"Oh?
"I married Sara a year later. We haven't been apart but a few days since then. She was patient and kind, and she healed the hurt from my first girlfriend."
"But what about her made you decided to open up?"
"She stuck with me. She was patient."
"Well, that isn't happening this time. She's gone when her car is fixed."
Clint shrugged. "Nothing is set in stone. I'm going to look in on the animals one more time, then go check on Sara. I'll be back later.”
Brandon watched Clint go to the barn, wondering if he could ever open up to anyone again. Jessica had taken a sledgehammer to his heart. He shook his head. No, Gemma was a dalliance, no more.
The position of the sun told him it was time for dinner. His stomach agreed.
With one last look at the last bit of sun, he walked to the house.
Gemma was still surrounded by papers, but she didn't look up when he entered the house. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.
"I'm starving from looking at these."
He laughed. "I get the hint. I'll make dinner."
"I'd be forever grateful. Can I pick the recipe?"
She wanted something specific? Why wasn't he surprised? She had been vocal in bed about what she wanted. Why wouldn't she be in the rest of her life?
"If I have the ingredients."
"This chicken in cream sauce."
She handed him the sheet. He shook his head. She could have picked any recipe. Why did she pick that one?
"I can't make that."
He strode into the kitchen. He didn't want to discuss it.
***
Gemma watched his retreating figure, her mouth trying to form words, but unable to. What had she done? What had she said? It was a recipe, for cripes' sake. She wasn’t going to let this go.
Not in her nature.
He seemed insulted by her asking. Not when she'd first asked, but when she'd picked that recipe. This would stick in her craw until she dealt with it.
The laptop went onto the table and she stood, tucked her crutches underneath her to go find him. He was in the kitchen, banging pots and pans.
"What's your problem?"
She hobbled over to a stool and sat on it. She put her foot on the stool next to it. Her foot had started throbbing again, and she probably needed more pain medication.
But she had to nip this in the bud. Whatever it was.
"Nothing."
She pointed a finger at him. "Do not tell me nothing. What is so significant about that recipe?"
He frowned, stopped banging pots. "I just can't make it."
She shook her head. "No, there's more attached to that recipe than you're telling me. I'm going to bug you until you do."
He rubbed a hand down his face. "Fine. I made that for my wife on our second date."
"Then why is it in here?"
He put out his hands as if feeling helpless. "It's a great recipe."
She glanced at the ceiling then back to him. "I know. That's why I picked it. But for you to include it, you're going to have to get past the emotionality of it."
He stared at her. His jaw was set. "I'm not making it."
She sighed. "Fine, but you can't get mad at me."
He frowned. "I know. I'm sorry. You're right."
"At some point, you're going to want someone else to cook some of these recipes to see if someone else can duplicate what you've done."
"Someone else?"
"Clearly I can't really cook them."
He seemed to mull that over. "I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I'm still not sold on publishing this."
"Not sold on publishing it? This will be so good," she said. Did he not see how talented he was? "It would be ridiculous not to."
***
Why didn't Gemma see obstacles? She'd returned to her task while he made dinner. His breathing had returned to normal, but his heart still ached with the memory of that date.
He'd already bought this house, so he brought Jessica here when he had a week off. She didn't seem impressed, but wasn't overly critical.
Her lack of enthusiasm with the place probably should have told him something. He should have known she'd wanted a rodeo star, not just a run of the mill cowboy.
He'd told her about his plans for when he retired. She would nod and smile and change the subject to what he was going to do at the next rodeo. He'd been so stupid.
He'd made her dinner, then explained about his other dream.
"You're kidding," she said. She sat in the very stool that Gemma had just occupied. Her disdain evident in her face. "Why? You have a career."
"Jess, I can't do this forever. Frankly, I've been pretty lucky with how few injuries I've sustained."
She waved that away. "You're young and healthy. You have ten more years, then maybe you can retire."
His words had almost been prophetic. It was a year to the day of that dinner that he'd been injured badly enough to have to quit. Jessica had married him in the meantime, but wasn't thrilled with living on the ranch.
She nursed him back to health, but when he'd chosen to retire, she'd chosen to leave.
That's when he'd closed his heart.
For good, he thought, but one woman had niggled her way in there. She was strong like Jessica, but that was where the resemblance ended.
But what would he do once Gemma was gone?
***
Gemma had an idea. If he wasn't going to let her find someone to cook his recipes, she would. She knew she wasn't a good cook, but maybe she could try.
He'd get past this block somehow, even if she had to shove him past it.
Even on crutches, she was willing to try. So she tromped into the kitchen and caught him before he started anything.
"Wait."
He glanced up at her for a moment. "I'm not cooking that recipe."
Whatever. "Fine. Pick another one, and I'll cook it. You can be here to guide me."
He looked her up and down. "You're supposed to rest."
Her foot throbbed a little, but she ignored it. She wasn't backing down. In order for this cookbook to be successful, she had to try some of the recipes. "I've rested for hours. Let me cook and try out a recipe."
