Abby reached into her wallet and extracted a business card. It was stylish, but casual. Much like the gal with her hand extended. He reached out and took the small rectangle, perusing it. “I’ll call you,” he said.
“That’s what they all say,” she deadpanned.
“I said I would, and I will.”
“I appreciate it, Carter.”
The way she said his name, two distinct syllables with a feminine nuance, made him itchy. Suddenly, he was in no great hurry to head home.
“I could stay a little longer,” he said. “Since you’re new in town.”
The rosy tint on her cheekbones deepened. “How chivalrous.”
“May I buy you another glass of wine?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m a lightweight. But I wouldn’t say no to a Coke and nachos. Though this place might be too upscale for comfort food.”
“I’m sure Sam will rustle some up for us,” he told her.
“I love how you do that.”
Carter frowned. “Do what?”
“Talk like a cowboy. Rustle some up.”
He leaned back in the booth, feeling some of the day’s stress melt away. This unexpected encounter was the most fun he’d had in ages. Though he was likely destined for a cold shower and a restless night. “Are you making fun of me, Ms. Carmichael?”
“You can call me Abby,” she said.
“Don’t move...” He went to the bar, gave Sam their order and came back. “I told him we wanted fried pickles, too.”
His companion wrinkled her nose. “Ew, gross. Don’t you care about your health?”
Carter hid a smile as he took off the noose around his neck. He removed his jacket, too, and stretched his arms over his head, yawning. “Do I look unhealthy to you?”
Two
Not fair, Carter Crane. Abby would have choked on her pickle... If she’d been eating one. Which she wasn’t. Her face heated and her pulse stumbled as she drank him in from head to toe. The man was eye candy, leading man material, drop-dead gorgeous.
Carter Crane was a lot of male. In every way. When she had seen him earlier on horseback, she’d barely had the time to digest what he looked like, much less what he was wearing. But she was pretty sure it hadn’t been this expensive navy sport coat, pristine white button-down and tailored dress pants. Not to mention the patterned crimson necktie that he had shed so quickly.
The fact that he managed to wear cowboy boots without looking even a smidge ridiculous told her he was the real deal.
Underneath the soft cotton fabric of his shirt was a chest that went on for miles. Hard, with ripped abs. She’d bet her gym membership on it.
Summer-morning blue eyes were bracketed with tiny lines from squinting into the sun. His hair was brown and tousled, as if he had just tumbled out of bed and run his hands through the silky strands.
She downed a gulp of the Coke that Sam had just set on the table. “I have no medical training,” she said primly. “You might be at death’s door for all I know.” When she thought her expression wouldn’t give her away, she sat back and gave him an even stare. “I’m not a doctor, but you look fine to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Fine? That’s the best you can do?”
Humor lifted the corners of her lips, despite her best efforts to take him down a peg or two. “You know what you look like, rancher man. You don’t need me to stroke your ego or anything else.”
Carter blinked and quirked a brow. “Umm...”
Suddenly, she heard the blatantly suggestive comment she had made. Unwittingly, but still... “Moving on,” she said briskly, trying to pretend she was not embarrassed. Or interested. Or turned on.
Her companion didn’t call her out on her faux pas. Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows and offered her a pickle. “You’re a filmmaker. Surely you sample the local cuisine when you travel. Come on, Abby. At least try one.”
Against her better judgment, she opened her lips and let him tuck the crispy slice in between. She bit down automatically and felt the flavors explode on her tongue. The sharp bite of the pickle and the tangy seasoning of the outer layer were utterly divine. “Oh, my...this is good.”
Carter sprawled in the corner of the booth and scooped up two for his own pleasure. “Told you,” he said as he chewed and swallowed.
Abby was mesmerized by the ripples in his tanned throat. She turned to the nachos in desperation. Apparently, New York wasn’t the only place in the world with good food. “These are amazing, too.”
Carter offered her a napkin, his gaze intense. “You have cheese on your chin,” he told her quietly.
Abby quaked inside. This was getting way too personal, way too fast. She needed to put on the brakes. “Tell me about your family.” She blurted out the request.
Carter ran a hand across the back of his neck, eyeing her with undisguised male interest. Abby was interested, too, but they had just met, and she certainly wasn’t going to invite him upstairs to her hotel room.
Finally, he sighed. “Not much to tell. I’m the older of two kids. One sister. My parents retired to Florida, leaving me in charge of the ranch. It’s been in our family for five generations. Sunset Acres is not only in my blood, it’s part of me.”
A squiggle of disappointment settled in Abby’s stomach. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a man who was wedded to a plot of dirt in this remote, flat, rural landscape. “Did you always want to be a rancher?”
He shook his head slowly. “When I was ten, I wanted to be an astronaut.”
“Seriously? Wow. That’s cool. Why didn’t you go that route?”
“Several reasons. Turns out, I’m claustrophobic. But more to the point, one of my ancestors fought with Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Walking away from a couple centuries of family history wasn’t an option.” He signaled Sam for another round of drinks.
