The Trouble With Cowboys
Page 1
“I THINK WE’RE DONE TALKING BUSINESS.”
Her lips pressed together, giving them an alluring pout. He had to find out what they felt like.
Then he was touching her again, this time grazing her lower lip with the pad of his finger, and discovering it was as velvety as he’d expected. What the hell was up with him? He couldn’t remember ever having such little control over his impulses. But Amy didn’t seem to mind his lack of control. Her eyes closed and her tongue darted out to flick his skin. She moaned like women did when tasting a first bite of chocolate. It was a sound of pure pleasure that sent Kellan’s integrity flying out the window.
“Amy?”
“Hmm?”
He dipped his face toward hers until a scant inch separated them. “I think we’re done talking business.”
Her eyes opened a little and she offered him a dreamy smile. “What do you propose we do, cowboy?”
Boots, his hat—this lady had it bad for cowboys. No problem. He could work with that. Shaking his head with amusement, he let out a gruff chuckle and set her coffee mug on the counter. “Darlin’, we can do whatever you want.”
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THE TROUBLE WITH COWBOYS
Catcher Creek
MELISSA CUTLER
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
“I THINK WE’RE DONE TALKING BUSINESS.”
BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Copyright Page
To my husband and mom.
Thank you for giving me the encouragement, time, and space to spread my wings and fly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book owes its success to so many people. Cori, your friendship and writing know-how has made all the difference to my success. My endless thanks also goes to the wonderful people in my romance writer community who read my work and offered me advice: Janet, Georgie, Mary, Judy, and Samantha H. This book also owes its success to the people who supported my dream: my family and my husband’s family. Thank you for listening to me ramble about imaginary people and places all these years. Finally, my deepest gratitude goes to the people who dared to take a chance on an unproven writer: my agent, Jessica Alvarez, and my editor, Megan Records. Thank you for changing my life.
Chapter 1
Chefs the world over loved to riff about ingredients as inspiration, about tender leaves of fresh-picked basil or fall’s first crop of apples sparking the creation of whole menus in their minds. For many chefs, food spoke to them like muses, guiding forces of creativity. Not Amy. She felt the life in each pot, the potential in every pan. In the way the light reflected off stainless steel and the hiss of a gas stovetop. And no matter which kitchen she cooked in, from Los Angeles to Paris, she carried with her the most invaluable inspiration of all—her knives.
Specifically, her nine-inch MAC SPK-95 Classic chef knife. Standing at the counter in the kitchen she grew up in, she withdrew it from its canvas bag and moved it over her arm, relishing the perfectly balanced weight of the blended steel tool.
“Hello, baby,” she crooned.
Airport regulations had required her to stow the MAC in her checked bag yesterday for the flight to New Mexico, a rule she followed grudgingly, and this morning was their first reunion. Being that this was her first time back in Catcher Creek since the Ultimate Chef Showdown debacle and with an afternoon lawyer meeting on the horizon, she needed this moment more than ever. She needed to dice.
With practiced ceremony, she sharpened the knife with a pass along a honing rod. The zing of metal sliding over metal sent chill bumps crawling over her skin. A second pass over the rod, and this time, the vibrating zing of steel tightened her nipples. She smiled, a secret, wicked smile, as her stress evaporated. She adjusted her grip on the hilt of the honing rod, set the base of the knife against its shaft, and pulled.
Zing.
Who cared that for her thirty seconds of fame as a reality TV star she was the laughingstock of the nation? She didn’t have to face the vicious gossip of Catcher Creek’s locals anytime soon if she didn’t want to. She was no coward, but today was going to be hard enough without their judgment.
Zing. Damn, she loved the feel of friction sliding up her arm.
Who cared about the pressure she’d piled on herself in returning home—the suffocating stress of her sisters counting on her to save them all from disaster? She wouldn’t crack. Unlike her mother, Amy didn’t have that luxury. Which was why, for a few quiet minutes, she needed to lose herself in knife work, in the mindless task of dicing perfect cubes of celery.
Zing.
She flicked the tip of the blade with her finger and licked her lips. Lethally sharp, just the way she liked it. The MAC was ready for action. As was Amy. She placed the knife on the cutting board and moved to the refrigerator. She had no idea the sort of produce her sisters kept on hand, but certainly they’d stocked celery, knowing how important dicing vegetables was to regulating her stress levels.
She opened the refrigerator door and gasped. Except for a bottle of ketchup and a gallon of milk, every shelf and both crispers were empty. She slammed the door and raced to the pantry. Empty. Not even a potato. She glanced sideways at her MAC, which sat impotently, waiting for her. And just like that, her usual anxiety returned with a vengeance.
