The C.E.O. & the Cookie Queen

by Victoria Chancellor

  Of course, all Mr. Greg Rafferty had to do was stroll into the county arena in his brand-new boots and jeans and she was ready to wrap herself around him like a prickly vine on a fence post. To think that he was sitting in her living room right now, all by himself…

  “Darn it,” she muttered, striding out of her bathroom, through the bedroom and into the hall. She’d left him alone too long. No telling what he was looking through. Her personal photos on the mantel. Her recipes in the kitchen. While she’d been dawdling, daydreaming about what was never going to happen, he could be stealing her newest cookie creation!

  Sure enough, she found him in the kitchen, pouring coffee into their mugs.

  “I thought you’d fallen in,” he said with a smile as she strode into the room. “I hope you don’t mind if I helped myself.”

  “To what?” she said, sudden anger making her tone peevish.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his tone concerned. He didn’t seem to have a clue about why she was upset, but then, he could be acting innocent.

  In keeping her promise to Jenny, and in nurturing her own attraction to a good-looking man, she’d overlooked the decisions she’d already reached. One, he’d proven he could be deceptive by trying to act the part of a cowboy, buying Puff on the pretense of saving him from Big Jim and feigning an interest in her to get her cooperation. Two, he was just too darned different from her for them to have anything in common. The fact they could carry on a conversation was practically a miracle.

  “I’m fine,” she said, stopping in front of her scribbled notes, still slightly dusted with flour. Well, at least he hadn’t picked them up. And he probably hadn’t been able to read them, she realized, because she had her own shorthand way of writing down quantities and ingredients.

  “I think one Carole Jacks left the room and a different one came back in. There aren’t alien pods in the other part of the house, are there? I think maybe the woman I was talking to minutes ago has been snatched.” His tone sounded teasing, but she detected a note of concern in his voice, as if he thought she wasn’t all that stable.

  Of course she was stable. She was simply attracted to the wrong men.

  “I haven’t been snatched,” she said crisply, the word bringing up images of him snatching her, whisking her away into the bedroom. Maybe she ought to consider being “snatched” by someone pretty soon, before her imagination kept pace with her darned raging hormones. Maybe Clive Perkins. He wasn’t too bad, when he wasn’t chewing. He had a nice body, too. Of course, he was just a little slow since he’d gotten kicked in the head by that Brahma bull last summer….

  “Earth calling Carole,” Rafferty said, waving a hand in front of her face. “I asked if you wanted anything in your coffee.”

  “Oh. Yes, sugar.”

  He handed her the bowl and a spoon, showing that he felt perfectly at home in her kitchen. The idea made her even more irritated, but she decided not to let it show. She’d already acted pretty snippy.

  “Were you thinking about what I told you about Huntington?”

  “Huntington? No, that’s not what I was thinking about.” She turned from his concerned gaze and cradled her mug in her two hands. “Let’s sit down and finish our conversation.”

  “Of course, if you’re sure you’re feeling okay.”

  “I’m fine,” she said emphatically, sloshing hot coffee onto her hand as she marched into the living room. “I’m just a little strung out today.”

  “Any particular reason? Other than my presence, of course.”

  She frowned at his quip, then took a deep breath as she sat down, carefully balancing her coffee. She wished she knew how to keep her personal and professional lives from spilling over into each other.

  “I guess one reason is that Jenny is gone for the whole day, which reminds me that she’s leaving next Monday for camp, and I’m going to miss her.”

  “Is this the first time she’s gone away?” he asked as he took his seat in the chair.

  “No. She loves summer camp, and she goes with some of the same kids each year, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her.”

  “Of course not. I’m sure you’re very close.”

  Carole nodded, not exactly comfortable talking about this personal topic, even though speaking to Greg was somewhat easier than she’d anticipated.

  “She’s an only child, I take it?”