They were the only customers in the bar now. Abby glanced at her watch. “Should we go? Maybe Sam wants to shut down.”
Carter shook his head slowly, his gaze still focused on her mouth. “We have another hour,” he said.
Those four words were innocuous, but the handsome rancher’s tone was not. Suddenly, Abby wanted to take off her shirt. She was far too hot. The camisole was not indecent. But such a move might signal something she wasn’t ready to signal.
“What shall we talk about?” she asked in desperation, her hormones melting into a puddle of heated sexual attraction. “Politics? Religion. Something easy?”
Carter leaned forward and touched the fingernail on her pinkie, barely any contact at all. “I want to talk about you.”
* * *
Carter wasn’t the kind of man to press a female who wasn’t interested. He’d been taught by his daddy to respect the fairer sex. And truth be told, women usually came on to him, not the other way around.
If Abby had been uninterested, he would have paid the check and walked out of the bar. But she was interested. He’d bet his prize stallion on it.
Still, he gave her an out. “Should I go now?” he asked gruffly. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She stared at him, pupils dilated slightly, as he rubbed her fingernail. He’d never done such a thing before. Ever. In fact, in the cold light of day, this move on his part would probably look dorky and dumb.
But right now, they were connected.
Her chest rose and fell. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”
His hand shook. So much so, that he pulled it back and tucked it under the table out of sight. It wouldn’t be good for her to realize how close he was to begging for a night in her bed.
One-night stands were indulgences he had given up long ago—about the time his father began handing over more and more responsibility for the ranch. Carter was not a selfish twentysomething anymore. He was a landowner, a wealthy rancher and a respec
ted member of the community.
For Abby Carmichael, though, he might make an exception.
He cleared his throat, trying to focus on anything other than the fantasy swirling in his head. “As I recall, you never answered my question about where you’re from.”
“You were right about that. New York City. I went to film school at New York University, and I still live with my mom when I’m in town. Apartments are ridiculously expensive.”
“So I’ve heard. NYU. I’m impressed. Isn’t it hard to get accepted?”
She grimaced. “Definitely. But I had two things going in my favor. My father is Black, and my mom is white, so I ticked the biracial box.”
“And the other?” he asked.
“Daddy is a filmmaker out on the West Coast. He and my mom are divorced. I spent summers with him growing up and got the movie bug. He asked a couple of his influential friends to write recommendation letters for me. So here I am,” she explained.
“Why documentaries?”
“We’re a visual society. As much as I love books and believe in the power of the written word, there’s no faster way to touch someone’s heart or change someone’s opinion than with a well-framed documentary.” She spoke with intensity.
“What piqued your interest about Soiree on the Bay?”
“Well, you talked about family legacy—” She smiled, her face lighting up. “I can claim one, as well, though not so long-lived. My grandmother was at Woodstock. In fact, she supposedly got pregnant with my mother there. Gave birth to her when she was barely eighteen. Music is in my blood, and in any big gathering like that, there are fascinating stories to tell. Lots of stories. I want to capture this festival from beginning to end.”
Carter had lost his appetite for nachos and fried pickles. What he wanted now, needed now, was far more visceral. “I love your passion,” he said slowly. “I’m sure that comes across in your work.”
Pink stained her cheeks again. “I hope so. And you’ll let me film you? Please?”
With Abby’s big brown eyes staring at him hopefully, he felt churlish for turning her down. But he sensed that a yes from him right now would ensnare him in something he wasn’t sure he was prepared for, neither the movie project nor the woman who wasn’t going to stick around.
“I’ll think about it. I promise.”
He saw her disappointment, but he held firm.
“Well, thank you then,” she said. “For the nachos and Cokes. And the conversation. But I should get some sleep. The time change is hitting me.” She yawned, proving her point.
They both slid out of the booth at the same time, suddenly standing far too close. Carter’s throat constricted. He wanted to grab her up and kiss her until her body went limp with pleasure.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Welcome to Royal, Abby Carmichael. I hope you enjoy all we have to offer...”
* * *
Abby left the cowboy standing in the bar, his hot gaze giving her second and third thoughts about being reckless. It wasn’t vanity on her part to think he would have accompanied her upstairs. There were enough sparks arcing between them to pretty much guarantee the sex would be explosive.
But once she was in her room, she knew she had done the right thing. She was really tired, and she had a meeting tomorrow that was very important. Lila Jones, from Royal’s Chamber of Commerce, was going to welcome her to town and even give her a tour of Appaloosa Island.
Abby hoped she would also be able to do some preliminary filming.
As she showered and crawled into bed, however, it was hard to keep her mind on work. When she closed her eyes, Carter Crane was there with her, laughing, flirting, teasing. It had been a long time since she had met someone so intriguing, so different from the men she knew in New York. Or even California for that matter.
Carter was his own man. A Texas rancher. That meant something in this part of the world. Still, even aside from his ranching expertise and land holdings, she knew he would stand out anywhere in the country. Carter had a commanding presence, an innate confidence that was very appealing and sexy. And though his intense masculinity was flavored with a tinge of arrogance, the arrogance wasn’t off-putting.