The Quick Stand was roasting inside. Whoever set the thermostat either had a poor understanding of electronic devices or the misfortune of being born cold-blooded. Sure New Mexico was experiencing a cold snap, but nothing justified heat this sweltering. The refrigerator display cases whirred nonstop, and Amy debated the merits of staging a citizen’s arrest of the leathery-skinned farmer at the coffeepot who’d forgotten to apply deodorant. Then again, that would mean stepping out of the line she’d already invested ten minutes of her time waiting in.
She glanced around. Busy place for a Saturday, probably because it was the only store open before ten o’clock for twenty miles�
�a fact she’d learned the hard way. With each padlocked door and darkened store she’d driven by, the more viciously the day’s stress seized up in her belly.
When her turn arrived, she took a deep breath and stepped to the checkout counter. A niggle started in her throat, like a first tickling of hysteria. She swallowed it back. Please, please, please have celery.
Charlene Delgado, who’d been the cashier for as long as Amy remembered, smiled in surprise. “Well, if it isn’t the famous actress home from Hollywood. I watched you on that television show. A shame, what happened with that cowboy contestant. He played you bad, for sure, but your tantrum”—she whistled—“that was one for the ages.”
Amy ground her molars together and painted a pleasant smile on her lips. She’d wondered which Catcher Creek resident would be the first to bring up Ultimate Chef Showdown and Cowboy Cook Brock McKenna. In town less than twenty-four hours, she hadn’t been kept waiting long. And how fitting that Charlene, the leader of the local gossip brigade, delivered the initial blow.
Charlene was spot-on about Amy being shamed, even if she got the details wrong, but she wasn’t about to point out that the show filmed in New York City, nor that Amy was a chef, not an actress. If she’d been anything of a decent actress, that tantrum would’ve never happened. She pushed her smile as wide as her lips would stretch. “Thank you for watching the show. The support of my Catcher Creek neighbors has been such a blessing.” If one counted deafening silence as support.
“What can I do for you, dear?” Charlene asked.
“Does the Quick Stand carry celery? I couldn’t find any and I really, seriously, need some this morning.” Like a turning of the screw, thinking about her futile celery search across the county twisted her belly into a tighter, more painful knot.
“Celery? You cooking some sort of gourmet breakfast, like that time on Chef Showdown where you had to make a dessert using vegetables? Wait . . . you’re pregnant, aren’t you? You have a craving for celery.”
“No . . . NO! Nothing like that. It’s just—”
A woman in line conspicuously cleared her throat. Amy froze. And so it began, the whispers and stares she’d faced all her life in this small community, the disdain she faced for being a Sorentino. Her cheeks heated, but she didn’t dare turn. Let them all look. Let them whisper to each other behind their hands, Like mother, like daughter. Amy had gone up against worse bullies and survived. Not always with dignity, she amended, thinking about Ultimate Chef Showdown, but she’d survived nonetheless.
“It’s just that I’m a chef, and I need celery,” she finished, forcing her smile wider.
“I wish I could help you, but we don’t carry celery.”
“How about onions? I could make do with onions.”
Charlene shook her head. “We don’t carry any produce here.”
“Nothing?”
Charlene trudged to a refrigerated bin and removed a Styrofoam snowman from the top. She fished something out, waddled to the checkout stand, and slapped a three-ounce bag of baby carrots on the counter.
Cringing, Amy poked at the bag. “Fine. Give me everything you’ve got.”
The woman in line cleared her throat again, followed by a muttered “Those Sorentinos. . . .”
This time, Amy whipped around. “Is there something you want to say about my family?”
The woman’s eyes widened in shock and, Amy liked to think, a healthy dose of fear. Yeah, that’s right, lady. Don’t mess with a Sorentino. I might go all crazy on your ass.
A man stepped forward, his expression placating. “Now, ladies. Let’s stay calm. No need to get riled up on this fine morning.”
Amy cursed under her breath. A cowboy. Just perfect. She was already primed with need from her knife-sharpening session, pent up with nervous tension that needed releasing. She’d tried to take the safe route to stress relief by sticking to celery, but it looked like the universe had different ideas, throwing a cowboy into her path.
Dark brown hair curled beneath his dust-coated cowboy hat and his long legs ended in scuffed, aged boots that settled a familiar, heavy ache between her thighs. True, she was the only woman she knew who got hot and bothered every time “Desperado ” played on the radio, but there was something about boots, snug jeans, and a worn-in Stetson that flipped a switch in her. And this particular cowboy—oh, Doctor. She pictured him tossing bales of hay into a truck bed, his burly biceps bunching, his broad, strong back flexing, his brow sweating from the effort.
