bite out of the Big Apple as been chewed up and spit out by it. Apartments were small and expensive. The travel agency didn’t survive, a casualty of the internet, with more people looking online, eliminating the middle man. And the recession. And she’d seen no point in sharing with Shane that she kept falling into the trap of choosing men who had no intention of committing.
She hadn’t lied about personal reasons bringing her back to Thunder Canyon. It was the elaborating part she’d left out. Being unemployed and penniless were personal and her primary motivation in coming home. A job at The Gallatin Room was getting her back on her feet. She had a small apartment above the new store Real Vintage Cowboy and the only car she could afford was a fifteen-year-old clunker that she hoped would hold together because she couldn’t afford a new one. Sharing all of that with a sexy, sophisticated, successful man like Shane Roarke wasn’t high on her list of things to do.
After stepping out of the elevator she walked down the thick, soft carpeted hall to the corner apartment, the one with the best views.
“Here goes nothing,” she whispered, knocking on the door. Moments later Shane was there. “Hi.”
“You’re very punctual.” He stepped back and pulled the door wider. “Come in. Let me take your things.”
She slipped out of her long, black quilted coat and handed it to him along with her purse, then followed as he walked into the living room. It was stunning. The wood entryway opened to a plush beige carpet, white overstuffed sofa, glass tables and twelve-foot windows on two sides. High ceilings held recessed lighting and the expanse of warm, wheatcolored walls were covered with artwork that looked like it cost more than she made in a year.
“Wow.” Gianna had been nervous before but now her nerves got a shot of adrenaline. “This is beautiful.”
“I think so, too.” Shane’s gaze was firmly locked on her face.
Her heart stuttered and skidded. His eyes weren’t the color of sapphires or tanzanite, more like blue diamonds, an unusual shade for a stone that could cut glass. Or turn icy. Right this second his gaze was all heat and intensity.
“I’ve never seen you in a dress before. Green is your color,” he said. “It looks beautiful with your hair.”
Outside snow blanketed the ground; it was December in Montana, after all. But this moment had been worth the cold blast of air up her skirt during the walk from her clunker of a car. She’d given tonight’s outfit a lot of thought and decided he saw her in black pants most of the time. Tonight she wanted him to see her in something different, see her in a different way. The approval on his face as he glanced at her legs told her it was mission accomplished.
“’Tis the season for green.”
She’d never seen him out of work clothes, either. The blue shirt with long sleeves rolled up suited his dark hair and brought out his eyes, she thought. Designer jeans fit his long legs and spectacular butt as if made especially for him. For all she knew they might have been.
“Would you like some chardonnay?”
“Only if it pairs well with what you’re cooking,” she answered.
“It does.”
She followed him to the right and into the kitchen with state-of-the-art, stainless-steel refrigerator, dishwasher and cooktop. It was most likely top-of-the-line, not that she was an expert or anything. Ambience she knew something about and his table was set for two with matching silverware, china and crystal. Flowers and candles, too. The ambience had date written all over it.
“Good to know. Because I’m sure the food police would have something to say about nonpaired wine.”
“I kind of am the food police.”
“That makes one of us.” She took the glass of wine and sipped. Not too sweet, not too dry. It was delicious. The man knew his wine and from what she’d been able to dig up on him, he knew his women, too. She was really out of her depth. “And it’s kind of a relief that you know your stuff. Because you know that thing about actors wanting to direct? I don’t think it works the same in food service. Waitresses don’t want to be chefs. At least I don’t. Boiling water I can do. Ham sandwich, I’m your girl. Anything fancy? Call someone else. Call you. You’re famous in food circles for—”
He stopped the babbling with a finger on her lips. “Call me for what now?”
“You tell me.” She took a bigger sip of wine and nearly drained the glass.
“You’re nervous.” He was a master of understatement.
“I didn’t think it showed.”
“You’d be wrong.” He smiled then pulled chicken, vegetables and other ingredients from the refrigerator—all obviously prepared in advance—and stuff from a cupboard beside the stove, probably seasoning or spices. Or both. He took out a well-used frying pan and placed it on the stove. “But I’m pretty sure I understand.”
“What?”
“Your nerves. Thanks to reality TV, exposure about everything from bachelors to swamp people, we chefs have earned something of a reputation.”
“What kind of reputation would that be?” She finished her wine, then set the glass on the granite countertop.
“Bad boy.” The devil was in the blue-eyed glance he tossed over his shoulder. “And I’m no exception.”
“Oh?”
“Think about it. What I do involves sharp knives and fire. Very primitive.” As he lit the burner on the stove, the fire popped as the gas ignited.
“I see what you mean.” And how.
“On top of that I invited you to my place for dinner. But let me assure you that I have no intention of making you the dessert course.”
“That never crossed my mind.” But why not? she wanted to ask. It hadn’t been on her mind until just now. Well, maybe a little bit when she saw him in that shirt and those jeans because that kicked up a curiosity about what he’d look like without them.
He glanced over his shoulder again while tossing in the air over the hot flame everything he’d put in that frying pan. “In spite of what you may have heard, I’m not that type. I like to get to know a woman.”
If he really got to know her, chances were pretty good that he’d lose interest. And speaking of types, she probably wasn’t his. She wasn’t a businesswoman now, more the still-trying-to-find-herself variety.
“So, what are you doing for Christmas?” Changing the subject had seemed like a great idea until those words came out of her mouth. Would he think she was hinting for an invitation? The filter between her brain and mouth was either pickled or fried. Or both.
“My holiday plans are actually still up in the air,” he said.
There was an edge to his voice that demanded another subject change so she did. “What are you making for dinner tonight?”
“It’s something I’m experimenting with.”
“So I’m the guinea pig?”
“Think
