by Linda Turner
Turk readily admitted he wasn’t much of a cook—he’d never had time to develop that particular skill. But how difficult could it be? All he had to do was follow the directions on the box. So with a great deal of confidence, he turned on the oven, slid the frozen cherry pie he’d bought at the store onto the center rack, then set the timer on the stove. Now all he had to do was wait. Piece of cake.
Lying in the kitchen doorway, Daisy watched his every move with sparkling brown eyes that missed little. “Don’t even think of going there,” Turk warned her. “You’ve already had one pie today— you’re not getting another. This one’s for Mrs. Martin. We owe her.”
Resigned, Daisy laid her chin on her paws and gave a heavy sigh.
Amused, Turk added, “And you’re not going with me to deliver it. So if you think you can con her out of a piece, forget it. You’re grounded. Remember? You’re not going anywhere until you learn how to behave in public.”
He didn’t doubt that Daisy understood every word—her brown eyes twinkled at the challenge—but she only shifted, as if to shrug, and closed her eyes. Satisfied she wasn’t going anywhere, he strode into the living room to start working on the Sheetrock again.
Caught up in his work, he didn’t, at first, hear the timer go off in the kitchen. Then he smelled the pie. It smelled…slightly burnt.
“Damn!” Lightning quick, he raced into the kitchen and jerked open the oven door. One look at the darkened edges of the crust and he started to swear. Daisy barked in total agreement. “I know, I know,” he grumbled. “You don’t have to tell me— I can see it’s a little too brown. What the hell happened? I followed the directions!”
He started to reach for the pie, only to remember to grab a hot pad at the last minute. Setting the darn thing on top of the stove to cool, he turned off the oven, then surveyed the pie with a frown. “Maybe it’s not so bad,” he told Daisy, not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “The middle looks okay. And it’s really not burned, just a little too brown. Most people don’t eat the crust anyway, and I don’t have another one. It’s the thought that counts, anyway. We—” he gave the dog a baleful look “—took a pie, so we’re returning one. I’m sure Mrs. Martin will appreciate that, especially since I’ve never baked anything before.”
She would, no doubt, laugh at his poor attempt at baking, but Turk couldn’t blame her for that. He was sure it didn’t measure up to her homemade masterpiece, but it really wasn’t that bad for a first effort and it smelled great. If the situation were reversed, he’d laugh, himself. It was just about the worst pie he’d ever seen. Given the chance, Daisy would have eaten it in a heartbeat.
Reading his mind, the dog moaned pitifully. Laughing, Turk set the pie on top of the refrigerator to cool. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned Daisy when she looked around for the closest chair. “You’re already grounded. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”
For an answer, Daisy plopped down onto the floor in front of the fridge.
Leaving her on guard duty—and knowing she couldn’t reach the pie regardless of how she tried— Turk headed down the hall to the bathroom to wash off the Sheetrock dust that seemed to cover him from head to toe. Fifteen minutes later, it was time to face the music.
Daisy was right where he’d left her, and the second he reached for the pie, she jumped up, tail wagging furiously, and barked in excitement. “Sorry, Daisy,” he retorted with a grin. “You’re still grounded. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Try to behave yourself while I’m gone.”
She was still barking at him as he strode out the front door.
He made the walk to Evelyn Martin’s in less than ten minutes. Striding down her front walk, he considered leaving the pie on the table on the side porch, but it was already almost dark and she probably wouldn’t see it until morning. She didn’t, in fact, appear to even be home. The house was dark, the front shades drawn.
Frowning—he refused to take the pie back to Daisy!—he knocked sharply at the front door, and only then realized that there was a light shining at the back of the house in what was, probably, the kitchen. Through the cut-glass window of the front door, he could just make out the shadowy image of a woman walking toward him.
Good. She was home, he thought with a grin. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d chew him out for going to so much trouble, but if she was anything like his own grandmother, she wouldn’t turn down the pie…even if it was store-bought.
