Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Copyright
Supper with the Hawkins Family
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to help my mother with supper.”
—Katherine Ann
“Let me get those biscuits for you, Mama.”
—Jimmy Ray
“Mama’s fried chicken is the best. And wait’ll you see what’s for dessert!”
—David John
Dinner with the Matthews Brood
“Smells like something died in here. Or maybe that’s...supper.”
—Kevin
“Yuck.”
—Mark
“I hate tuna!”
—Todd
Dear Reader,
His-and-Hers Family is a special book to me because family is special to me. Although it was small, I was very fortunate to grow up with a loving, close family. Through marriage I multiplied my relatives a hundred times over, learning how wonderful families of all sizes and types can be—from the typical Mom, Dad and kids to single parent and blended families.
As a Texas girl myself, I must admit it tugged on my heartstrings to make Cassie choose her tycoon over her homeland. But it was because of love that I relocated to the beautiful foothills of the Rocky Mountains. I’ve experienced firsthand the differences between city and country living and I’m confident that Cassie and Blake will find happiness anywhere they live—as long as they’re together.
I love to hear from you. Please write me at P.O. Box 996, Bountiful, UT 84011-0996.
Here’s to happy reading and the joy of your own special family.
HIS-AND-HERS FAMILY
BONNIE K. WINN
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Dedicated to my editors: Bonnie Crisalli, who shared the inspiration, and Huntley Fitzpatrick, who completed the vision. I’m grateful to you both for your unfailing generosity and support.
And to my agent, Jane Jordan Browne, who guides me through it all.
Every writer should have it so good.
Prologue
Twin Corners, Texas
Blake Matthews slammed the door of his rental car in frustration. Arriving that day in the small Texas oil town to close a business deal, he’d expected no problem finding a hotel room. Despite the concerns of his competent secretary in Los Angeles, he’d brushed aside her offers to make a reservation, preferring to get the lay of the land himself.
He hadn’t counted on Rodeo Days. The century-old celebration lasted for weeks and brought in visitors from surrounding areas and tourists from around the country. The limited number of hotels in town were full, and would be for the duration of his stay. And there wasn’t one thing his wealth or his influence—or his level of frustration—could do about the situation.
Blake glanced at the paper in his hand, directions to a boardinghouse that a sympathetic desk clerk had offered him. Since he’d now run out of both hotels and choices, Blake realized, it was a question of bunking down in either some quaint throwback boardinghouse or his car. And he didn’t relish the thought of cramping his six-foot-two frame into the back seat of a compact.
Resigned, Blake started the car. It didn’t take long to find the street or the boardinghouse in the small town. Minuscule town, he corrected himself. Blake critically examined the house as he got out of the car, noting that the white wooden exterior could definitely use a coat of paint.
The old Victorian house, larger than he’d expected, sprawled across a lot shaded by huge oak trees that he guessed were as old as the house. Steps led to a wraparound porch that ran the length of the house. Decorated with white wicker lounge chairs, an old-fashioned swing and a multitude of flowering plants, the place looked as though it had somehow missed the passing of the past one hundred years.
Sighing, Blake rang the bell. This ought to be some visit, staying in an archaic house that probably lacked not only comfort, but practical modern necessities such as a fax center and modem connections, as well. He wondered whether the owner was as archaic as the house.
The door swung open suddenly. A much youngerlooking woman than he’d expected stared at him for a moment before easing her generous mouth into a smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Cassandra Hawkins.”
“You’ve found her.”
Blake’s gaze skipped over her rapidly. Though she was not the gingham-aproned senior citizen he expected, she was certainly countrified in other ways. Dowdy, out-of-style clothing covered by a well-used apron, a freshscrubbed face without a shred of makeup, and hair that obviously had not seen a qualified stylist. They all screamed frumpy. She was no L.A. socialite, that was certain. Yet he was satisfied that she looked clean and respectable. Glancing beyond her, Blake saw that the house looked equally tidy.
“I understand you rent rooms, Ms. Hawkins.”
“Cassie,” she corrected him, in what Blake suspected was an automatic gesture. “I do rent rooms, Mr....”
“Matthews.”
“As I said, I do rent rooms, however, the house is full right now.”
The day’s frustrations whipped up Blake’s impatience. The steel he used in business negotiations flared in both his eyes and his voice. “Not to me, Ms. Hawkins.”
Chapter One
Cassie stared at the stranger on her front stoop while absently wiping soapy hands on her apron. Had she heard him correctly? Although the darkly handsome man exuded both success and arrogance, she doubted he intended to force his way inside. “Excuse me?”
“Ms. Hawkins, I am in Twin Corners to complete a vital business deal. As you probably know, all the hotels are full. I cannot expect to work at my optimum level if I’m forced to sleep in my car.”
