“Thanks, but I can use paper.”
“Not in this house. Sarah believes paper napkins have eroded the elegance of the dining experience, not to mention cluttering up the landfill, so it’s a rare occasion when she allows them.”
“I respect that view.” Matthew spread the napkin across his thighs. “This looks and smells delicious.”
“Like I said, I’m not a trained chef. I just like to cook.” She sat across from him, her expression anxious.
He raised his wineglass, which he hadn’t touched because he’d been waiting for her to sit down. “Here’s to your passion for cooking.”
“I guess I can drink to that. It has brought me pleasure over the years.” She touched the rim of her glass to his and took a sip of her wine.
He followed suit before setting the glass down and picking up his fork. He could feel her apprehension from across the table and knew that even if the food tasted like swill, he’d praise it to the skies.
It didn’t taste like swill. Closing his eyes, he savored the first bite of gourmet food he’d eaten in some time. Then he looked at her. “This is awesome.”
The tension went out of her shoulders and her smile lit up the room. “Really? You’re not just saying that to be nice?”
“Hell, no. You have a gift, and I plan to enjoy it, so pardon me if I don’t make conversation for a few minutes.” He tucked back into the meal.
Her sigh was audible. “I’m so relieved. You know, I’m probably too sensitive, but I’ve had the feeling since I got here that not everyone loves my cooking. But, like I said, I’m probably imagining it.”
No, you’re not. But he said nothing. He had a mouthful of food, and besides, he hadn’t quite decided on his approach.
“I did see one of the kids smuggling his lunch into a plastic bag once, and I heard another one saying something about the dogs.”
“Mmm.” He couldn’t eat and talk, but he could eat and admire the way her shoulder-length blond hair caught the light from the lamp hanging over the kitchen table. That glorious hair would look terrific spread out on a pillow.
“I’ll bet the boys think it’s fun to give the ranch dogs a treat,” she said. “We’re not allowed to feed table scraps to Sarah’s bassett hound because he’s a couch potato. The other two, though, Butch and Sundance, get tons of exercise so a few handouts are okay. The kids are always playing with them.”
Matthew was beginning to come up with a strategy. He took another bite, partly because he liked the food immensely and partly because he’d read somewhere that chewing helped a person think.
But he took a moment between mouthfuls to get in a comment. “It seems a shame for wonderful food like this to be given to a dog.”
“They’re kids, and disadvantaged kids at that. They don’t know it’s special.”
“I’m not sure the cowboys do, either.” He forked up another portion.
“Maybe not, although they seem appreciative that I’m cooking for them, and the food all disappears, so they must like it okay.” She took a swallow of her wine.
He watched the movement of her lovely throat and imagined brushing it with his mouth, then nuzzling… . Hell. Just like that, he’d drifted from his charted course. He finished chewing and pulled his focus back to the problem. “If the ranch hands were better educated about food, they’d be raving.”
“Would they? I thought cowboys were the strong, silent type.”
“Not when it comes to food.”
She gazed at him, her green eyes serious. “Are you saying they really don’t like what I’m fixing?”
“I’m not saying that.” And he wouldn’t say it even if somebody shoved slivers under his fingernails. “I only have Jeb to go by, because he’s the one I talked to on the drive from the airport, but since he didn’t brag about the food here, I think it might be a little too sophisticated for his taste buds.”
“Hmm.” She took another sip of wine. “You could have a point.”
“But maybe it’s just Jeb.” He returned his attention to his plate.
“I don’t think so. Mary Lou left some recipes for me, but they were all so boring that I put them away. I know what you mean about the lack of enthusiasm from the cowboys, but I thought maybe they just didn’t care that much about what they ate.”
He thought of Jeb’s rant about how much he missed Mary Lou’s cooking. “I can understand why you’d get bored fixing the kind of food Mary Lou made. I’m guessing her recipes are for ordinary things like fried chicken, ribs, potato salad, stuff like that.”
“Exactly! From what I could tell, she’s been making the same kind of meals for years, and I thought everyone would like a change of pace.”
“That’s a good idea, but maybe it was too sharp a turn for them, considering they’ve probably never eaten gourmet food before.”
She nodded. “I can see that might be a possibility.”
“I have an idea for an experiment, if you’d like to hear it.” And boy, did he like this idea. He hoped she would.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“I know plain food and I know gourmet food, so I could be your consultant and taste-tester while I’m here. We could look for recipes that are fun for you, but give a nod to the sort of food the cowboys are more used to. And then we could see what happens.”
“That would be great, but I can’t believe you have time to spare. You’re here to work with Houdini, not help in the kitchen. I don’t think Sarah or the Chance men would go for it.”
He’d anticipated that argument. “I won’t be training Houdini at night. After several hours of work, we’ll need a break from each other.”
“Yes, and you’ll probably be exhausted.”
He smiled. If she only knew how much the prospect of spending time with her would revitalize him. “I might be physically tired at the end of the day, but all we’d be doing is going over recipes and planning menus.” He could imagine other activities, too, but he wouldn’t count on it. She might not be the least bit interested in him.
“I’d want you to clear it with Sarah, and make sure she knows it wasn’t something I asked for. They’ve been really good to me, and I don’t want them to think I asked for extra help.”
“I’ll check with Sarah, but I really doubt she’ll object.” He had a hunch she’d be overjoyed if he stepped in and made some menu adjustments. Pete Beckett might have taken the kids to the diner tonight to stave off a revolt.