His forehead creased. "You sure?"
She hadn't been so sure of anything in her life. If she could get this man past some of his obstacles before she left, she could look back fondly on this time. "Yes."
He seemed to be debating about what she'd said. "Okay, then. You really think this will help?"
"Yes, all great chefs have other test their recipes."
"I'm no chef."
She moved her shoulders. "Cook then, but you're writing a cookbook."
"I'm writing a cowboy cookbook. Because I'm a cowboy."
She laughed. Semantics. "Either way. The recipes need to be tested."
"Fine. What do you want me to do?"
"Pick a recipe, take out the materials I'll need, and then sit down."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brandon did as he was told, then settled on a kitchen stool to watch her hobble around the kitchen. He felt some guilt about her cooking when injured, but in the little time he'd known Gemma, he figured she wouldn't let him help. "You don't have to do this."
Her gaze turned full onto him, her dark brown eyes taking him in. "I do. If I'm the only one you trust with your recipes, then I'm going to test some while I'm here."
He pointed. "But the crutches."
She waved a hand. "I'll figure it out. I'll be fine."
The recipe he'd chosen was for sautéed chicken breasts in a lemon, with a white wine sauce over rice. His recipe was actually two together, one for the rice and one for the chicken. She might have him make the salad.
"So I'm going to measure the rice. Then I'll heat the pan and put in olive oil. Let that heat, then put in the shallots."
"Cut up the shallots first," he said.
She read the recipe again. "Right. Minced." She stared
at the shallot and then the board. "Chopped finely?"
He fidgeted in his chair. "Right."
She frowned. "What's the easiest way to do that?"
"Slice the peeled shallot in half, then put one half on its flat side. Slice it part way, then slice it horizontally."
With the halved shallot on its flat side, she wasn't sure what to do next. He came around next to her. "Watch."
He showed her, and then she did it with the second half.
"Perfect."
"Maybe you should put that into the recipe or into a chapter on techniques."
***
Gemma wasn't sure she could have successfully cooked this meal without Brandon's input. She hadn't learned much in working in restaurants, but she'd never been on her own, so she'd never had to cook.
But now she would be. "Can I take a picture of these recipes? So that I have them."
"You aren't saving them on your laptop?"
"No I'm saving them to the flash drive."
"Okay, I guess."
"I'll take some pictures of other recipes after I'm done. When I cook them, I'll let you know how they turn out."
"Sounds fair."
He was like a toddler sitting at the counter. He obviously wanted to do something and wasn't used to just sitting. Well, he'd just have to wait. She needed to test this recipe.
The rice was cooking, so now she had to brown the chicken breast. Brandon had pounded the meat flat for her. "You could set our places."
He did so, then sat down again with a grim face. She wanted to laugh, but didn't think he'd be amused as she was. She heated the oil, then put in the chicken breasts. They sizzled, and she turned on the hood over the cooktop.
"How many minutes on each side?" she asked.
"I'd give them about three because they are thin."
"That's something else you can put in the recipe. Don't assume someone knows how to do that."
"Good point."
She made a note on the recipe for him. The chicken smelled good, she had to admit. "How about you make the salad?"
"Sure."
He pulled all the ingredients out of the refrigerator, then set to work on fulfilling her request. She enjoyed the maleness of his presence beside her. He exuded confidence, and she thought he could take on any task.
She flipped the chicken breast, turned on the oven to warm and put a platter in there like the recipe said. "For some things you really have explicit directions. For others, you skip over vital points."
"I guess it's good that you're trying this out. How's your foot doing?"
"It's fine, though I'd rather be doing this without the crutches, I really don't want to put any weight on it."
***
Brandon cut up vegetables for the salad, glad to be doing something. He wasn't one to sit still, except to read or sleep.
Besides, he found it sexy that she was cooking. Even sexier that she was cooking one of his dishes. She was right. Someone else had to make these recipes. Clint couldn't do it. Clint heated things up, he didn't cook.
Brandon couldn't wait to taste the dish. It was one of his favorites because of its simplicity. That's what the cookbook was about. Simple food for simple people. No airs, no fancy ingredients.
There was a knock on the door. He finished the last of the chopping. "I'll get that. It might be Clint. Can I invite him to dinner?"
She turned to him, biting her lip. "I hate to turn him away, but I'm nervous."
"He'll eat anything."
She shrugged. "Then sure."
As expected, Clint was at the door. "I wanted to check on that cow one more time."
"Thanks Clint," Brandon said. "Come in. Dinner's almost ready."
"I'm not intruding?"
"No, not at all," Brandon said as he closed the door against a now brutal wind. "Gemma's trying out one of my recipes."
"Okay."
Brandon led him into the kitchen.
"Hi, Clint," Gemma said, her face a big smile.
"Hello Gemma. Brandon actually let you into his kitchen?"
"I insisted. Someone had to try out these recipes for his cookbook."
"I'm impressed he told you about that. I've been bugging him for a while to put them all together."
