choices in Cadence Creek.
“Just to the Wagon Wheel. Best food in town.”
“I’ve been. I had lunch there yesterday.” And breakfast in the dining room of the bed and breakfast and then dinner was a fast-food burger grabbed on the way back from the stationery supply store in Edmonton.
The lunch had definitely been the best meal—homemade chicken soup, thick with big chunks of chicken, vegetables and the temptation of a warm roll which she’d left behind, not wanting the extra carbs.
Her stomach growled again, probably from the mere thought of the food at the diner.
“Fine. I’ll go get some takeout. Will that make you happy?”
He shrugged. “It’s not about me. But now that you mention it, I think tonight is pot roast. I could do with some of that myself.” He turned and started walking away.
Reluctantly she followed a step behind him. At least he didn’t have that darned proprietary hand under her elbow anymore. Half a block away she could smell the food. The aroma of the standard fare—fries and the like—hit first, but then the undertones touched her nostrils: beef, bread and baking.
Her mouth watered as she reminded herself that she had a bridesmaid’s dress to fit into as well. Pot roast would be good. But she would absolutely say no to dessert.
It was warm inside the diner. The blast of heat was a glorious welcome and the scents that were hinted at outside filled the air inside. Christmas music played from an ancient jukebox in the corner. The whole place was decorated for the holidays, but in the evening with everything lit up it looked very different than it had yesterday at noon. Mini-lights ran the length of the lunch counter and the tree in a back corner had flashing lights and a star topper that pulsed like a camera flash. The prevalence of vinyl and chrome made her feel like she was in a time warp.
Two-thirds of the tables were filled with people, all talking animatedly over the music. Rhys gave a wave to a group in a corner and then, to her surprise, slipped behind the cash register and went straight into the kitchen.
Through the order window she saw him grin at an older woman in a huge cobbler’s apron who laughed and patted his arm. Both of them turned Taylor’s way and she offered a polite smile before turning her attention to the specials menu on a chalkboard. Takeout was definitely the way to go here. This wasn’t her town or her people. She stuck out like a sore thumb.
She was just about to order a salad when Rhys returned. “Come on,” he said, taking her elbow again. “Let’s grab a seat.”
“Um, I didn’t really think we were going to eat together. I was just going to get something to take back with me.”
“You work too hard,” he said, holding out a chair for her and then moving around the table without pushing it in—polite without being over the top. “You could use some downtime.”
She shifted the chair closer to the table. “Are you kidding? This is slow for me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Then you really do need to stop and refuel.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and hooked it over the top of the chair. She did the same, unbuttoning the black-and-red wool coat and shoving her scarf in the sleeve. She wore skinny jeans tucked into her favorite boots—red designer riding boots—and a snug black cashmere sweater from an expensive department store in the city. She looked around. Most of the men wore thirty-dollar jeans and plaid flannel, and the women dressed in a similar fashion—jeans and department store tops.
Just as she thought. Sore thumb.
When she met Rhys’s gaze again she found his sharper, harder, as if he could read her thoughts. She dropped her gaze and opened her menu.
“No need for that. Couple orders of pot roast are on their way.”
She put down the menu and folded her hands on the top. While the rest of the decorations at the diner bordered on cheesy, she secretly loved the small silk poinsettia pots with Merry Christmas picks. “What amusement are you getting out of this?” she asked. “From what I can gather you don’t approve of me but you do enjoy bossing me around.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Because so far you’ve found fault with everything I say or do?”
“Then why did you come with me?”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She pursed her lips.
“You always have a choice,” he replied, unrolling his cutlery from his paper napkin.
“Then I guess because I was hungry,” she said.
He smiled. “You mean because I was right.”
Oh, he was infuriating!
“The trick is to make them want to do what I want.” He repeated his earlier sentiment, only she understood he wasn’t talking about horses anymore. He’d played her like a violin.
She might have had some choice words only their meals arrived, two plates filled with roast beef, potatoes, carrots, peas and delightfully puffy-looking Yorkshire puddings. Her potatoes swam in a pool of rich gravy and the smell coming from the food was heaven in itself.
She never ate like this anymore. Wondered if she could somehow extract the potatoes from the gravy or maybe just leave the potatoes altogether—that would probably be better.
“Thanks, Mom,” she heard Rhys say, and her gaze darted from her plate up to his face and then to the woman standing beside the table—the same woman who had patted his arm in the kitchen. Taylor guessed her to be somewhere around fifty, with dark brown hair like Rhys’s, only cut in an efficient bob and sprinkled with a few gray hairs.
“You’re welcome,” she said, then turned to Taylor with a smile. “You’re Callum’s sister. I remember you from the christening party.”
Right. Taylor had flown in for that and she’d helped arrange a few details like the outdoor tent, but she’d done it all by phone from Vancouver. “Oh, my goodness, I totally didn’t put two and two together. Martha Bullock...of course. And you’re Rhys’s mother.” She offered an uncertain smile. Usually she didn’t forget details like that. Then again the idea of the gruff cowboy calling anyone “Mom” seemed out of place.
“Sure am. Raised both him and his brother, Tom. Tom’s been working up north for years now, but Rhys moved home a few years back.”
“Your chicken tartlets at the party were to die for,” Taylor complimented. “And I had the soup yesterday. You’re a fabulous cook, Mrs. Bullock. Whoever your boys marry have big shoes to fill to keep up with Mom’s home cooking.”
Martha laughed while, from the corner of her eye, Taylor could see Rhys scowl. Good. About time he felt a bit on the back foot since he’d been throwing her off all day.
“Heh, good luck,” Martha joked. “I’m guessing groomsman is as close to the altar as Rhys is gonna get. He’s picky.”
She could almost see the steam come out of his ears, but she took pity on him because she’d heard much the same argument