Her gaze darted out to the rental car parked at the curb, then back to the stranger. Cassie’s conscience pricked her, along with the insistent training she’d received from her mother. Southerners, especially Texans, always extended a welcome, whether it was convenient or not. And in a community where neighbor still helped neighbor, the thought of leaving someone to sleep in his car was unthinkable.
Nibbling on her lip, Cassie felt her all-too-often easily swayed firmness start turning to mush. She could make room for him on the sofa, she supposed. She suppressed a sigh, and eased the door open a bit wider. “Come on in. Have a seat in the parlor. I’ll get some iced tea, and then we’ll figure out what we can come up with.”
Blake watched her tall, slim figure disappear as she pushed open a swinging door that led from the dining room into what he guessed was a kitchen. Parlor? Did anybody talk like that anymore?
Shaking his head, Blake stared at the furnishings. Although the highly polished wooden floor would be appreciated by contemporary standards, everything else seemed to come from another era.
He moved through the hall and into the room she’d indicated. It was even more unusually decorated. If he wasn’t mistaken, the stiff-backed sofa was upholstered in horsehair. He didn�
��t know pieces like these existed outside museums. Ornately carved handles and legs drew his eye, along with the red velvet of the massive chair angled close by. While the rugs were threadbare and the drapes just this side of shabby, the antique grace of the furniture was overwhelming. As were the seemingly genuine Tiffany lamps and the player piano.
He wondered why a young woman would choose to live in a home that was better suited to her great-grandparents. Looking around the unusual room, Blake sensed that telling anyone about the anachronistic boardinghouse would make him sound like the front page of a tabloid: Businessman Abducted By Out-Of-Step Aliens.
She returned with a tray that held large glasses, a pitcher, and an assortment of intriguing-looking cookies. Homemade, if he didn’t miss his guess.
After placing the tray on the claw-footed coffee table, she took a seat on the sofa, indicating that he join her. “Lemon or sugar?”
Blake sat down. “Both.”
To his amazement, she stirred in the sugar, instead of offering it to him, then added lemon. It reminded him of the old-fashioned teas his grandmother had served. Of course, those had been complete with sterling silver and Dresden china, but the manners were the same. When Cassie finished stirring, she offered him the glass of tea.
Then she extended the plate of cookies, tilting her head a bit, her face open and animated as she spoke. “Oatmeal raisin, that’s Jimmy Ray’s favorite. Peanut butter is David John’s, and the chocolate chip is Katherine Ann’s. I’m partial to the fruit-filled ones, myself.”
He looked at her blankly as she finished the monologue.
“They’re my children,” she explained. “I always say I’m only going to bake one kind of cookie at a time, but then I can’t decide whose favorite to make, so I wind up making them all.” She stared at him expectantly, then held the plate a bit closer. “Cookie?”
Wondering whether she always talked this much, he took one.
“Oatmeal raisin. Good choice. Won’t spoil your appetite. The fare’s plain, but it’s filling. Fried chicken tonight. And, of course, mashed potatoes and gravy. Matter of fact, I need to be starting the biscuits soon, and that oatmeal praline pie won’t bake itself. I got behind doing laundry and scrubbing floors.” Self-consciously she raised one hand to the scruffy knot of hair piled haphazardly on her head. “But then, I guess that shows.”
Blake cleared his throat, not yet having tasted his forgotten cookie. “We haven’t discussed the room arrangements. The rest isn’t necessary—I’ll eat my meals out.”
She waved a surprisingly delicate hand. “No need. The price includes meals, as well. No point wasting money when there’s a home-cooked meal.” She frowned suddenly, her gaze moving over him thoughtfully. “I imagine you’re used to fancy food. Fried chicken probably doesn’t sound like much.” Cassie smiled, a burst of white teeth and sunshine. Then she leaned toward him in a confidential manner. “’Course, the restaurant in town won’t have the kind of food you’re used to either. In fact, one meal there and you’ll be wishing you’d had the fried chicken.”
Feeling that he’d totally lost both control and the thread of their conversation, Blake put his glass of tea on the table and tried to organize thoughts that she’d managed to scatter in a thousand directions. “Ms. Hawkins, we need to discuss the room.”
“That Ms. thing is a big-city expression, isn’t it? Nobody around here uses it. You’re either single or married, no in between and no hiding it.” She waved her hands again. “And trust me, there are plenty who wouldn’t mind hiding it.”
His thoughts took flight again. She’d be an effective weapon in battle—she’d distract the enemy into defeat.
The door opened, and he heard a clatter of shoes at the front door, along with happy, young male voices.
“Jimmy Ray, David John, come into the parlor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused together.
Ma’am? Did kids still address their elders like that? If his children ever did, he’d probably drop dead of shock.
In seconds the boys were in the room, more subdued, yet at ease. The older, taller one was a male version of Cassie, right down to the easy smile. Blake guessed he was about fifteen, a surprise, since the Hawkins woman didn’t look over thirty. If that. The other one looked about five years younger, a freckle-faced towhead.
