by Meg Benjamin
“But…” She gazed around the backyard, then shook her head. “It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Nothing we can’t handle.” He managed to keep his smile in place. A lot of work. Lordy, yes, it’s a lot of work. But there was a prize at the end of it. “I can get started on the yard back here. Then, when you get off work, you can give me a hand.”
She looked around again, frowning. “I guess I could clean the flagstones. They’re going to need it if we’re going to put a table out here.”
“Right. And I’ll take care of these weeds. You know anybody with a lawnmower I could borrow?”
“I’ve got one at the brewery.”
For a moment he envisioned the mower of his dreams—a tractor with a big blade. Probably too much to hope for. “Is it powered or push?”
“Powered.” She paused. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“It needs a lot of babying. It’s pretty old.”
“That’s okay. I can work with it.”
She gave him another doubtful look, then a tentative smile. “Okay. Come with me, and I’ll get you set up.”
“In a minute.” He reached forward, almost without thinking, cupping her shoulder to bring her closer. Her lips were warm beneath his—just a brush, just a taste, running his tongue along the seam of her lips and darting in to sample.
It was supposed to be a momentary thing, but maybe there was no momentary thing where Bec was concerned. His body was instantly on high alert. Heat flashed along his veins, muscles tensing, tongue plunging deeper to taste, to savor. Whoa!
He stepped back before he could get too involved. After all, they had work to do. And once he really got started, he had a feeling he wouldn’t stop. Bec stared up at him with slightly dazed eyes.
“The mower?” he said.
“Right.” She took a deep breath. “The mower. Let’s get to it.”
He spent the rest of the afternoon learning how to work with Bec’s temperamental lawnmower. But he’d probably be temperamental, too, if he had to confront a jungle of thistles, alyssium, and cheatgrass. Fortunately for him, he’d owned part of a lawn mowing business with his brother when he was in middle school. Not that he’d done much maintenance on their mower since his brother, now a mechanical engineer, was a lot better with repairs than he was. But he knew the general principles. He also knew to take a break occasionally, both for the good of the mower and his own sanity.
On his latest break, he looked up to see the kid from the cheese shop perched on the back step. Wyatt pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Hi.”
She frowned in his direction. Apparently, he still hadn’t won her approval. “I’m Carol Colbert. My mom owns the Salty Goat.”
“Wyatt Montgomery. Pleased to meet you.” He thought about extending his hand, but given how grubby it was, that might not be such a great idea.
“Why are you mowing the yard?” Carol narrowed her eyes. “You’re not working for my mom.”
He shook his head. “I’m working on a project with Bec. We’re using your backyard.”
“The backyard?” If anything, Carol looked even more suspicious. “What can you do with the backyard? It’s a mess.”
“After we clean it up, it’ll look better.” He tried a winning smile.
Carol looked unconvinced. “What are you going to do out here?”
“Serve dinner. In the evening. For a couple of people.” He stayed away from the whole romantic thing. Given her skeptical attitude, he had a feeling Carol wouldn’t be convinced by that, either.
“A dinner.” Carol narrowed her eyes again, but this time she was studying the area under the cottonwoods where he’d planned to put the café table. “Is it supposed to be romantic?”
So much for childish sensibilities. “Yeah. It’s supposed to be romantic.”
Carol raised an eyebrow as she studied him, his mower, and the general backyard. Then she shrugged. “Under the trees would be good.”
He nodded carefully. “That’s what I thought.”
“You could use one of the tables for two from the side of the deli. It’d be just right.” She gave him a considering look. “I could bring it out now.”
He shook his head. “I need to clean up the flagstones first—they need to be scrubbed off. Thank you, though. I could let you know when it’s ready.”
She shrugged. “I’ll bring out a mop and pail. And a scrub brush. Shouldn’t take us too long.”
Wyatt watched her head back inside, trying not to grin. At least he had an assistant. Of a sort.
