The Fantasy Factor

by Kimberly Raye

  “I’m making them right now.” She walked to the stove and pulled open the oven door and the pungent aroma filled the kitchen, chasing away the appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon. “Mixed ’em up myself just a few minutes ago.”

  “Really?” He eyed the multicolored canisters sitting on the counter next to measuring spoons and a measuring cup. One held cinnamon and another flour and another salt.

  A notion struck and he lifted the measuring cup and eyed the white granules. His nose wrinkled and he ran a finger around the rim. Bitterness exploded on his tongue when he lifted his fingertip to his mouth. “Um, Miss Marshalyn?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Exactly how many cups of salt go into a batch of sweet rolls?”

  She laughed and closed the oven. “Why, you don’t put cups of salt in sweet rolls. Only a teaspoon. You put three cups of sugar.” She came up beside him. “Whoever heard of putting even a cup of salt in a batch of…” Her words faded as he handed her the measuring cup and she tasted what was left on the rim. “That’s salt.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “But it’s supposed to be sugar. I always keep the sugar in my navy canister.”

  “I hate to tell you, but this canister’s green.”

  “Green?” She squinted and held up the canister. “This is navy if I ever saw it.” She opened the lid and dipped her fingers into the contents. Her lips puckered. “This is salt.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s salt in my navy canister.”

  He started to tell her it was green, but then he saw the flash of fear in her gaze and he caught the words before they passed his lips.

  She shook her head and her lips thinned. “Why, I bet it was that Constance Sinclair. She’s always trying to prove to any and everyone that her pie is better than mine, and she knows I’m taking a pie to choir practice tomorrow night. Why, I bet she’s even trying to impress Spur.”

  “Spur? Spur Tucker?” He remembered the wiry old man from the wedding reception. “Cheryl Louise’s great uncle? The old guy who told anybody and everybody that he was here to find himself a filly to take back to his ranch?”

  “That’s him. Why, she knows I like Spur and she wants to show me up. She’s always been competitive with me.”

  “You like Spur Tucker?”

  “But she just thinks she’s going to show me up.” She went on as if he’d never said a word. “I’ll teach her. I’m on to her. Why, I bet she switched my sugar and salt last week when I had the sewing group over here—we were finishing up the wedding quilt for Cheryl Louise.” She shook her head. “She’s good. Why, I was gone only five minutes when I stabbed my finger.”

  “You stabbed your finger?”

  “A fluke accident. That needle looked so small and my finger was a good few inches shy. Anyhow, I was in the bathroom. That lying, cheating, sugar-switching—”

  “You never used to stab yourself when you quilted.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to the doc about getting a stronger eyeglasses prescription.”

  Though none of his questions had gotten her attention, that one suggestion drew her full gaze.

  “Why, I don’t need a stronger prescription. I’ve worn the same one for years and it suits me just fine. My eyes are the same as they’ve always been and the last thing I’m doing is letting some doctor cut on them just because I’ve been making a few mistakes here lately.”

  “The doctor wants to do surgery?”

  “They all want to do surgery. It’s a scheme to milk my insurance.”

  “Doc McCoy doesn’t strike me as the insurance-milking type. Maybe you should listen to him.”

  “And maybe you should have some eggs.” She walked back to the table. “I bet Imogene can cook a mean egg. Not as good as mine, but close.”

  “Speaking of Imogene,” he interrupted. “I want you to call her off.”

  “Nonsense. She’s got her hopes up. She’s so nice. And sweet. And she really can cook. Why, Myrtle told me she pickles her very own cucumbers with a teaspoon of honey, which makes them so divine. I’ve pickled my entire life, and not once have I ever even thought about using honey with my cucumbers. But they’re wonderful. I tried them myself.”

  “I don’t like cucumbers.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “I don’t like Imogene.”

  “Sure you do. Everybody likes Imogene. She may be young like you, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. And she’s as sweet as a plate of flapjacks and syrup. She’ll make a perfect wife, and she can plow. She used to plow over at her grandpa’s place. So if you and she decided to forgo the cattle and plant crops, you’re all set.”

  “I don’t want your land.” There. He’d said it.

  She simply smiled and told him, “Not yet, but you will. This is your home. This is where you grew up.”

  Yes, he’d spent the best moments of his life here. But inside, not outside. He hadn’t spent his time here running crazy on her land, or cutting the grass or rounding up stray steers. He’d left those chores to his older brother, who’d taken to the land like a stud to a mare.

  Houston had been different. He hadn’t looked at the animals as a practical way of making a living. He’d looked at them as a challenge. As a means to escape a dead-end town and his going-nowhere life. He’d looked at them as his chance to be different. Special. A winner.

  And so he’d spent much of his time over at Hank’s spread, watching real cowboys—rodeo men who spent their time on the road and on the back of a bull or a bronc hell-bent on tossing them in the dust. Hank had not only ridden himself, but he’d trained the best, using the only mechanical bull in the state of Texas crafted specifically for rodeo training.

  Houston’s dad had trained on Hank’s bull, and he’d been good. But not good enough. Not strong enough. Not determined enough.