“Mr. Matthews, these are my sons, Jimmy Ray and David John. Boys, this is Mr. Matthews.”
Jimmy Ray stuck out his hand. Surprised, Blake rose, accepting the firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
As Blake managed a response, he shook hands with the younger boy.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” David John echoed.
Although the boys were both polite and grown-up, their grins were pure teenage mischief. Struck by their respect and manners, Blake took another look at their mother. Must be some sort of sense beneath all that babble.
“Mr. Matthews needs a place to stay. The house is full, but we’re trying to work something out.”
“You can have my room, sir,” Jimmy Ray offered. “I’ll bunk on the sleeping porch.” Apparently, he saw the confusion in Blake’s gaze, as he went on to explain, “That’s the back porch that’s screened in—keeps the mosquitoes out.”
Even though he needed a room, Blake didn’t want to take the boy’s. “That’s not necessary. I’ll take the porch.”
Jimmy Ray grinned. “I like sleeping out there. Do my best thinking outside.”
Blake wondered briefly what the boy thought about.
“You could have my room, but it’s in the attic,” David John added. “You gotta be kinda short to stand up in there.”
“I’m the oldest. It’s up to me,” Jimmy Ray insisted, turning to his mother. “We can use another boarder.” The boy looked suddenly serious, older than his years.
“True. And that’s a very generous offer.” Cassie smiled fondly at her son, her eyes softening. “Get your things together, and then I’ll show Mr. Matthews the room.”
“Yes, Mama.” Jimmy Ray turned to Blake. “Won’t take me long, sir.”
Cassie glanced between her sons. “And, boys, don’t fill up on cookies before supper.”
Their grins were impish, even though they sang out together, “No, ma’am.”
She refilled Blake’s glass as she muttered, “They’re going to eat too many cookies.”
As her children left, Blake turned to Cassie. “Jimmy Ray’s very responsible, isn’t he?”
Cassie watched her oldest son walk up the stairs, and when she spoke, her voice was as soft as her eyes had been. “He had to grow up in a hurry after his daddy left. Thinks he has to be the man of the house.”
So, she was a single parent, too.
“He wears the responsibility well. I don’t know when I’ve seen such well-mannered children.”
She nodded, seemingly not surprised by the compliment. Apparently she was accustomed to their good behavior. “They’ve been brought up right.”
His gaze met a sudden challenging flare of fire in her eyes, and he wondered whether he’d judged her too quickly. Beneath her easygoing country ways, he guessed, there might be more than he’d originally suspected. Apparently his comment had put her on the defensive—one of the side effects of single parenthood. “I’d say that’s obvious. I wish my own children had some of their sense of responsibility.”
Her smile was back, the challenge replaced with understanding. “I hear it’s hard raising kids in the big city. Lot more temptation and distractions, that’s for sure.”
“How do you know I live in a big city?”
She surveyed him with a frank gaze. “You didn’t get that suit in a place like Twin Corners.”
Maybe she had been exposed to some things in this century, Blake decided. “You’re right. But I’m not sure I can blame my kids’ behavior on L.A.”
Cassie’s delicately arched brows lifted. “My, that is a big city.” Then she hesitated, seeming to choose her words with care. “But
from what I read, when both parents have careers, it’s hard to find enough time to spend with their children.”
“That’s not the problem,” he replied quietly. “My wife passed away three years ago.”
Her expression was at once both contrite and understanding. Impulsively, she reached out to cover his hand with her own. “I’m sorry. Sometimes words just fall out of my mouth like they’re being pushed off the edge of a cliff. And I don’t any more know what’s tumbling off that edge until I’ve said it.” The flood of words slowed as she met his gaze. “I didn’t mean to poke an old wound.” That unusual smile simmered, filled with warmth and softness. “I’ve had enough of my own not to be wanting to cause anyone else pain.”
Despite the frustrations of the day, the night in a teenager’s room to come, Blake felt the stirrings of humor. Cassandra Hawkins was an oddity, but she was an amusing one.
“It’s all right. As I said, it was a long time ago.”
Her voice became brisk. “Fine, then. Jimmy Ray should be finished in two shakes. More tea? Or would you like something to tide you over till supper? I could make a sandwich, some cheese and crackers, or—”
“I’m fine. Isn’t it time you started cooking that famous fried chicken?”
Cassie nibbled on her lip, and he suspected she was torn. “It is about time, but it won’t matter if supper’s a few minutes late.”
“I appreciate the hospitality, but I’m fine on my own until Jimmy Ray’s ready to show me his room.”
She glanced toward the kitchen, still hesitating. “I should get things started, I suppose.”
“If you stay here entertaining me instead, I’ll be forced to eat at the restaurant in town. Wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”
That seemed to decide her. “All right, then. But if you need anything, just holler.” She flushed, as though just remembering her guest wasn’t one of the locals. “I mean, I’ll just be in the kitchen.”
His-And-Hers Family Page 1