  “Yes.” And Carole knew that unless she did something drastic in the next few years, Jenny would stay an only child. Not that she was actively looking for a husband or more children. If the opportunity came up fairly soon, though, she would like to have a bigger family. Maybe a little boy to cuddle and tickle. Maybe a bigger “boy” to cuddle up with and…She had to stop thinking along those lines, especially with such a physically tempting specimen sitting in her living room. “How about you? Any little Raffertys back home?”

  He laughed. “No. I’ve never been married, except to my job.”

  I’ve been married, she almost said, for about two months. She stopped herself in time. Her history wasn’t his business. Johnny Ray French had been out of her life for more than ten years, which was just fine with her. When she looked back on her teenage stupidity—even though her bad decision had resulted in Jenny, the joy of her life—she just wanted to cringe. She certainly didn’t want to be reminded of her behavior by those sleazy tabloid journalists. She’d had enough of those when Kerry and Prince Alexi had been involved in their secret road trip and their rushed courtship last summer.

  She especially didn’t want Jenny to suffer because her mother, at age seventeen, hadn’t possessed the sense of a cedar fence post. Carole hoped she’d gained some insight in the eleven years since she’d run away with the wrong guy.

  “Are you ready to talk about the promotion ideas?”

  She took a deep breath. “Look, Greg, I appreciate your position in the family business. I even understand why you think I’d make a good spokesperson, even though I know I wouldn’t be your best choice. But I’m going to have to say no to your proposal.”

  “I haven’t even told you the whole plan!”

  Carole nervously turned away. “The answer is still no.”

  “Tell me this,” he said, walking around so they once again faced each other. “Did you ever seriously consider becoming our representative?”

  “I…I tried to keep an open mind.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes! Now I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  He stared at her a long moment, then spun away. “I’m going, but we haven’t finished this discussion.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Ms. Carole,” he said as he stalked toward the front door. “I didn’t come all the way from Chicago to be blown off before you heard the whole plan.”

  “Why won’t you just accept the fact that your plan and my lifestyle will never mix?”

  “Because sometimes the best recipes are made from ingredients that seem to clash.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Kind of like you and me.”

  GREG DROVE AWAY from Carole Jacks’s house, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. She was the most frustrating, stubborn and yet enticing woman he’d met in years. Maybe ever. Half the time he wanted to scream at his inability to make her see reason, and the other half he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

  Hell, more than half the time he wanted to kiss her senseless. And then some, he corrected as he turned from the rural route to the road that would take him into town. If he didn’t believe she was nearly equally attracted to him, he’d never think about pursuing even a brief relationship.

  He never pursued anything beyond brief, mutually exclusive relationships.

  He’d boxed himself into a corner because he could only pursue his attraction to Carole if there was no way she’d agree to become the new symbol of Huntington Foods. Which meant he’d failed in his goal. He might as well pack up and go back t
o Chicago.

  Except he had a twelve-hundred-pound steer who depended on him for two meals a day plus as many snacks as he could finagle.

  The two-lane road bisected a dusty landscape of slightly rolling prairie land as he drove toward town. Green and dry brown grass hosted a few hardy wild-flowers in yellow, red and pink. Limestone rocks pushed their way through the soil in uneven formations. Texas’s fabled bluebonnets had apparently already faded now that summer was in full bloom. The scenery was vastly different from what Greg was accustomed to in Chicago, the surrounding area and the Lake Michigan summerhouse, yet he found the Hill Country landscape strangely compelling. He felt as if he was living a brief cowboy fantasy, complete with wide-open spaces and a pretty, feisty Texas cowgirl—who also baked cookies.

  He pulled into a parking spot between the Four Square Café and Summers Real Estate office, across the street. A sign for the Prince Alexi Ladislas Museum beckoned visitors around the back of the building housing the café. What a strange attraction for a Texas town to host. Something in the news several months ago nagged at his conscience, but he couldn’t quite recall why the prince’s name seemed familiar.