  He hadn’t made it out of Cadillac the way he’d always wanted to, and he’d certainly never come close to winning even one PBR championship, much less breaking the standing record set way back when.

  But his son was good enough, and he wasn’t coming back to Cadillac. Not for good. Never for good.

  That’s what he told himself, but when Miss Marshalyn looked at him with that glimmer of hope in her eyes, he couldn’t seem to make himself say as much.

  “I don’t think Imogene’s the one for me.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  Did he? “No. I’d like to just wait and see what happens naturally.” That meant following his heart, which meant he wasn’t settling down in Cadillac. He was headed for Vegas and his record-breaking win.

  “But if you would just talk to her, you might—”

  “She’s not the one,” he said, cutting her off. “So tell her to forget any connection.”

  “I will not. You don’t want a date. You tell her. It’s that simple.”

  “You’re the one who started this.”

  “For your own good, dear.”

  “Look—” he started, but she waved him silent as she always did.

  “Okay. If you want me to tell her, I will. I just don’t know if my poor old heart can take the disappointment on that child’s face. Why, I’m liable to have an attack right there.”

  “Your heart is just fine.”

  “Now. But who knows if I put it under too much stress and upset that nice young woman?”

  “But you’ll do it.”

  “If you really want me to.”

  “I really want you to.”

  “If you’re absolutely, positively certain that this is the best thing.”

  “I’m absolutely, positively certain.”

  “If you’re—”

  “Tell her.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Call her right now.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  SHE DIDN’T CALL HER.

  Houston realized that a half hour later when he turned onto Main Street and p
assed the bed-and-breakfast. Imogene’s blue Pinto sat out front. He gave up the notion of picking up a change of clothes and taking a quick shower, slumped down in his seat, bypassed the B and B and hung a sharp left. Sarah’s nursery sat just up the street. He headed in that direction.

  Imogene wouldn’t think to look for him at Sarah’s place. Not that that was the reason he was coming by. He actually felt bad about opening his mouth to Mr. Jenkins and talking Sarah into making the delivery. She was busier than ever—the morning rush he’d witnessed was testimony to that—and she could use an extra pair of hands. And a truck. And he could offer both.

  He certainly wasn’t coming by because he actually liked spending time with her, talking to her, laughing with her. Their relationship was strictly sex, just as she’d said, just as he’d agreed. And he was eager to prove to himself that she was just as anxious as he was to get to number five.

  They were going to make some definite plans for the encounter starting right now. He wasn’t scheduled to be out at Austin’s place—he’d been helping his older brother in the afternoons—until later that day. Not that he could take too much time out at the ranch. Tending cattle simply wasn’t his thing. He liked a more challenging pastime.

  Soil and plants. Talk about a challenge.

  He ignored the small voice. Keeping company with Sarah at the Green Machine was challenging because of the sexual tension that hummed between them. The anticipation. The heat.

  It had been more than two days since they’d gotten busy in the shower, and he wanted her again. Hell, he’d never stopped, despite the shower. He could have kissed and touched and pleasured her all night long. He would have had she not looked at him with that closed expression and said goodbye.

  It bothered him more than he liked to admit. But why? Was it hurt pride because she’d told him to leave and she’d been acting so distant since? After all, he was the one who walked away, who said goodbye, who kept his distance where women were concerned. He always had been.

  Until last night.

  She’d turned the tables on him and he didn’t like it.

  But there was more to it than that. The closed look she’d given him after the shower had been the direct opposite of the raw hunger she’d directed at him in the dance hall. The kiss that had followed at the wedding reception had been as wild, as reckless, as overwhelming as he remembered from twelve years ago. And he’d expected their sexual encounter to be as wild. He’d expected her to be as wild, as open. Instead, she’d seemed almost as if she was trying not to react, to feel too much. As if she was afraid.

  And he couldn’t help but wonder if she truly had changed. Because the Sarah he remembered would never have been afraid of her feelings. She would have wrapped herself around him and asked him to stay until the sun came up.

  She’d wanted to. He’d seen it in her eyes, but she’d held back the emotion and sent him on his way.

  So?

  He never made sex an all-night deal. It was always temporary. Satisfying, yet straight and to the point. Because he couldn’t afford “all night.” Because that led to the next morning, and Houston Jericho didn’t do the morning after.

  He never had and he never would.

  That meant there was more to the sex than just lust, and he’d vowed a long time ago to keep his head, and his distance, where women were concerned. His lifestyle didn’t lend itself to a relationship. He was here and there and everywhere, always on the road, always focused. He didn’t have time for more with any woman. And he didn’t want more.

  It was always about lust.

  Now was no different. It’s just that he was stuck here and he had more free time, and so it stood to reason that he would want to see her again. To fill up that free time with a pleasurable act. Not to mention, Sarah was safe. She didn’t want more and he didn’t want more and so they were a perfect match.

  For now.

  He focused on the last thought and turned into the gravel parking lot. It was all about right here, right now, and spending his lust.