After the interesting evening she’d had with him—starting out on a deserted stretch of highway and ending in a dimly lit bar—she might have tossed and turned. Fortunately, exhaustion claimed her, and she slept long and deeply.
When she awoke the next morning at 6:00 a.m., her batteries were recharged, and she was eager to jump-start her day. After heading out for a run and then taking a quick shower, she couldn’t deny feeling bummed when she glanced at her phone. Not a single text or missed call. Would Carter agree to let her film him? He had promised to think about it. But without a time frame. He might keep her dangling indefinitely.
She would give him forty-eight hours. After that, she would assume his answer was no. Which meant she would have to find someone else. Handsome ranchers might be a dime a dozen in this part of the world. Who knew?
When she stood at the window for a moment and looked out over the heart of Royal, she had to admit it wasn’t so bad after all. Though it wasn’t quite big enough to be called a city by her standards, it was definitely a very nice, large town. The broad main thoroughfare was landscaped with flowers and ornamental trees, and in the distance, she could make out the shape of the venerable Texas Cattleman’s Club.
There were clothing stores and restaurants, bars and banks—even an intentionally retro country emporium. In her research, she had learned that the schools were rated highly, and in addition to all the wealthy cattle barons, the town was home to artists and potters and other creative types.
It wasn’t New York City or Malibu, but she could see the appeal.
A tiny alarm beeped on her watch.
Grabbing up her roomy leather tote, a water bottle and a rain jacket just in case, she headed out to meet her tour guide.
Lila was right on time, waiting at the curb in front of the hotel. She jumped out of her car. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Abby. Welcome to Royal.”
Abby shook the other woman’s hand. “Thanks. I’m happy to be here.” As they got settled, she took stock of her companion. She had met the other woman in LA and knew she was about her age, maybe a little older. She reminded Abby of the actress Zooey Deschanel.
Lila waved at the back seat. “I have snacks when you get hungry.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your taking me out to the island today. But tell me again why I can’t just stay there for the length of my project?” This was going to be a heck of a commute. Three hours each way.
Lila chuckled. “Well, first of all, you have to get used to Texas. Everything is big out here in the Lone Star State. Big ranches, big egos, big open spaces. It’s fairly common to travel by helicopter or small plane. You’ll find landing strips just about anywhere you want to go.”
“But I can’t stay on the island?”
“Not realistically. It doesn’t have everyday amenities. There are some huge mansions out on the western end, but the rest of it is undeveloped. That’s why the Edmond family decided it would be the perfect spot for Soiree on the Bay.”
“And Mustang Point?”
“Mostly private residences for the super wealthy. Mustang has a ton of water sports, but I promise you, living in Royal while you do this project will be far more reasonable. Not to mention the fact that all the people you’ll need to interview for your documentary live in Royal or just outside of town.”
They had been driving for twenty minutes when Lila pulled the car into a gravel parking lot. Abby’s stomach pitched. She was a frequent flier on coast-to-coast routes. But the tiny prop plane sitting on the narrow strip of tarmac looked flimsy and unimpressive.
Lila didn’t seem at all concerned. She hopped out and greeted the young pilot. “Hi, Danny. Thanks for running us out
to the Point.”
The freckled kid ducked his head bashfully. “Happy to do it, Miss Lila. I need flying hours to keep my license up-to-date, and Daddy said not to charge you a dime.”
“I’ll add my thanks, too,” Abby said.
Soon, they were airborne. Abby took out her camera and aimed through the tiny plane window. The result was not great, but it helped her get a feel for the landscape.
Lila watched with interest. “What kind of camera are you using? It looks fairly portable and light.”
Abby sat back in her seat. “Twelve pounds. It’s a Panasonic DVX200. Pricey, but it shoots great 4K resolution and has up to twelve stops of dynamic range.”
“I’ll pretend I know what you’re talking about,” Lila said, laughing.
“The camera was a gift from my dad when I graduated. He was really hoping I would follow in his footsteps.”
“And now here you are.”
“Yes. After you invited me to film the festival, Dad hooked me up with somebody at Netflix who might be interested in a documentary about Soiree on the Bay, but I’ll have to find a strong human interest angle.”
“A hook as they say?”
“Exactly.” Abby tucked her camera back in her bag. Incorporating Carter’s story would add depth and local color, but she wasn’t holding her breath. “What’s on our schedule for today?”
Lila tapped her phone and perused what was clearly a calendar. “We’ll catch the ferry out to Appaloosa Island. It’s a quick, fifteen-minute ride. On the island, Jerome will meet us. He acts as a groundskeeper for several of the landowners, and he’s arranged for me—and by extension you—to have the use of a golf cart anytime you come out to the island. You’ll just call him in advance, and it will be waiting. Today, we’ll do an informal tour and answer any questions you might have.”
“I really appreciate you giving up a huge part of your morning and afternoon to do this.”
Texas Tough Page 2