by Meg Benjamin
But she was not getting involved with Wyatt Montgomery—or anybody else, for that matter. She’d learned her lesson the hard way. Relationships got in the way of seeing things clearly, and she had clear vision in abundance by now.
She also had more than enough on her plate with the Zoria and getting the brewery going again and being a full-time cheesemaker and, well, lots of other stuff. Any kind of relationship besides the very temporary kind wasn’t in the cards.
It absolutely was not.
Besides, Wyatt didn’t live in Antero. He had no long-term interests here. Sooner or later, he’d be going back to Denver. Probably sooner, once they got the deal for the Zoria squared away. A fling was fine. A fling was actually a very good idea since sex with Wyatt was a great stress reliever. But a fling was all this was, and she needed to keep that in mind at all times.
Liar.
Bec ignored the voice at the back of her mind. Maybe she was a little more interested in Wyatt than she should be, given her ironclad resolution to not get involved with another outsider, but once he left, she’d get over him in time. It wasn’t like she had much choice, after all. She had a brewery to get going once she’d paid off their debts and started brewing again.
“How’s your boyfriend?” Ruth raised an eyebrow as she slipped a cheese round into its packaging.
“Boyfriend?” Bec stared at her. It was like her inner voice had suddenly assumed human form.
“The beer guy.” Ruth waved an impatient hand. “You know, the one who’s cooking.”
“Oh.” Bec shook her head. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my…business associate.” She felt a little like wincing. Business associate sounded phony, even to her.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Ruth grinned. “Geez, I feel like I’m in middle school again. Wyatt and Bec sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
Actually, it was a picnic table. And kissing was only part of it.
“He’s a nice guy, but he’s from Denver,” Bec said flatly. “He’s not boyfriend material.”
“Why? We’re, what, four hours away? Less than that if you fly out of Monte Vista.” Ruth picked up another cheese round.
“We’re working together.” Bec tightened her jaw. She didn’t have time for this.
“Yeah, well, since when does working together mean you can’t do anything else? Nice guys aren’t exactly thick on the ground around here.” Ruth picked up a tray of packaged cheese and headed toward the deli case. She glanced back briefly, one eyebrow arching up. “When you get one in hand, you shouldn’t be too quick to throw him out.”
In hand. Bec’s cheeks flushed hot. She really hoped Ruth wouldn’t notice.
Vain hope. Ruth grinned. “So to speak. Glad to see things are progressing.”
Bec headed off to the cheese room. With any luck, she’d get a few hours of peace.
Carol found her later when she’d slipped back into the deli for a coffee break. She stepped directly into Bec’s line of sight, as if she dared her not to react. “I need some advice.”
Bec frowned. She didn’t think Carol had ever asked her for advice before. In fact, she was pretty sure Carol hadn’t even asked Ruth for advice in her hearing. Advice was not something Carol was big on, unless she was the one giving it. “What about?”
“Clothes.” Carol dropped into the chair opposite. “Mom thinks I should wear my apron tonight when I serve, in case I spill something.”
Bec narrowed her eyes. The apron swathed Carol pretty much from chin to toes, and she had to wrap the strings around her waist several times. “What do you want to wear?”
“I want to look like a real waiter, and I’ve picked out all the clothes I need to do it. But I can’t do that if I have to wear this stupid apron.”
Bec nodded slowly. She could see Carol’s point. The apron could definitely get in the way if she was trying to serve food. Plus being a hazard to life and limb if she tried to walk down the sloping backyard to the riverside table and tripped over the hem. “I’d agree your outfit would work better without the apron.”
Carol nodded decisively. “I knew it. I’ll tell Mom. Again.”
Bec grimaced. She was pretty sure Ruth wouldn’t appreciate having her instructions to her daughter second-guessed.
She went back to cheese making for the afternoon, although she felt like she should be doing more to get ready for the dinner tonight—the dinner that would decide finally whether she could get back into the beer-making business. But other than picking up a log of chevre for the salad and choosing a dessert from the refrigerated case, there wasn’t much she could do in terms of preparations.