  He frowned as he pulled around back. There was a beat-up white pickup truck parked in his spot. A wave of jealousy shot through him as he pulled up next to the vehicle and climbed out. He’d rounded the side and was headed for the door when Sarah walked out, a large potted eucalyptus tree in her arms.

  “Could you pull the tailgate down for me?” she asked, motioning to the truck.

  He pulled the lever and shifted the door down. “Who’s truck is this?”

  “It’s mine.” She slid the potted palm into the truck bed, climbed in and pushed it to the far corner.

  “You don’t have a truck.”

  “I do as of eight o’clock this morning. I drew everything out of my savings account—what little I’ve managed to put aside—and I handed it over to old man Witherspoon.”

  His mind rifled back through his childhood and he saw the familiar truck bouncing and jerking down a back dirt road, the bed filled with a large metal cage that housed the old man’s pride and joy—a pet skunk named Fifi.

  “This is the skunk trunk.”

  “Fifi passed away last year and he’s been trying to sell the truck ever since—it brings back too many memories and he wants to get on with his life. Anyhow, it’s mine now and I’ve invested in a heavy-duty air freshener. It hardly smells like skunk at all.”

  He leaned in the window, took a whiff and winced.

  “I just got it.” She came up behind him and winced herself before putting on a confident smile. “A few days and I’m sure the smell will start to fade.” She turned, walked back to the rear of the vehicle and lifted a potted plant. After climbing into the bed of the truck, she slid the large container to the rear and anchored it in place with a small piece of rope.

  “I don’t mind giving you a ride if you have another delivery,” he told her.

  She stood up in the bed and dusted off her hands. “Thanks to you I’ve got eight deliveries, and I promised Miss Esther I would go out and take a look at her place to offer some planting suggestions.”

  “I heard this morning. You could have talked to me.”

  “I was really busy. I’m still busy.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I got you into this situation. The least I can do is help you out.”

  “True, but you’re only here for two weeks, half of which is almost up. What am I supposed to do when you leave?”

  The question hung between them like a challenge, and he knew then that buying the truck was her way of keeping her distance, and her control, where he was concerned. She didn’t want to need him. To want him.

  But she did, or so he hoped.

  “You could have found something a little more reliable,” he finally said. “And a little less smelly.” He held out his arms to help her down and she stalled, as if the thought of touching him suddenly made her much more nervous than it should have.

  She pulled back for several heart-pounding moments before she seemed to think better of it. She braced her hands against his shoulders and let him help her down.

  He slid his arms around her waist and hefted her onto the ground. But he didn’t let go of her. Instead, he stared down into her eyes for a long moment.

  She had really beautiful eyes. They were a deep, rich brown that made him think of Miss Marshalyn’s mouthwatering brownies. Hunger shot through him, but it had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the sudden need to be inside of her.

  Right here. Right now.

  The sound of tires crunching gravel drew their attention. The front parking lot was still visible from their position, and they turned to see a silver Cadillac Town Car pull in. Houston quickly recognized the two women in the front seat as Martha Jane Miller, the police chief’s wife, and Jeanine Gilmore from the city council.

  Sarah stiffened. “I really need to get back inside.” She stepped away from him and started to move past, but he caught her hand and drew her around.

  “So do I.” He knew from the look on her face tha
t she understood his meaning. “And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to slide a piece of popcorn down between those beautiful breasts of yours—” he flicked her top button for emphasis and let his fingers linger in the vee of her cleavage “—and play a little hide-and-seek with my mouth.”

  Her gaze darkened at the prospect, and for the next few moments, her panic seemed to fade. “So your movie food of choice is popcorn, huh?”

  “Actually, my movie food of choice is you, darlin’.”

  “I—”

  “Mornin’ Sarah!” Martha Jane Miller’s voice rang out, followed by the slam of doors as both women climbed from the car.

  Panic lit Sarah’s gaze and she tugged away from him. “You have to go. I’ve got work to do.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When do we get together again?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “You’re stalling.” He caught her gaze. “Don’t be afraid, Sarah.”

  “I’m not afraid. Friday night,” she blurted. “The Majestic.”

  “The Majestic?”

  “One of the theaters over in Cherry Blossom Junction. They’re having a John Travolta film festival.”

  “That’s a thirty-minute drive. Why don’t we go to the Twin Diamonds right here in town?”

  “And have everyone in town see us?” She shook her head and tried to pull her hand free, but he wasn’t about to oblige her. Not yet. Not even with two of the city’s biggest gossips fast approaching. “That’s not a good idea.”

  She was right, but damned if the notion didn’t bother him, anyway.

  He grasped her hand firmly. “I’ll pick you up.”

  She tried to tug free without making a scene. “I think it’s better if we just meet there.”

  “There’s no reason for you to drive all that way by yourself. That’s crazy.”

  She stopped trying to resist and leveled a stare at him. “This isn’t a date.”

  “Damn straight it isn’t.” Houston Jericho didn’t date. Dating implied long term, at least in his book, and he didn’t have the time to invest in a woman for the long haul. “This isn’t about dating. It’s about safety.”