…
The thing about cheese was you couldn’t rush it. Bec studied the rounds she’d placed on the aging racks. She’d really been hoping she could get through her afternoon tasks quickly so that she could give Wyatt a hand, but there was no speeding up her work schedule. The cheese took the same amount of time it always had. There was probably a life lesson in there somewhere, but she was too stressed to look for it.
Finally, at four thirty, she took off her shoe covers and hair cover, along with her white jacket and pants. Fortunately, she’d worn a T-shirt and shorts under her working clothes so she could head out back immediately. She trotted around the side of the building, hoping Wyatt had at least managed to mow the weeds, and stopped dead in her tracks.
Wyatt and Carol were seated at one of the small tables from the dining room, which had been placed in the shade of two large cottonwoods. The sound of the river rushing over rocks filled the air, along with an occasional hummingbird trill. There were two large glasses in front of them. Bec figured Carol’s had soda, but Wyatt’s looked a lot like amber ale. The two of them seemed very comfortable.
She blew out a long breath, surveying the stretch of yard around them. Her lawnmower rested at the back of the building. Wyatt had managed to cut down most of the weeds, but the newly mown lawn was a long way from gracious living. Still, it looked a lot better than it had before. Someone had cleaned the dirt off the flagstones, or at least off of some of them. There was still a little work to do there. Which was just as well since Bec herself had yet to do anything and was suddenly feeling faintly guilty.
Wyatt raised his glass in her direction. “Greetings. Welcome to Café Goat.”
Carol shook her head. “You think that’s funny, but it might work. There are lots of stupid restaurant names.”
Like Quaff.
Bec gave him her sweetest smile, but she figured he saw through her. “Did you spend all afternoon on this?”
“Fortunately, I had some very good help.” He bowed in Carol’s direction.
Carol shrugged. “I wanted to see what it looked like when it was finished.”
“Do you approve?”
Carol frowned for a moment, taking in the backyard. “The weeds still look sort of stubby, and the back of the deli is kind of gross, but the trees are nice. And they block most of the view of the yard.”
Wyatt sighed. “Thanks. I’ll take what I can get.”
Bec sat down near the table on a bit of grass at the top of the riverbank. “What’s left to do?”
He leaned back in his chair. “The rest of the flagstones need to be cleaned. Carol here did a terrific job on the ones where we put the table, but we need to clean up the path that leads to the back of the building, too.”
Carol frowned. “Why? The couple isn’t going to be in the building, are they? You said they were eating out here. And if you clean up the other stones, that’ll just make them look at the back of the building. And the back of the building’s gross.”
Wyatt turned to her, forehead furrowing. “What do you mean it’ll make them look at the back?”
Carol pointed across the line of flagstones, now half-covered with dirt. “If you clean it up, it’ll be like an arrow pointing back at the deli. You don’t want that.”
Wyatt shook his head slowly. “I hadn’t noticed that. You’re good, kid. You’re very good.”
Carol gave him a faintly sm
ug smile as she sipped her soda.
“The backyard’s ready.” Bec took a quick survey. Ready as it’s going to get anyway. “What about the menu?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Wyatt rubbed his eyes. He looked like a tired man, but then again he’d volunteered for this. “There’s always steak.”
Bec felt like sighing. Steak on the grill. Predictable but safe. “Yeah.”
“What’s so great about steak, anyway? Everybody always does steak when they do a special dinner.” Carol narrowed her eyes. “Unless you’re not much of a cook. I guess then steak’s safe, isn’t it?”
Wyatt threw her an exasperated look. “I’m a good cook, kid. Ask her.” He nodded in Bec’s direction.
“He’s a good cook,” she said dutifully. And a better kisser. Her cheeks flushed for a moment, but maybe he didn’t notice.
Judging by his grin, he had. He turned back to Carol. “Steak tastes good. Why shouldn’t I do steak?”
“It’s not romantic. You make dinner for two, outside, next to the river. Then you want them to start sawing away on steak. How is that romantic?”
Wyatt stared at her for a moment, then he shrugged. “Okay, what is romantic then?”