Besides, getting her cheese done was sort of therapeutic. If she concentrated on cutting cheese and raking curds, she could pretend she wasn’t thinking about Wyatt. She kept having flashbacks—images of tanned skin and brown eyes, tousled golden hair. For a city-bred restaurant owner, his body was surprisingly taut, and she found herself thinking about the smoothness of his skin, remembering the play of muscles when he moved.
That kind of thinking was way too distracting.
She needed to get things done, damn it. She needed to focus. However, she did not need to focus on last night’s fling.
Yeah, like saying that to yourself does any good at all.
Maybe it didn’t, but she wasn’t going to concentrate on Wyatt. She had cheese to make. She set her jaw and began pulling more cheese curds out of the tank to drain.
…
Wyatt spent the morning shopping for groceries after he’d gone back to his hotel room and had a nap. Staying at Bec’s place hadn’t led to a restful night. On the other hand, rest could be overrated.
The local market had a decent selection of goodies, considering how far off the beaten path they were. But then Antero was a resort town, and people who spent big bucks on a vacation usually expected the local grocery stores to carry a decent selection of yogurt.
He found some of the pasta he liked, plus a bulk mushroom bin that had a mixture of exotic and ordinary. He even found a cheese section that had blocks of parmigiano reggiano.
And chicken breasts, but that was no surprise. Hell, he figured he could probably find boneless, skinless chicken breasts in Outer Mongolia.
As he pushed his cart down the aisles, he wondered how long it had been since he’d last set foot in a supermarket. In fact, he wondered how long it had been since he’d actually cooked something, not counting the dinner he’d cooked for Bec. Normally, he grabbed dinner at Quaff, eating whatever the chef was feeding the waiters for family dinner or sometimes fixing himself a sandwich in the back. Given his schedule, he’d gotten out of the habit of cooking.
Amazingly enough, he realized now that he’d missed it. He hadn’t grasped that problem before, but it was a fact. He missed being in a kitchen. Go figure.
Around four, he packed up the food and drink in his truck and headed for the Salty Goat. And Bec.
Bec had danced around the edges of his consciousness all day. He wasn’t deliberately avoiding thoughts of her, but he found it easier to concentrate on his shopping list if he didn’t get lost in contemplating the wonders of her body. Now he could contemplate her in the flesh. They’d had a great night and a nice morning, and he was hoping they’d have a chance for more of the same tonight after they finished The Dinner. Surely there’d be a chance to celebrate after service was over. He could think of several things he’d like to do with her in a celebratory kind of way.
Getting in a little deep, aren’t you, Montgomery?
Maybe. But thinking about that was something he’d postpone until he had a little more time.
Carol’s mother, Ruth, was behind the counter in the deli when he walked in with the first bags of food. “Do you need any help getting that?”
He shook his head. “I’m good. Can I store some of this in your refrigerator?”
“Sure.” She walked toward the door to the kitchen. “The chef has gone home by now anyway. The kitchen’s all
yours.”
He followed her into the room and stopped, taking a quick survey. A six-burner Vulcan stove rested against one wall, a double refrigerator-freezer opposite. The double sink was beneath the window facing the backyard. The window itself was small and dim, but he could still see through it. Great. You can keep track of things.
“Pantry’s over there.” Ruth gestured toward a set of shelves against the far wall. “I doubt we’ve got much you can use, though.”
He shrugged. “Salt and pepper. Maybe a little flour for the sauce.”
“Feel free.” She paused, resting one hand on the doorjamb. “About Carol…”
He ignored the slight sinking feeling at her tone. “Yes?”
“She’s really excited about this,” Ruth said slowly. “But she’s only eleven. I mean, you’re not going to expect too much from her, are you?”
He shook his head. “Bec will keep an eye on her. And she’s just going to be carrying plates to the table and back. It shouldn’t be too hard for her.”
Ruth didn’t look convinced. “The ground’s pretty rough back there. There’s no path down to the table. Anything could happen.”
“It won’t.” Bec appeared in the doorway behind her. “Carol’s got it covered. She’ll be fine, Ruth, honestly.”