Snapping her gaze away, she mentally shook herself. The last thing she needed in her life was another cowboy, especially after Brock McKenna, even if this one clocked in at an eleven on the hotness scale.
She looked at him again with fresh eyes, this time registering his patronizing grin. Amy hated to be patronized. Brock had done that on Ultimate Chef Showdown and it was as grating to her nerves now as it had been then. The longer she thought about it, the more she wanted to smack the arrogant smirk off this new cowboy’s sexy, stubbled jaw with her bag of baby carrots, then stuff it down his throat. How dare he barge in on her stressful day with his tight jeans and T-shirt that showed off the muscles beneath like he was God’s gift to women? Snatching the bag from the counter, she gave a little practice swing with her three ounces of whoop-ass.
No. She wouldn’t cause a scene. Her tattered reputation couldn’t handle another public freak-out. Her gaze drifted over the crowd of people in the market. From those in line to the people doctoring up their morning coffee, all eyes in the place were trained on her.
Too late. She’d already caused a scene. The heat of her cheeks spread over her neck. She’d been seconds away from bludgeoning a man with a bag of carrots. Unbelievable. She should never be allowed out of the kitchen again. She counted down from ten before speaking in her calmest, most rational voice. “I’m not riled up. I’m buying carrots.” She dangled the bag in front of her face. “See?”
Lifting his hat from his head, the cowboy’s grin broadened. He ran a hand over his mop of hair as he moseyed her way, his boots clomping along the linoleum. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him. The way he moved got her visualizing him swinging onto a horse, taking the reins, issuing a command. The prick of heat on her skin grew unbearable. She had to get away from him before she embarrassed herself even further.
“Perhaps we could step out of line to talk in private and let these good folks get on with their morning.” His voice was a low, lazy drawl that turned her legs rubbery. She allowed him to take her arm and lead her to a rack of magazines in the corner, mostly because she wanted to feel those large, work-worn hands on her skin.
Get a grip, Amy. Remember rule number one.
She twisted her arm away. “What do you want?”
“Just trying to keep the peace, Miss Sorentino—Amy. You looked like you were ready to go postal on Linda Klauss. I had to do something.”
She shook her hair back and lifted her chin. “Let’s stick with Miss Sorentino. And who are you?”
“Kellan Reed, your neighbor.”
Damn. Her morning just went from bad to worse. “You’re Kellan Reed, owner of Slipping Rock Ranch?”
“At your service.”
With the way he was looking her over, she bet he was. “I’m opening a restaurant here. You’re on my list to call.”
“Is that so?”
“I have a business proposition for you.” She felt dirty saying the words, like from them he might divine that she was imagining how he’d look astride a horse. Shirtless.
Lordy. Maybe she could hand this particular negotiation off to Jenna.
“I look forward to discussing it with you, so long as you leave your bags of carrots in the car.” Amy balked and he held up his hands. “I’ve got some time now. Why don’t you follow me to my ranch and we’ll talk about what it is you want from me? Business-wise, of course.”
She chewed her bottom lip, considering. After Brock McKenna in all his cowboy glory played her for a fool on Ultimate Chef Sh
owdown, she’d added a new number one rule to live her life by—resist temptation by steering clear of cowboys. Unfortunately, she was opening a restaurant that would feature locally grown food, and her success depended on securing contracts with the best ranches and farms in the region. Kellan Reed’s cattle ranch sat at the top of that exclusive list because of its reputation for producing the most coveted, high-quality beef in the southwest. Not to mention the most expensive.
So if Kellan Reed offered her an invitation to talk business at his ranch, she had no choice but to take him up on it. The way she saw it, she had the drive from the Quick Stand to his property to strategize a way to convince him to sell Slipping Rock beef to her at an under-market rate. That was going to be a problem because, even now, she was having trouble stringing together a single intelligible sentence with him looking at her with those deep brown eyes—and they weren’t even alone yet.
She would have to be strong. No going inside his house, no needless small talk. They could negotiate outside, where she had quick access to a getaway vehicle should she sense her self-control crumbling. After securing the beef contract, she’d thank him and be on her way like a reasonable, responsible adult. No problem.
She afforded him a terse nod. “It’s a deal.”
“Excellent.” His dark eyes twinkled with lusty purpose—or maybe that was only a product of Amy’s overactive imagination. “Char, would you put these on my tab?” He waved a candy bar and a bag of pretzels in her direction.
“Breakfast of champions?” Amy asked.
“More like lunch, I’ve been up so long. But if you want to call me a champion, I’m not going to argue.” He winked.
Amy sucked in an unsteady breath, then tried to hide it with an indignant huff as she squeezed her thighs together. “Let’s get on with it,” she said, her voice coming out far huskier than she intended.
“By all means, after you, ma’am.”