Carol stared up into the branches of the cottonwood for a moment, then turned back. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”
Now it was Wyatt’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Spaghetti and meatballs? You’re kidding.”
“No.” Carol shook her head vehemently. “In Lady and the Tramp, that’s what they eat when he takes her out. And it’s romantic. They kiss and everything.”
Wyatt’s eyes stayed narrow. “They’re dogs.”
Carol waved an impatient hand. “Okay, they touch noses. They do dog kisses. Anyway, the spaghetti is important because they each eat an end of the same piece of spaghetti, and that’s how they end up kissing. It’s very romantic.”
Wyatt leaned back in his chair, staring at his beer. “Tomato sauce is probably out since dribbling some on your date-night clothes wouldn’t be cool, and meatballs don’t scream romance to me. But the pasta isn’t a bad idea at that.”
“Spaghetti,” Carol said flatly. “Doesn’t have to have meatballs, but it has to be spaghetti.”
“You drive a hard bargain, kid.” Wyatt shrugged. “Spaghetti it is.”
“You could use some of the goat cheese,” Bec said cautiously. “It’s good.”
He nodded. “Could work. I’d rather put it in the salad, though. Maybe some butter lettuce with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese. And a vinaigrette. Simple. Nothing too fancy.”
“What about dessert?” Carol leaned forward in her chair. “You’ve got to have dessert. Every Valentine’s Day, we sell out of cheesecake. To go.”
Wyatt grinned. “You’re a fount of information, kid. What kind of desserts do you have around right now?”
Carol sighed, staring up at the cottonwoods again. “Berry scones. Croissants. Crème brulée. Chocolate mousse. And some éclairs, but I wouldn’t recommend those because you get custard all over yourself when you eat them.”
“They also do Napoleons and fruit tarts,” Bec supplied. “And yes, you need dessert. And yes, buying it would make sense since you’re going to be doing all the rest of the cooking. It would be good to have one thing you didn’t have to mess with.”
Wyatt nodded. “Agreed. And if the desserts here are as good as the cheese, they’ll work for me.”
“Who’s serving?” Carol folded her arms across her chest.
“Serving?” Wyatt paused. “I hadn’t thought about it. Me, I guess. Or maybe Bec.”
Bec’s cheeks flushed again. I have to tell him about Angel. Not that having Angel at the table would mean she couldn’t serve. But, well, with both Angel and Abe, it could get awkward.
Carol shook her head. “Bec’s not a server. She makes cheese.”
Bec frowned. She wasn’t sure why Carol was putting her down—they’d always gotten along okay before. “Well, I could probably…”
Carol cut her off. “I’m a server. I do it all the time. You need a professional for this job.”
Wyatt and Bec both stared at her. The corners of Wyatt’s mouth inched up. “You want to serve my romantic dinner?”
Carol nodded decisively. “You need me. And I’m available.”
Bec hated to disturb Carol’s campaign, but there was reality to be faced. “Your mother may not think so.”
“Her mother may not think what?” Ruth stood slightly above them on the path, studying her backyard. “This looks very nice, considering what you had to work with.”
“Thanks.” Wyatt turned his charm in her direction. “Your daughter wants to donate her serving skills to the romantic dinner tomorrow night.”
“Not donate.” Carol shook her head. “I didn’t say donate. If you use a professional, you should pay.”
Wyatt frowned. “You want me to pay you?”
Carol’s jaw firmed. “Naturally.”
“How much is your fee?”
Carol paused, staring at her mother.
“Don’t drag me into this. It’s your show.”
“Twenty-five dollars,” Carol said after a moment. “And I’ll help with clean up.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Wyatt looked toward Ruth. “It’s tomorrow night. Is that okay?”
“Fine by me.” She turned back to her daughter. “You’re sure you want to do this? Work at night after you work during the day?”
Carol nodded. “I’m sure.”
“All right then.” Ruth extended her hand. “Come on, Ms. Professional Server. Time to go home for the night.”