  His stomach rumbled as he walked past the plate-glass window to the door of the café. The cookies he’d eaten at Carole’s house hadn’t nearly satisfied his hunger, just as the short time they’d spent together had only whetted his appetite for more of her smiles and teasing comments.

  More of her.

  The bell attached to the heavy wood-and-glass door tinkled with old-fashioned charm as he stepped inside. The aroma of hamburgers, French fries and bacon filled the air. This was the café where Carole’s mother worked, he knew. It was also the only true café in town, although there were a couple of fast-food places, a nicer “sit-down” restaurant and a new pizza place in town, he’d heard from Lester Boggs, the big talker who’d delivered Puff’s feed.

  “Well, hello there,” an attractive, middle-aged lady said as she approached from the back. Her name tag simply read Charlene. “Just one?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “Mrs. Jacks.”

  She appeared startled for a moment, then smiled. “I guess you heard I work at the café. Well, I know who you are too, Mr. Greg Rafferty. You’re giving my middle daughter fits.”

  Mrs. Jacks didn’t appear too upset about that fact.

  “Yes, ma’am, that I am,” he said, grinning. “I would say I’m sorry, but I still think I’m right about needing her help.”

  “Carole can be very hardheaded.” She settled a menu and a paper-napkin-rolled set of flatware on the paper placemat in one of the rear booths. “But then, each of my girls can be stubborn. That’s one of their biggest assets…and more worrisome liabilities.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” In an instant she changed demeanor from concerned mother to efficient waitress. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Iced tea would be great.”

  Greg sat with his back to the kitchen, giving himself an opportunity to look out at the café patrons and through the wide plate-glass window to the park-like town square. A white gazebo sat near this end. On the other side, some flowering trees—he thought they were called crepe myrtles—bobbed their heavily laden, deep-pink flowers in the slight breeze. Ranger Springs was a pretty little town…if one liked heat, wide-open spaces and stubborn cowgirls.

  Maybe he should just give up on the idea of having Carole Jacks represent the company business, but she’d appeared so perfect, at least on paper. Her life and her aversion to publicity were a lot more complicated than he’d anticipated. He was accustomed to problems that could be solved with money, compromise or threats. None of those seemed to be working, although he had hopes for the “compromise” part of his standard solution.

  Of course, if she wouldn’t even listen to his plan, they’d never be able to compromise.

  “Here’s your iced tea. Have you decided?” Mrs. Jacks asked.

  He hadn’t even picked up the menu. “How about a cheeseburger and fries?” Every menu contained those staples.

  “Everything on the side?”

  “Sounds good.” He smiled at Carole’s mother, noticing the family resemblance. She appeared a lot closer in age to what he thought “Ms. Carole” should look like, but even the mother wasn’t old enough for his initial image of Aunt Bea or Alice, the housekeeper. Did all the women in Texas look younger than their years, or did the Jacks family marry in their teens?

  “Anything else?” she asked, cocking her head.

  “No…just thinking.”

  “All right, then. Your lunch will be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Maybe he should convince Carole Jacks that the best solution was to hire someone to portray her for the ads. That meant personal appearances limited to state fairs, cooking demonstrations on large stages and no interviews, but he could live with that if necessary. What he couldn’t live with was failure.

  And he really hated to give up, to admit defeat. He hadn’t given up on his dreams for the past seven years, while his mother had been grooming his brother, Brad, to take her place as C.E.O. when she stepped down. Her illness had forced Brad into the position sooner than expected, which might have explained his outburst against the food police group, C.A.S.H.E.W.

  If anyone in the family had asked him, Greg would have told them Brad was unsuited to the role of C.E.O. He didn’t have any patience with any of the groups necessary to manage a large business, including labor, management and vendors. Brad was brilliant, but he needed to be his own boss, not be the boss of others.