“I hope you don’t mind me showing up on your doorstep again—” Whatever he was going to say next flew right out of his head at the sight of the woman who opened the door to him. Instead of Evelyn Martin, he found himself face-to-face with the sassy woman who’d waited on him at the bakery that morning. The same woman who’d thought he’d been sent there by her grandmother.
A grin tugging at his lips, he drawled, “Well, if it isn’t the doughnut lady. What brings you here, sweetcakes?”
Caught off guard, Rachel blinked, her heart jumping in her breast at the sight of wicked blue eyes that looked vaguely familiar. Where had she seen those eyes before? And that smile…crooked, mischievous, flirty. Then it hit her. The man in the bakery that morning! The one she’d mistakenly thought her grandmother had tried to set her up with!
“Aha,” he drawled, watching recognition flicker in her eyes. “You remember. I knew you would. I’m the kind of man a woman can’t forget.”
It was an outrageous claim…accompanied by a wink and a grin that were impossible to ignore. Damn the man, why did he have to be so charming? “I can’t argue with that,” she retorted. “A woman always remembers the—”
“Now, now, don’t be nasty,” he cut in quickly, recognizing a good-natured insult when he saw it coming. “You know you’re charmed. Go ahead. Admit it. I dare you.”
Her lips twitched and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Even when she scowled, she found herself fighting a smile. “I don’t take dares.”
“Ah…there’s your problem,” he said with twinkling eyes. “Life’s too short to always play it safe. You should live a little—”
“Rachel? Who’s at the door?” Evelyn Martin suddenly called from the kitchen.
“It’s all right, Gran,” she said quickly.
“Who are you talking to?” Stepping from the kitchen, Evelyn joined her, only to smile with delight at the sight of the visitor standing at the front door. “Turk! How nice to see you again! Come in. Rachel, invite the man in, for heaven’s sake, sweetheart.”
Surprised, Rachel blinked. “You two know each other?”
“My dog…borrowed…one of your grandmother’s pies this afternoon,” Turk replied. “I’m returning it.”
“Oh, how nice of you!” Evelyn said, delighted. “But you didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”
“I owed you,” he said simply, holding it out to her. “It’s a little brown around the edges—I never made a pie before. And it’s just one of those frozen ones from the grocery store—”
“It looks great,” she assured him, eagerly taking it and completely overlooking the edges of the crust. “Have you had supper? Rachel and I were just about to sit down to eat. Oh, my goodness, where are my manners? You haven’t met my granddaughter, have you? Rachel, this is Turk Garrison. We met this afternoon when he was nice enough to knock on the door and tell on his dog.”
“I had to,” Turk retorted. “She’s a thief, pure and simple, and she didn’t show an ounce of remorse when I grounded her and restricted her to the house. That must have been one heck of a pie.”
Evelyn chuckled. “Poor baby. I’ll make her a pie when she’s off restriction—something with meat. She’ll love it.”
“Lucky dog,” Turk grumbled, grinning. “Tell me the next time you’re going to set a pie out to cool and I’ll make sure to steal one.”
“You don’t have to go that far,” Evelyn told him with twinkling eyes. “I just pulled a chicken pot pie from the oven—it’s Rachel’s favorite. I’m sure
she wouldn’t mind if you stayed and joined us for dinner. And we’ll have your pie for dessert.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when Rachel spoke up quickly. “He probably has other plans, Gran.”
“Actually, I don’t,” he said easily, and grinned when she shot him a narrow-eyed look of pure female irritation. “I’d love to stay…if that’s all right with you.”
She was fuming, but to her credit, she didn’t blast him like she so obviously wanted to. “Of course it’s all right,” she said, giving him a tight smile. “I’ll set another plate at the table.”
When she whirled and headed for the kitchen, her grandmother chuckled, her blue eyes dancing with anticipation. “This is going to be fun. C’mon in.”
Later, Turk had to admit that the chicken pot pie was the best he’d ever eaten. It was the conversation, however, that made the meal. He’d hardly sat down at Evelyn Martin’s round, antique oak table in her dining room when she began to sing Rachel’s praises. “She’s my favorite granddaughter.”