Ruth frowned in her direction, then she sighed. “Yeah, I guess she will. I’m worrying. I’m a mother. It’s what I do.”
Bec slid an arm around her shoulders, giving her a quick hug. “She’s excited about being a waiter, and it’ll be okay. I mean, I can always carry the dishes down on a tray, and Carol can put them on the table. That way she won’t have to carry them over the rough ground.”
Of course, Bec would have to do that herself, but Wyatt wasn’t inclined to point that out. All of a sudden he really wanted Carol to be doing her thing. “We can plan the route.”
“The route?” Ruth’s lips edged upward in a smile. “I guess I’ve turned this into a bigger deal than it should be.”
Bec shook her head. “It is a big deal. It is for me, anyway.”
Wyatt felt a quick pang somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He’d been treating this dinner as a kind of adventure. Interesting, but nothing to get too worked up about. He’d sort of forgotten how much it mattered to Bec. Her business, her beer. Her friends. She’d lost a lot over the last year. It was maybe overdoing it a little to think a dinner could change it all, but he was willing to give it a try.
“We’ll do it.” He nodded at her. “It’ll work.”
“Is this okay?” Carol’s voice came from the dining room. Ruth and Bec both stepped back into the room, frowning. Wyatt leaned through the door.
Carol stood in the middle of the room, wearing black pants and a crisp white shirt that looked like it was supposed to go with a tuxedo. She’d pushed the sleeves back into heavy rolls above her wrists and tucked the excess shirt tails into the pants, resulting in a slight bulge all the way around her waist. Somewhere she’d managed to pick up a black bow tie, which was tucked a little haphazardly beneath her chin.
Bec hid her smile. “You look…very professional.”
Wyatt managed to nod. “Right. Professional. Very.”
Ruth drew in a quick breath. She looked like she was trying not to smile. “You look wonderful. Come on, let’s fix your shirt.” She extended a hand to her daughter.
Carol frowned as she allowed her mother to tow her back toward the front of the dining room. “What’s wrong with my shirt? I mean, it’s a little big, but I fixed it. Sort of.”
Ruth nodded. “Sort of. Is that some of Uncle Brett’s stuff?”
Carol shrugged. “It was in the closet.”
“Yes, they were. I’m sure Brett won’t mind.” She pushed the front door open and let her daughter walk through, then glanced back at Wyatt and Bec. “She’ll be back in time to serve. I promise.”
Wyatt nodded. “Thanks.”
Ruth gave them both another dry smile. “Sure. Any time.”
The door swung shut, and Bec flipped the Open sign to Closed. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Wyatt.
“Show time,” she said.
Chapter Thirteen
Bec told herself for the tenth time that she wasn’t nervous. And she wasn’t. Not exactly. The slightly nauseated feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn’t nerves—more like dread. Abe knew she was working with Wyatt, although he might not realize she was hanging around inside the deli. She had no idea whether Angel had heard about the deal between them. She had a feeling everything would hinge on how happy Angel was tonight—a romantic dinner couldn’t be counted a success unless it led to an actual romance, after all. And if Angel knew that Bec was helping out in the kitchen, she might not feel all that amorous.
Wyatt was proceeding with gusto, but then, he had no reason to feel nervous so far as Bec could tell. He had her wash the salad greens in the kitchen sink, then dry and arrange them on two glass plates he’d gotten from the china cupboard. After she’d spent a few moments fiddling with the lettuce, he studied her first plate with a critical eye.
“It needs something,” he said slowly.
Bec regarded the rings of lettuce she’d made on the plates. They were neat enough. And she’d been careful about alternating bronze and green.
He shook his head, pulling leaves out of the circle and tearing them into pieces. Bec bit her lip, trying not to wince. She watched Wyatt pile the new chunks of lettuce a little haphazardly on the plate. “That’s better,” he said.
Bec narrowed her eyes, surveying the result. Unfortunately, he was right. She sighed. “Now what?”