  His mother, who also had a stubborn streak a mile wide, had insisted Brad would grow into the job, that he just needed more time and training. She’d been wrong, unfortunately for Huntington Foods, although she’d finally come upon the obvious choice, Greg thought with no apologies for his own arrogance.

  He’d wanted to be C.E.O. of Huntington Foods for as long as he could remember. Ever since his mother and father had taken him to the offices to visit his maternal grandfather, back when Pops had still been the head honcho. Greg remembered sitting in the big leather chair, still warm from his grandfather, and spinning around until the framed articles and plaques on the wall blurred together like an amusement park ride. In fact, he’d preferred Huntington Foods to the Navy Pier. He’d still rather watch the assembly line package crackers and cookies with the familiar hum and clank of heavy machinery than stroll along the boardwalk-like setting of Lake Michigan, eating cotton candy while carousel organ music filled the air.

  Most people would say there was obviously something wrong with him, but he had no intention of fixing it. At least not until Huntington Foods was out of this crisis.

  “Here you go, Mr. Rafferty.”

  Mrs. Jacks startled him out of his thoughts by placing a steaming cheeseburger and fries platter in front of him. The “nuts” at C.A.S.H.E.W. would have a mad fit.

  “Please, call me Greg. And this looks and smells delicious.”

  “Since we’re both in the food business, I suppose that’s fine praise indeed. You enjoy your meal, Greg.” Mrs. Jacks left for a circuit of the room, refilling iced tea glasses and coffee cups.

  He’d only taken a couple of bites when a sixtyish gray-haired lady came up to his table. Intelligence and determination shone in her eyes. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but we met the other day at the arena, not that Carole introduced us. She was a little angry at you at the moment for buying Jennifer’s steer.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re the reporter.”

  “Thelma Rogers, owner, editor and reporter, too. I have a few part-time folks and some columnists who also write for the Springs Gazette.”

  Greg held out his hand and started to rise. “Greg Rafferty.”

  “Oh, don’t get up. I just wanted to say hello and see if I could perhaps interview you about your stay in town.”

  “I’m not s
ure that would be a good idea. Carole Jacks is, as you said, a little irritated with me.”

  “Well, she’s publicity shy, that’s for sure. She won’t ever let us sing her praises in the paper, afraid that someone from outside will pick up the story.”

  “What story?”

  Thelma waved her hand. “Oh, any story. About how successful she’s been with her cookie recipes. What a great mom she is to Jennifer by co-sponsoring the 4-H club. She even arranged for a fund-raiser to help supplement the purchase of animals for children whose parents couldn’t afford them. She’s a wonderful person.”

  “I’m sure she is. That’s why I’m down here talking to her.”

  “Really?”

  Afraid he’d told the newspaper owner and reporter more than he should have, he grimaced. “You aren’t going to get a story about Carole out of me. She’d never forgive me for that blunder. I think I’m still in the doghouse for buying her daughter’s steer and then not barbecuing him.”

  “Oh, I’m not planning a story about her. I was a lot more interested in why you’re in town.”

  Greg folded his arms and gave Thelma Rogers his best corporate glare. “I’m here because of Carole Jacks, and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  “So it’s personal?”

  “What part of ‘that’s all I’m going to say’ didn’t you hear?” he added with a smile to soften his words.

  Thelma held up her hand and chuckled. “I understand. I’ll stop prying.”

  “I’d appreciate it. The best I can promise is that if I have any news, I’ll let you know first.”

  “That would be nice. Like I said, I’d never print anything that would harm Carole, her mother or her sisters. She felt bad enough after what we fondly call ‘The Unfortunate Incident’ years ago.”

  He sat up straighter. “What unfortunate incident?”

  “Now that, Greg Rafferty,” Thelma said with a shake of her finger, “is our secret. You have a nice lunch, you hear?”

  Greg unfolded his arms and leaned back against the red vinyl booth. So much for enjoying his cheeseburger. What type of secret could Carole possibly be hiding?