yes, he reasoned doggedly, Bex was beyond hot, and it had been a while since—well, it had been a while. Still, the world was full of attractive, available females, and Mustang Creek, small as it was, had more than its share of them. He got lonely sometimes, and he’d planned on remarrying at some point, but he’d been in no particular rush.
After all, he was busy, raising two kids on his own, starting a business, not to mention building a house. In other words, life was already complicated enough without throwing a relationship into the mix. And he knew instinctively that, with Bex, there would be no half measures, no holding back, no taking things slowly.
And then there was the color of her eyes. Hard to describe, even if he’d had his wits about him, which he clearly didn’t.
Before now he would’ve said they were green, but in the slanting sunlight of early afternoon, they looked more gold. He noticed threads of gold in her hair, too, maybe artificial highlights, although he didn’t think so. There was a natural quality about her, a lack of artifice in both her manner and her appearance.
She was one of the only women he’d ever met that he would describe as striking. Hadleigh was very pretty, it went without saying, and Melody Hogan was truly beautiful. But Becca Stuart was more than pretty, more than beautiful.
He’d heard her story, or some of it, anyway. Tripp had told him about his best friend, Hadleigh’s older brother, Will. Bex had loved Will from the time she was young, and when he was killed in Afghanistan, she’d been understandably devastated. As far as Tripp knew, she’d been guarding her heart ever since.
Tate knew the feeling.
The best thing he could do now, he figured, was keep his mouth shut. Trouble was, he couldn’t seem to do that. “Rumor has it we’re going to have real food today,” he said, just to end the silence. “The boys won’t know how to act.”
“Yep. Hadleigh makes the world’s best spinach lasagna.” Bex’s lips turned up at the corners, as if she’d seen through his effort to lighten things up. He resisted the urge to kiss those lips—but just barely. She drew in a breath, blew it out audibly. “However,” she added, “you might be better off if you don’t mention the word spinach. I’m no parent, but kids are kids. If I were in your place, I’d just hand them a plate and stand back. Once they taste the stuff, they’ll dive in.”
Tate relaxed a little. “Good advice.”
His head was beginning to clear, but it wasn’t happening fast enough to suit him.
He was still bewitched, still awkward. If the two of them had been in kindergarten, he’d probably be shoving her off the playground swing or pulling her ponytail.
Moreover, he could see that she hadn’t been fooled by his effort at casual conversation; she knew he was off his game. But maybe she was off her own, just a little. Faint color had come into her face, and it wasn’t just because of the cool fall breeze.
Finally, Tate stepped aside. “I’d better round up the kids,” he said.
“I’m going back to town for more pastries,” she told him, dangling her keys.
That announcement startled him for some reason, and it must have shown in his face.
Bex laughed again, but at least the awkward moment dissolved as she explained. “I brought pastry and I’m sure the pregnant ladies are going to need more. Plus, your boys probably wouldn’t mind a few chocolate chip cookies for dessert.”
The decision seemed sudden. Was she trying to escape?
He couldn’t bring himself to ask. “You’ll be idolized. Elevated to instant goddess status.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a goddess.” She breezed past him.
He shouldn’t have looked back but he couldn’t resist watching Bex as she headed for her car. She had a very nice posterior and a graceful way of moving...
“Tate.” The use of his name was like a verbal poke in the ribs.
“Huh?” He turned to face Tripp, who descended the porch steps and slapped him on the shoulder. Hadleigh looked on, smiling, from the kitchen doorway.
“How about pulling your eyeballs back into their sockets and rolling up your tongue?” Tripp joked. “If you don’t, some of us might get the impression that you’re finally ready to stop acting like a monk and get on with your life.”
“About time,” Spence put in gruffly. Tate hadn’t noticed him, or Melody, who stood beside her husband, one arm around his waist.
“Leave the man alone,” she said. “It isn’t as if you were in any big hurry to get with the program.”
Spence’s mouth opened, closed again.
Both Tate and Tripp laughed at his bewilderment.
Then, as if by tacit agreement, Hadleigh and Melody disappeared into the house.
“Hey, Tripp, let’s have a look at that stallion you just bought,” Tate suggested, anxious to shift his attention to something—anything—other than the mysteries of women.
Half an hour later, when Bex had returned with a stack of bakery boxes in her arms, and the men and boys had washed up, lunch was served.
Bex’s earlier advice concerning any mention of spinach was proven right. Although his youngest, Adam, was infamous for his disdain of vegetables in general and eyed the green in the tomato sauce with suspicion, with a glance from Tate he took a bite—and quickly became enthusiastic about the lasagna, even taking seconds. Tate had to agree that the food was delicious, never mind that it was vegetarian and he was more of a meat-and-potatoes man.
After the meal, Bex got up from her chair, crossed to the counter and returned with the boxes from Madeline’s.
The boys, both of whom had hollow legs, cheered.
“It’s nice to be loved for something,” Bex said, opening the boxes with a flourish. “Peanut-butter cookies and other variations with chocolate thrown in have arrived, plus more puff pastries. Those of you not running a marathon next Saturday may help yourselves.”
Tate, who’d been trying to ground himself again ever since Bex had left for town, drew a breath, sat back in his chair and looked around at the spacious kitchen.
It was a well-appointed room, designed to be both functional and welcoming. The space was rustic, and he appreciated the simplicity of it. An island with a flat stove and a ceramic top had been added, an ideal fit with the hand-hewn cabinets Jim had built himself, years before. Even when Tripp had remodeled the place after he’d sold the charter jet service and moved back to Mustang Creek, he’d left the best parts unchanged, so the other appliances, however sleek and modern, actually enhanced the relax-and-stay-awhile effect. A natural rock fireplace filled one wall, and a quilted runner—Hadleigh’s own handiwork—brightened the long plank table, with its sturdy pine chairs. The overall effect was warm and inviting.
Tate wanted that sense of hominess for his own place, for his boys. Tricky, in an all-male household.
Just the same, he maintained certain standards. Although he let a lot of house rules slide, one