“Add some cherry tomatoes,” he said. “Wash them off, halve them, then sort of scatter them on the plate, three or four each. Then we’ll move on to croutons.”
Bec did as she was told, trying not to feel resentful. She was twenty-seven years old, a brewmaster, a talented cheese maker, and she needed instructions about arranging tomatoes. Suck it up, kiddo. You’ve got salads to make.
“What about the goat cheese?”
“I’m on it.” He rolled the cheese log in something that looked like crushed nuts, then sliced it into rounds.
Bec arranged a few croutons across the center of the plates after strewing the cherry tomatoes over the lettuce. Artistically.
The kitchen door swung open behind them. “I’m back,” Carol piped.
Bec glanced over her shoulder. Apparently Ruth had substituted one of her own white shirts for the oversized tuxedo shirt Carol had sported originally. “You look great.”
Carol’s cheeks grew slightly pink. “I look professional,” she corrected. “What do you want me to do?”
“Set the table.” Wyatt nodded toward the china and silver he’d picked out. “You got the tablecloth in place, right?” He raised an eyebrow in Bec’s direction as he sliced mushrooms.
Bec nodded. “It’s good to go. Oh, what about a centerpiece? Do you want to use one of the vases from the tables in the dining room?” The carnations from lunch were a little tired by now, but maybe Abe and Angel wouldn’t notice in the dimming light.
“You don’t need to. I picked some wildflowers.”
Wyatt swiveled to look at Carol. “You did? Thanks!”
She raised one shoulder in a shrug. “No big deal. They’re all around.” She held up a vase with a bouquet of columbines, coneflowers, and asters.
“Looks great.” Wyatt grinned. “Go put it on the table. Then you can set out the plates.”
Carol’s forehead puckered. “When are the people coming?”
Good question. Bec turned to Wyatt.
“Around seven o’clock. I’ve got some bruschetta I’ll run under the broiler. Then they can have a little wine and bruschetta while we get the rest of the meal ready to go.” He nodded toward a sheet pan with slices of baguette and a bowl of chopped tomato.
“Right. I can serve the appetizers.” Carol bit her lip. “I don’t know how to do the wine, though.”
Wyatt glanced
at Bec again. “I don’t think wine is in your job description since you’re a minor. We’ll let Bec cover that part.”
Bec took another in a series of deep breaths. If Angel didn’t know she was there, she would by the time Bec had poured the first glass of wine. “Maybe you could do it. You could welcome them and all. I could finish up anything that needs doing back here.”
Wyatt frowned slightly, but then he shrugged. “I guess I could. You can get the bruschetta arranged on the platter.”
Carol looked pointedly at the kitchen clock. “We’ve got a half hour. What do we do now?”
“After you set the table, put the service plates and the silverware out. You can do ice and water in the glasses five minutes or so before they’re due to show up, then put them out with the plates.” Wyatt was back to slicing mushrooms with great precision.
“Right.” Carol grabbed the service plates and headed out the kitchen door toward the back.
Bec licked her lips. “What about me?”
Wyatt gave her a quick smile. “You want something to drink? You look a little tense.”
A little tense was putting it mildly. “I don’t think drinking would help. I need to stay alert if I’m going to be any use to you.”
Wyatt lowered his knife for a moment, turning her way. “It’s under control, Bec. It’s going to be okay. The menu’s solid. I found everything I needed at the grocery. The table looks great. What are you worrying about?”
She rubbed a hand across her neck, trying to get her muscles to loosen. “What if Angel’s in a bad mood? What if she doesn’t like the dinner? What if Abe spills wine on her dress? What if Carol trips and dumps two plates of pasta on their heads?”
What if Angel sees me and walks right back out the door?
Wyatt’s smile became a grimace. “You’re a wizard at worst-case scenarios, lady. What if they have a great time and decide to get to know each other better? A lot better? What if this is the first step toward a long-term relationship for the two of them?”
She placed one of the goat cheese rounds onto the salad plate, studying the composition. “That would be terrific if it happens. It’s just that I haven’t had that much luck lately. It’s hard to believe things could change.” Hard for her to believe it, anyway.
