in bed as long as you’d like, and I’ll see you in a bit.”
“In bed?” Now why had she said something so leading and ludicrous?
He didn’t seem at all affected by the faux pas. “Is that an invitation?”
She shook her aching head. “No. Just proof that I sometimes speak before I think.”
He winked. “That’s too bad.”
Paris fought the temptation to tell him she’d reconsidered. “Where are you going now?”
“I have to check on some of the livestock.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just say goodbye then. I’ll probably be on my way home before you get back.”
“You can’t leave yet. Jenny went to town this morning and bought you a dress and some underclothes and laundered them. She left them in the bathroom along with some toiletries. She’s also keeping breakfast warm for you.”
Jenny could be nominated for Southern sainthood, in her opinion. But how embarrassing to have one of the Calloway stepmothers learn she’d spent the night in the stepson’s bed. “Although I appreciate the gesture, that’s not really necessary. I’ll just put on the clothes I wore last night and get out of your hair.”
“I want you to stay a while longer so we can talk.”
“About what?”
“Business,” he said as he clasped the knob and opened the door. “So don’t go anywhere.”
Paris fought the urge to salute over his demanding tone, but Dallas had already disappeared before she could deliver the gesture. Assured he had left the premises, she slipped out of bed and wandered into the bathroom. Spa bathroom.
The beige marble tub seemed as large as her whole apartment, and so was the stone shower. She had a good mind to take a soak, but she didn’t want to prolong her stay in Dallas’s domain or delay the breakfast Jenny had prepared.
She retrieved shampoo and shower gel from the basket on the double vanity, gathered a towel from the heated rack on the wall, then took a quick spray until she finally felt somewhat refreshed and energized.
She dressed in the aforementioned underwear, and donned the yellow sundress hanging on a hook on the back of the door. Evidently Jenny had thought of everything, right down to the matching sandals and hair dryer.
After completing the morning ritual, Paris strode back into the bedroom where she thankfully found her case that held her makeup bag. She didn’t have her complete beauty arsenal, but she did have mascara and lip gloss, which would have to do.
After pulling her hair back into a low ponytail, Paris carefully folded her suit, shoved it into the bag and then headed toward the luscious scents wafting through the hallway. Once there, she found Jenny standing at the massive six-burner stainless stove, flipping pancakes, surrounded by a chef’s dream kitchen. She had finally uncovered the one place that shouted ultramodern, not macho rustic.
“Good morning, Jenny,” she said as she sent her a somewhat self-conscious smile.
The friendly stepmom favored her with a bright grin. “Good morning to you, sugar. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a rock.” Like a drunken sailor. “The mint juleps saw to that.”
Jenny pushed the spatula under one cake and slid it onto a plate. “I am so sorry, sugar. I didn’t know you were such a lightweight.”
Paris leaned against the cabinet adjacent to the huge fridge and rested an elbow on the gray quartz countertop. “I really don’t drink too often. Just the occasional glass of wine.”
Jenny sent her a sideways glance. “Would you like a mimosa? Or perhaps a screwdriver. Nothing relieves a hangover better than that old hair of the hound dog.”
The thought twisted her stomach into a knot. “Heavens no. I mean, no thank you. I wouldn’t mind some orange juice, without the champagne or vodka.”
Jenny retrieved a pitcher of juice from the refrigerator, poured Paris a glass and handed it to her. “You’re not from the South, are you, sugar?”
“No. Why?”
“Because good Southern girls like their toddies now and again.”
Now and again could possibly be an understatement when it came to Jenny. “I’m not really from anywhere. My family traveled all over the country during my youth.”
That earned Paris a sympathetic look. “Everyone should have a place to call home, honey. Mine was the New Orleans area, until I moved here.”
Paris had fond memories of New Orleans, the place where she’d headed her first hotel design project. Little had she known that a few years later, she would suffer a major fall from grace. “Do you miss Louisiana?”
Jenny shrugged. “At times, but I can always go back whenever I choose.”
She gestured toward a small bistro table set near a bank of windows at the end of the expansive kitchen. “Have a seat, sugar. How many slices of bacon with your pancakes?”
Apparently Jenny had forgotten the meal she’d prepared the night before. “None, please. And only one pancake.”
The woman looked as if Paris had uttered the ultimate blasphemy. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a vegetarian.”
After setting her glass on the round table, Paris pulled back a cute red chair and sat. The color definitely indicated a woman’s touch, and most likely an unwelcome concession on Dallas’s part. “I do eat eggs and some seafood. I just avoid pork, poultry and beef.”
Jenny slid a plate piled high with the cakes onto the table in front of Paris. “You’d have a hard time living here, honey. Beef is a mainstay with almost every meal.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like a cholesterol catastrophe to me.”
After claiming the chair across from her, Jenny smiled. “You’d be surprised how good old hard work keeps that in check. I tell you, Dallas is in prime shape and in perfect health.”
From what she’d seen, Paris wouldn’t debate the prime shape part. She grabbed the pitcher of warm syrup and poured only a small amount, ignoring the pats of butter to her right. “Is Dallas not joining us for breakfast?”
Jenny laid a hand on her throat. “Oh, sugar, he gets up with the chickens. He ate at five a.m.”
Paris couldn’t imagine dragging out of bed at that hour, much less eating a full breakfast. “What exactly does he do at that time of the morning?”
“He tends to the ranch,” came from behind Paris. “He’s a rancher and that’s what they do.”
She didn’t have to turn around to recognize the voice, but she did glance over her shoulder to see Maria Calloway pouring a cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter. “I guess that makes sense,” Paris said. “I’m surprised it requires working sunup to sundown.”
Maria
