf for dinner.”
“Lucky for my guests, I did find a cook.”
“You did?”
He chewed another bite of sandwich. “And not just any cook, but a graduate of the International Culinary Center in New York currently working at a fancy restaurant in Seattle.”
“How’d you snag someone with those credentials?” she wondered.
“Melissa’s my cousin.”
“Ah.” Brooke nodded. “So when’s she coming to Haven?”
“She gave her two weeks’ notice last week, so I’d guess she’ll be here sometime the week after next.”
“You guess? Most people in business like to firm up those kinds of details.”
“I’m not worried,” he said. “There’s still lots of time before Memorial Day weekend.”
“So you’ve picked the date for your grand opening?”
He nodded.
“That’s fabulous news,” she said.
“In other news—” he set his empty plate aside and reached for her, drawing her into his arms “—my hunger for food has been satisfied, but not my desire for you.”
A Chance for the Rancher Page 13