“I’m your only granddaughter,” Rachel said dryly. “I’m sure Mr. Garrison would rather talk about something else—”
“It’s Turk,” he cut in with a wink. “And the topic of conversation is just fine. Did you grow up in Hunter’s Ridge? You don’t have much of a Texas accent.”
“She grew up in Colorado,” her grandmother supplied when Rachel just frowned at him. “She moved to Hunter’s Ridge five years ago to help me in the bakery. I retired last summer and she’s been running the place ever since. She does a good job, doesn’t she?”
“Gran!”
Grinning, Turk nodded. “Best doughnuts I ever ate. Your recipe?”
“It was…until Rachel decided to change it a little. In fact, she’s put her stamp on everything in the bakery, and it shows. I hate to admit it, but she’s a better cook than I am. She’s going to make some man a great wife.”
For a moment, Turk thought Rachel was not only going to strangle her grandmother, but him, too. “I don’t think Mr. Garrison is interested in what kind of wife I’ll make,” she replied, shooting her grandmother a quelling look. “You didn’t invite him to dinner to talk about me—”
“Well, of course I did, sweetheart,” Evelyn broke in with a wide-eyed smile. “Hunter’s Ridge isn’t all that big. I knew the second he knocked on my door that the two of you should meet.”
“And here I am, showing up at your front door just like Mr. Right,” Turk added, wicked humor dancing in his eyes. “Do you believe in fate or what?”
When Turk and her grandmother just grinned at her, she wanted to shoot them both. “No,” she huffed, “I don’t. And you didn’t show up at my front door—only Gran’s. So it looks like the two of you are fated to be together. Darn. And I had such high expectations.”
Surprised, Turk burst out laughing. “You’re good, sweetcakes! But don’t forget—I did show up at your place first. The bakery,” he reminded her with a quick grin before she could argue the point. “This morning? When you broke my heart and turned me down flat? I was devastated.”
“Yeah, right,” she snorted.
Evelyn clicked her tongue. “You have to give the man a chance, sweetie.” Turning her attention back to Turk, she said, “You have to tell the girl something about yourself, Turk. You can’t just expect her to realize you could be Mr. Right when she knows next to nothing about you.”
“That’s right,” Rachel threw in. “For all I know, you could be Ted Bundy.”
“Feel free to check me out,” he retorted easily. “I haven’t killed anyone in years.”
Amused, Evelyn said, “Of course you haven’t. So what do you do, Turk? If you hope to win Rachel, you’ve got to make a decent living, you know. She’s not some sugar mama, looking for a man to support.”
“Then today’s her lucky day. I—”
“He’s in construction!” Rachel cut in, suddenly remembering where she’d seen him before. “I thought you looked familiar when you came into the bakery this morning. You bought the house next door to me! I saw you working on it last night.”
It was Turk’s turn to be surprised. “You live next door?”
“You’re kidding?!” Evelyn exclaimed, laughing. “You two live next door to each other? Sounds like fate to me.” When Rachel sent her a warning look, she chuckled. “Sorry, sweetie. I couldn’t resist. I call ’em as I see ’em.”
When Rachel just snorted, Evelyn grinned and arched a brow at Turk. “So you bought the Sanderson place? It’s been empty for years. I always thought that was such a shame—I remember it as a girl. It was a wonderful place. It just needs a little TLC.”
“My thoughts, exactly,” he replied. “I can’t believe it was on the market all those years and no one snapped it up.”
“Are you fixing it up to sell? You probably bought it for a song—you could make a good profit. I bet that’s what you do, isn’t it? Buy old houses, fix them up, then sell them for a nice profit. I’ve heard a lot of people are doing that.”
“Me, too, but I’m not one of them. I just liked the house. Actually, I’m a doctor.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t the reaction he got. Sudden silence greeted his announcement, and Rachel couldn’t have looked more stunned if he’d hit her in the head with a hammer. Her grandmother gasped softly, then looked quickly at Rachel, her dancing blue eyes alight with an interest that Turk was all too familiar with. He’d lost track over the years of the number of women who sat up and took notice when they learned he was a doctor.