"And now I've been ganged up on and it's getting done," Brandon said.
Gemma chuckled. Clint just nodded as he slid onto the stool. Brandon put down silverware for him.
"Smells pretty good," Clint said.
"Hopefully it'll taste good."
***
Gemma devoured the dish she had made. "That was amazing. "
Brandon smiled at her. "Glad you like it. Are you still going to the bar tonight?"
Clint had eaten and left with the leftovers. Gemma liked him a lot, and hoped to get to know him a little better the next day. She suspected that he would be pretty closed-mouthed, which she considered a challenge.
"If you don't mind driving me," she said.
He had sat back in his chair with his hand on his stomach. "No, I don't."
"Will you stay?"
She crossed her fingers under the counter. She wasn't sure why she wanted him there so badly. Possibly because she wanted to impress him, and singing was something she could do as opposed to cooking.
Her first attempt at one of his recipes had been a success, but she wasn't sure that it wasn't just a fluke.
"Of course," he said.
Her smile was so big it hurt her face.
"The mike opens at nine. I know you're an early to bed guy, so will this be okay?"
"Seeing as I didn't get much sleep last night, I hope so."
That was the first he'd mentioned last night. They'd been dancing around it all day.
"Well, not sure what to say to that, but you weren't complaining last night."
He rested his elbows on the counter. His gaze took her in, and his eyes had darkened "No, I guess I wasn't."
She figured he regretted saying anything. She wasn't going to let it go. "I was hoping for a repeat performance tonight."
He looked troubled, and her heart sank. Had she been that horrible? No one had ever complained before. Most men liked that she told them what pleased her.
"But your foot," he said.
"I'll be off it if you're on top." Gemma wanted to laugh. She thought she might have detected a little pink in his face. He blushed, and she found that super sexy.
He seemed to shake himself. "What if I hurt it?"
She wanted to touch him right now, but if they did that, they'd never make it to the bar. At this moment, she could not have been happier than Clint had left. The air crackled with the sexual electricity between them. "I'm sure we can work around it."
He shook his head. "I'm not sure that is good idea."
He was trying to let her down easily. He didn't want to sleep with her again. The hurt threatened to choke her, but she wouldn't show that to him. She tucked her crutches under her arms and hobbled to the door. "Well, think about it. The offer still stands."
***
So how was he supposed to not think about her naked? How, damn it? And why had she put the offer on the table? He filled the sink to wash dishes while he pondered that.
Frowning down at the water, he wondered if he'd make it out alive from all from this encounter. The day after tomorrow, she'd be gone.
Which did he want more? For her to stay, or for her to go?
Could he really go back to his solitary existence?
He looked down to talk to his dog, but he wasn't there. Probably still at Gemma's feet. He laughed. He knew what Spike would vote for.
With the dishes done, he had nothing else to do in the kitchen, so he went into the living room. Gemma had returned to typing up his recipes.
"I can find someone to make these recipes for you,” she said. “Someone you can trust."
He wasn't sold on that idea, or on what he was going to do with the recipes once they were typed up. Trying to find a publisher was a big risk,
and self-publishing held as many risks.
Plus, not being tech savvy, he wasn't sure he could publish them himself.
He was out of his depths in more ways than one. He settled on the rocker. "We'll see."
"No, you really need someone else to make them. They can give feedback on wording," she said.
He shrugged. "We'll see."
"You are frustrating. These recipes are so good."
He rubbed his chin. Her eyes lit up when she spoke, showing her passion. He wondered if he could have that same passion for this. Jessica had taken it away. Would Gemma give it back to him? "I'll think about it. Okay?"
"Please do."
"In the meantime, don't mention it to anyone."
She looked around. "I think your dog already knows, and he isn't telling anyone."
"In case your family calls."
"Fine."
As he left the room, he wasn't completely convinced that she would comply.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gemma finished one last recipe, then hobbled to the bathroom to do her hair and makeup. She'd never tried it while balancing on crutches, but she had no choice.
A performer needed to look good, or at least look the part, and her current wardrobe would impress no one but those who worked from home. She'd brought jeans and a nicer shirt into the bathroom, but she wasn't sure how she would get the pants on.
She'd been wearing sweatpants today.
"Damn."
Frowning at herself in the mirror, she decided to save that for last.
She applied her foundation, then lipstick and smoky eyeliner. She'd transformed herself from a girl you'd meet in the grocery store to a girl whose autograph you'd scream for. She hoped it wasn't all too much for the small town.
"Brandon?" she said through the open bathroom door.
He'd been puttering in the kitchen. He came around the corner, and his face with its wide-open mouth said it all. "Yeah?"
"Is this too much make-up?"
He flinched. "I'm going to go with yes."
She bit her lip. "I went overboard."
"A little, sorry."
"No, I'm glad you’re honest. I'm going to wash my face and start again. Can I get your help in a few minutes?"
"With what?"
"Getting my pants on."
He blinked. "Okay."
Roped In By The White Cowboy (BWWM Romance) Page 4
