Mrs. Teague’s son?” Was that a touch of nervousness in her voice?
“One of them. Ryan. Are you the new cook?”
The woman placed a package of chicken on the island and closed the fridge.
“Not yet. I’m making your parents dinner tonight, sort of a tryout.”
A tryout? His mom hadn’t required that of any of the other applicants. Then it clicked what day it was. He laughed, but at the stricken look on the woman’s face he reined himself in.
“Sorry. Bit of a family joke.” He pointed toward the calendar on the wall, one adorned with prints by famous Western painters like Frederic Remington and Charles Russell. “Thursday is family night around here, with mandatory attendance by all. We each take a turn providing the meal and entertainment. Guess whose night it is.”
“Your mother’s?”
“Bingo.”
She smiled, just a little, but it was enough to make something in his chest perform an unexpected flip-flop.
Not a good thing.
He forced any hint of a smile from his expression and headed toward the refrigerator. Damn, he had to remember to buy his own drinks.
“I shouldn’t have assumed I was just cooking for two,” she said.
“Mom didn’t tell you how many to cook for?” That was odd.
“She got a phone call she had to take when we were talking, and then headed over to the office. I guess she just forgot when she got busy, and I assumed when she said ‘just the family,’ she meant her and your father.”
Ryan stared into the fridge, not seeing any 7-Up. He grabbed an orange soda instead and closed the door. When he turned around, she—whatever her name was—was eyeing the chicken and chewing on her lip.
“Seven adults, one six-year-old boy.”
Her gaze met his, and for some reason he got the feeling that part of her was somewhere else. “Huh?”
“That’s how many you’re cooking for.”
She exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath. “Oh, thanks. That helps.”
They stared at each other until it grew awkward. She broke eye contact first, picking up a pen and pad from a basket on the island.
“Well, good luck,” he said, then headed toward the back door that led outside.
“Thank you.”
He nodded then hurried outside, overcome with the need for fresh air, to not be trapped in the kitchen with a nameless woman who’d caused his system to jump off its normal, everyday rails with one look of her big, brown eyes. Doe eyes.
After he stalked several yards away, he stopped and looked back at the house.
What had caused him to react to her that way? It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen a beautiful woman. He couldn’t remember ever fleeing from one before as if she was a giant spider on the verge of capturing him in a web.
Choco nuzzled his hand, looking for more affection. Ryan gave the dog what he wanted without even looking. The longer he stood in the middle of the driveway, the more realization sank in.
He was attracted to the mystery woman in his mother’s kitchen. Really attracted. Other than panic and fear from his nightmares, he hadn’t felt anything that strongly since he’d come home. And that frightened him more than facing armed insurgents.
BROOKE KEPT LISTING possible dishes to make for dinner, then crossing them off—too fancy, too country, too exotic, always too something. It didn’t help that she kept glancing at the back door, wondering if Ryan Teague might reappear.
She shook her head and pressed her palm against her forehead. Daydreaming about a tall Texan with blue-green eyes so striking she’d momentarily forgotten how to speak wasn’t going to help her get this job. Focusing on him instead of her task would probably ensure she didn’t.
Another look at her list gave her an entirely new idea. Two menus. Two different menus to show her versatility.
Twice as much work.
But twice the opportunity to showcase her skills, and worth it if she secured the position.
She located and mixed ingredients for spiced pork chops with butternut squash, filet mignon with twice-baked potatoes, orange-juice cake and caramel brioche. And to cater to the child Ryan had mentioned, she whipped up some fancy cupcakes that, she had to admit, were almost too pretty to eat. As she arranged them on a serving tower, she wondered if the little boy was his.
Not important.
The minutes ticked ever closer to six o’clock, but she squeezed them for all they were worth. By the time she was done, she had enough food to feed a platoon of hungry stomachs.
Only when she stopped to take a breath did she realize no one had entered the kitchen since Ryan had left. And she felt she knew the Teagues’ kitchen as well as the one she’d cooked in for the past year.
Now that the food was prepared and the table set, she had to make herself as presentable as she could in, oh, three minutes. She hurried to the bathroom located down the hall, smoothed her hair, dusted the flour off her red blouse, washed the sheen of exertion from her face and reapplied a touch of blusher.
When she looked at herself in the mirror, she didn’t think she showed any of the desperation rumbling inside her like a different type of hunger.
“Stop worrying,” she told her reflection. “You can do this.” With a deep, fortifying breath, she retraced her steps to the kitchen, arriving just as a little boy barreled through the back door.
The miniature cowboy skidded to a halt and stared up at her. “Are you Brooke?” he asked as several more people arrived for dinner.
“Yes, I am.”
He smiled. “You’re pretty.”
A few laughs bubbled up from a couple of guys who appeared to be a few years older than her.
“I thought you didn’t like girls yet,” one of them said, teasing evident in his words to the boy.
“But my nephew is right,” the other man said as he looked at Brooke.
She couldn’t meet the man’s eyes, so she focused on the little boy. “Thank you. You’re quite handsome yourself.”
He blushed and scuffed his booted toe against the floor. What an adorable kid.
The boy’s uncle scooped up the boy. “You gotta wait your turn with the pretty ladies, Evan.” The guy tipped his hat and winked at her. “Simon Teague, ma’am.”
She managed a smile, though she feared it wavered. “Brooke Vincent. Nice to meet you.” Simon topped her by several inches, and he had an air of command and authority