Laureen had been the worst—he could have been Attila the Hun and she still would have chased him simply because of two little initials after his name. He hadn’t thought Rachel was that way—mercenary women didn’t usually look after their grandmothers and give free pastries to every new customer who walked in the door. But what, after all, did he really know about her? Just because her grandmother said Rachel was a soft touch and everyone in town knew it, didn’t mean that she really was. For all he knew, she could be as merciless as Laureen and after the money she thought he had.
Evelyn tried to hold back a smile and failed miserably. “A doctor? Really? That’s fascinating. Rachel’s been looking for a good doctor.”
“Gran!”
At Rachel’s warning tone, Turk studied the two of them with narrowed eyes. “Why do I have the feeling I’ve missed something? What’s the joke?”
“Nothing,” Rachel said quickly. “Gran’s just pushing my buttons. I have a…mole…in a delicate spot, and that’s all I’m going to say about it. Now, how about some pie? I don’t know about you two, but I could use something sweet. Gran, why don’t you get the pie while I get the dessert plates?”
Not giving her grandmother a chance to bring up her “medical” problem again, she jumped up from the table to retrieve the dessert plates from the china cabinet. Amused, Evelyn told Turk, “Well, I guess we’re having dessert now. Excuse me while I get the pie.”
She was back in a split second with the pie and a fancy serving piece to cut it. Remembering the wonderful homemade pie Daisy had gobbled up, Turk grimaced at his own offering. “I didn’t realize when I decided to replace the pie that Daisy ate that you had your own bakery. If your own pies taste half as good as they look, you’re not going to want to eat mine. Why don’t we just say we ate it and toss it? I don’t want to be accused of poisoning you, on top of everything else.”
“You worry too much,” Evelyn replied easily, shrugging off his concern. “It’ll be fine.”
But when she cut the first piece of pie and started to transfer it to a dessert plate, it became quickly apparent that the pie was anything but okay. The bottom crust was still raw.
Turk took one look at it and groaned. “I knew it! I should have just gone to your own bakery and bought you a pie.”
Evelyn laughed. “Will you chill? It’s just a pie and you’ve never baked one before. I’ll just put it back in the oven and bake it a little longer. It shouldn’t tak
e longer than fifteen minutes or so.”
“I’ll do it,” Rachel said quickly.
“That’s all right, sweetie—I’ve got it,” Evelyn assured her, and snatched up the pie before Rachel could beat her to the punch. “Why don’t you and Turk get to know each other better? I’ll make some coffee while the pie’s baking.”
Grinning, she hurried into the kitchen and never saw the flash of frustration in her granddaughter’s eyes. Turk, however, did. Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed Rachel in amusement. “You know, we didn’t get off to a very good start this morning. Shall we start over?”
“That’s not necessary—”
“It’s nice to meet you,” he continued, giving her an easy smile as he extended his hand across the table to shake hers. “I’m Turk Garrison. I’m new in town and looking for someone to show me around. Wanna volunteer? I promise I don’t bite, scratch or drool in public. So whaddaya say? Are you game?”
Unable to take her eyes off his engaging smile, Rachel tried hard not to be charmed. She was fighting a losing battle. She wanted to say yes so badly she could taste it. Instead, she said, “No.”
Wounded, he pressed a hand to his heart. “No? What do you mean…no? How can you say no to this face? Are you worried I’ll jump you or something? I’m harmless. Really!”
She’d never seen a less harmless man in her life. “And I’m Queen Elizabeth,” she retorted. “I know a line when I hear one.”
“Really? I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
If he hadn’t been so cocky, so darn sure of himself—not to mention, boyishly attractive—she might have taken him more seriously. But a woman only had to look at him to know that he was trouble any way you looked at him. And that was the last thing she wanted or needed. She just wanted a sperm donor. Under no circumstances could he be the man next door.
“I appreciate the invitation—”
“But you have to do your laundry,” he finished for her, grinning. “That’s okay. I can wait until you don’t have an excuse. I’m a patient man. And it’s not like I don’t know where to find you. You’re right next door.”