Carol pushed herself up, grabbing hold of her mother’s hand. Halfway up the slope to the back of the deli, she turned. “You won’t forget, will you? You promised.”
She suddenly looked eleven again. Bec bit her lip.
“I did, and I won’t forget,” Wyatt said. “Thanks for your help.”
Carol nodded, then turned to her mother again to head around the building toward the street.
Bec leaned forward, pressing her chin against her knees. “You know you got a bargain, right?”
“Oh, yeah. She’ll probably class up the joint way beyond what either of us could do.” He drained the end of his amber ale. “So, you ready for dinner?”
Bec felt a quick thrill of danger, the kind of danger you didn’t want to run away from even though you knew you should. “Dinner?”
“I’d say you owe me one.” He grinned in her direction. “After all, I cooked for you last night and spent the afternoon working on your mower. Which runs a lot better now, by the way.”
“Thanks.” She blew out a breath. “What do you want to eat?”
The corners of his mouth edged up in a faintly mocking smile. “Pizza.”
She frowned. “Where do you want to go? The town’s full of pizza places.”
“Don’t worry.” The smile became warmer. “I know just the place.”
Chapter Eleven
The “perfect place” was his hotel room, but he had a feeling Bec would veto that out of hand. He’d managed to get her to wait in the lobby while he took a quick shower and changed his clothes, and he managed to get back down to the lobby before she’d decided to head for the safety of Antero Brewing. But he figured her resolve wasn’t exactly unlimited.
“I called for the pizza before I cleaned up,” he explained. “It should be ready by now.” He’d called the first pizza place he’d seen in the dining directory, which fortunately was right down the block. He must have gotten lucky in his choice since Bec didn’t complain when he told her where they were headed.
“Where now?” she asked him after he’d grabbed the cardboard pizza box, along with a chilled six pack of IPA from some brewery in Minnesota. Apparently, everybody in Antero sold craft beer, even pizza joints.
“I was thinking of that park near your place.” He gave her his most innocent grin. Not that he really expected her to buy it.
She shrugge
d. “Okay. It’s nice this time of year.”
They walked to the park. Bec carried the pizza box, leaving him with the IPA. He was amazed at the amount of walking he’d done since he’d arrived in Antero. If he hadn’t already been in good shape, he’d definitely be there by now.
Increased stamina. Always useful.
Bec headed for a picnic table under a massive spruce, placing the pizza box in the middle.
He twisted off the cap on one of the IPAs and handed it to her. “You know this brewery?”
She shrugged. “I’ve heard of them. Their reputation’s a little too good to be true, though.”
He took a sip, then flipped back the top of the pizza box. “Not too bad. Balance is a little off.”
She nodded. “Too hoppy. But maybe they’ve got a bunch of hopheads in Minneapolis.” She picked up a piece of the pizza, leaning back against the picnic table. “Thanks for dinner. I thought tonight would be my treat.”
Maybe it will be. He blew out a quick breath. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“Pizza’s easy.”
“Still. You got a lot of work done today.”
“I had Carol.” He smiled in spite of himself. “That kid’s good. She’ll probably end up owning half of Antero by the time she’s grown. Do her folks own the building or just the deli?”
“It’s just Ruth. Her ex-husband took off when Carol was a baby. But yeah, she owns the building along with the deli.”
A lot of men seemed to be taking off around Antero, leaving other people stranded. For the first time, he wondered what might happen to Bec when he headed back to Denver by himself. Did he really want to be another in that line?
Whoa.
He wasn’t going to get mired down in possibilities yet. Not after a couple of kisses.
“So pasta for the famous romantic dinner? What kind of sauce are you thinking of?”
Change of subject, eh?
“Something light. Maybe mushrooms in olive oil with a little garlic and parmesan.”
She shook her head. “Garlic isn’t romantic.”
“Well, they’ll both eat it. That should sort of spread the effect around. Besides, you can’t have pasta without garlic. It’s part of the Italian legal code.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, earning a smile.
