Bridget opened up her “idea” file and quickly typed in a note about making a TV commercial. Her eyes fell briefly on yet another of her many lists, this one titled “dating nonnegotiables.” Any man she met who failed to meet her criteria wasn’t worth pursuing.
Her family teased her about the list, told her she was being ridiculous and limiting her chances. Look at Molly, for example. She’d found a wonderful man who, at first meeting, had seemed completely wrong for her. Bridget didn’t care. She wanted a marriage like her mother and late father once had. She’d rather be alone than marry the wrong man, which was the mistake her mother had made with her current husband, Bridget’s stepfather.
A few minutes into slicing fresh zucchini for cabin two’s quiche, Bridget heard the echo of heavy footsteps in the parlor and assumed the first guests had arrived for breakfast. She wondered if the footsteps belonged to the middle-aged couple who’d been there since Thursday, enjoying a second honeymoon.
“Hello!” a male voice called out. “Anyone here?”
“Help yourself,” Bridget answered and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “There’s coffee, tea, hot chocolate and juice at the beverage station.”
“I can have whatever I want?” he asked, uncertainty in his tone.
“Sure.”
She smiled to herself. Must be the groom from cabin five. He and his bride had gotten married two days ago and remained holed up in their cabin since then. When Bridget delivered the couple’s specialty brunch yesterday morning, only the bride had come to the door. Bridget guessed the groom had still been in bed and thought “good for them.”
Brushing aside a stray lock of hair, she hurried to the parlor and issued a warm greeting to the groom. “Good morning. Nice to see you.” She refrained from adding “At last.”
He paused, a china plate in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. His gaze took her in from head to toe, very slowly and very thoroughly. The corners of his wide, handsome mouth turned up into a grin that quickly spread across his entire face. “Nice to see you, too.” There was no mistaking the spark of male interest in his eyes.
“I, um...” Bridget faltered, completely thrown off guard. Grooms didn’t respond to her like this. Not that she’d experienced before. She immediately wanted out of this very awkward situation. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
“You could join me.” His grin widened, and he raised his china plate. “If you haven’t eaten yet.”
Of all the nerve! He was flirting with her.
When she first glimpsed him, she’d thought how lucky his wife was to marry a tall, good-looking man like him. If not for the fact he was a groom, she’d have mistaken him for one of the local cowboys, what with his well-fitting Wranglers, scuffed boots, Western work shirt and Stetson, which he’d removed and hung on the antique hat rack in the corner.
Now she felt sorry for the bride. They’d been married a mere two days, and her husband was hitting on another woman. Hard as it was for her, Bridget refrained from giving him a piece of her mind.
“Hey, this is good,” he said, biting into a croissant.
“Thank you.” She pivoted and started for the kitchen.
“Wait. Can’t you stay awhile?”
She very nearly blurted, “Does your wife have any idea what a jerk you are?” but held her tongue. He was a guest at the ranch, and she wouldn’t offend him.
All of a sudden her grandmother glided into the parlor. She barely noticed Bridget and instead addressed the man. “Good, you’re here. And getting some breakfast.” She patted Bridget’s arm as she skirted past her. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
“My pleasure,” Bridget answered tersely.
“I got distracted and forgot to tell you earlier that Ryan was coming by.”
Her grandmother’s words caused Bridget to stop short. “Ryan?”
“He’s applying for the wrangler job. He bought the old Chandler place. Nora introduced us the other day. She says he’s a heck of a worker.”
Nora being her grandmother’s best friend, a part-time employee of the ranch when they were shorthanded, and neighbor to the Chandlers before they’d moved. She’d talked more than once about the nice, young, single man next door, emphasizing single.
“Oh. I didn’t know.” Bridget felt her cheeks warm. Thank goodness she’d kept her mouth shut. “Nice to meet you, Ryan. Good luck with the interview.”
In the kitchen she expelled a long breath, vastly relieved. Meeting Ryan had left her disconcerted. First, because she’d mistaken him for the groom from cabin five. Then, because once she learned he was Nora’s neighbor, she’d been briefly intrigued by him.
Remembering he’d purchased the Chandler place put an end to that. To call the old house, with its ramshackle outbuildings, a fixer-upper was being kind. In truth, it was a dump, and owning a decent home ranked number eight on Bridget’s dating nonnegotiable list.
* * *
“BRING THAT WITH you and let’s head to the kitchen.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Ryan DeMere followed Mrs. Foxworthy, owner of Sweetheart Ranch. He carried his loaded plate of food in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other.
Had he overindulged? The way the older woman looked at his plate had him wondering. Ryan did possess a healthy appetitive, brought on by working long, hard hours. Plus, the food here was incredible. He generally preferred a hearty country breakfast. Eggs, biscuits, sausages, gravy and hash browns. Fancy breads and fruit were for folks a lot daintier than him. But these rolls—he’d never tasted anything like them. Darn things just melted in his mouth, and he couldn’t stop at one. Or two.
Okay, he’d taken four, having quickly polished off the first one. The rest were stacked on his plate along with three heaping spoonfuls of strawberry jam and a pile of fruit. He supposed that deserved a look. Of concern, if nothing else. Then again, she didn’t know about the first croissant, unless her granddaughter tattled on him.
Bridget. He’d caught her name when Mrs. Foxworthy called her by it. She was obviously the cook. No, that wasn’t right. His neighbor had referred to Bridget as a chef of some kind. Pastry, maybe? Sous? The other granddaughter helped with the business side and was dating the feed-store owner. He’d met the man several times while buying supplies for his horse but hadn’t made the connection until recently, when his neighbor told him about the job opening at the ranch.
Mustang Valley wasn’t large by any means. According to the welcome sign at the center of town, there were two thousand residents, give or take. Ryan was probably the newest one, having moved here less than two months ago, when he’d purchased the Chandler place. A run-down, sorry piece of horse property by anyone’s standards with a house that most would consider uninhabitable.
It was also perfect for his purposes. In a year to eighteen months, depending on how much the renovations wound up costing, he intended to sell the property for a nice profit.
He’d do it, too. Ryan was no rookie when it came to flipping horse properties. This was his fourth