Aurelia gazed at him. “You’re a very nice man, Matthew, to offer this when you probably should be relaxing down at the bunkhouse instead of coming up here to work.”
He felt a pang of guilt. Although his original intent had been to help the cowhands out of a jam, now the plan was mostly an excuse to hang around Aurelia and get to know her better. He wasn’t sure where that might lead, and he might be making a huge mistake.
She had home and hearth written all over her, and he couldn’t offer her anything along those lines right now. But maybe, despite outward appearances, she wasn’t looking for permanence. He’d never know unless he asked.
His plate was empty, and so was his wineglass. He should probably leave now. The boys in the bunkhouse expected him for a game of cards and he’d had a long day.
On the other hand, Aurelia had indicated a willingness to go along with his plan, and her cookbooks were still on the table. He glanced at them. “We could start tonight, if you want.”
“Tonight? Oh, no. You must be jet-lagged. Besides, I’ve already narrowed it down to either spinach soufflés or ratatouille for tomorrow, so I’m okay for the time being. If Sarah agrees, we can start tomorrow night.”
“I’m really not that tired.” Adrenaline had kicked in the moment he’d walked into the kitchen and caught sight of her. He hesitated. “Can I say something about your two options?”
She waved a hand. “Be my guest.”
“I’ve had many spinach soufflés, and I’m sure with your talent you’d turn out something amazing. But I’d argu
e against making that for tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“The color. To these guys, it’ll look like you baked a frog.”
She burst out laughing. “Okay, I can see you think like a cowboy. Apparently I don’t because I never would have thought of that.”
Her laughter charmed him. He was also impressed by her willingness to be flexible. “If you haven’t been around cowboys before, I don’t know how you could be expected to understand them.”
“But I need to, obviously.”
“That’s where I come in.”
“How about the ratatouille? I suppose that’s out because of the name. I doubt cowboys are fond of rats.”
“So don’t call it that. Call it vegetable stew.”
“And make it the authentic way?”
“Maybe not quite.” He shoved back his chair and picked up his plate. “Let’s have some more wine while we talk about how you can modify the recipe to make it more cowboy-friendly.”
“I’ll admit I’m intrigued.” She stood, too. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“I am if you are.”
“Okay, then. That book on the top of the pile has the ratatouille recipe in it. If you want to take a look, I’ll tidy up and bring out the baked figs.”
“Great.” Someone in his travels had told him that figs were beneficial to a man’s family jewels. Considering his state of mind, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate dessert for her to serve.
* * *
AURELIA COULDN’T TELL whether Matthew had offered his services because he was a good guy or because he found her attractive. A couple of times she’d noticed what could be a gleam of interest in his eyes, but it could also have been appreciation for her cooking. At least he liked that about her.
She quickly refrigerated the remaining food and put his plate in the commercial-sized dishwasher. When she glanced at the table, he was intently studying the ratatouille recipe. “I can warm up the figs or serve them cold with whipped cream. How would you like them?”
He glanced up. “Cold with whipped cream sounds good.”
“All right.” When he focused those blue eyes on her, she lost track of everything else.
She’d never licked whipped cream off a man’s body, but she wouldn’t mind licking it off his. She could imagine popping open the snaps on that blue denim shirt and squirting a trail of whipped cream down the middle of his chest toward an even more interesting part of his anatomy…oh, yeah. They could have fun times with a can of whipped cream.
He glanced down at his shirt. “Did I spill food on myself?”
Whoops. “No, no, I was just…wondering how you stay so fit.” Way to go, girl. Now he knows for sure that you were ogling his chest. Her cheeks grew hot. “I mean, it must be tough with all your traveling, and I know you love to eat, and…” Dear God, the more she explained, the worse it got.
Fortunately he looked more amused than offended. “The horses make sure I don’t get lazy and fat.”
“Well, that’s logical.” She struggled to remember what she’d been about to do that had started the whole whipped-cream fantasy. Oh, yes. Dessert.
“So go ahead and pile on the whipped cream. I’ll work it off.”
“Coming right up.” She turned quickly back to the counter and resisted the urge to fan herself. She’d just bet he could work it off, in any number of ways. Right now she was picturing how many calories they could burn if they got naked.
Taking a deep breath, she uncovered the leftover figs. Darned if those figs didn’t remind her of a certain part of the male anatomy. She hadn’t planned to have any, but she found herself dishing a couple for herself.
Normally she would have whipped the cream herself instead of using a commercial version, but making her own would take too long. For the sake of convenience, she grabbed the pressurized can that had been in the refrigerator when she’d arrived last week.
After a few quick shakes, she pressed her finger against the nozzle. She hadn’t used a can of whipped cream in years and she’d forgotten how much fun it was. She had to force herself to stop before she covered the figs completely.
Even then, she couldn’t resist spraying some on her finger and sucking it off before she put away the can. She had her finger in her mouth when she heard Matthew clear his throat. Turning, she met his gaze.
This time she had no doubt that the gleam in his eyes had nothing to do with her food and everything to do with her. Heat pooled low in her belly as his status changed from harmless crush to potential lover. Ah, but that was a bad idea, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been brought over from Nebraska to get horizontal with the horse trainer.
Perhaps he had the same thought, because he broke eye contact and looked down at the cookbook. “I think you should lose the eggplant.” His voice was husky.
She was so focused on the undertone of lust that it took her a couple of seconds to register what he’d said and muster a protest. “Eggplant is the whole point to ratatouille.” She returned the whipped cream to the refrigerator, pulled spoons out of the utensil drawer, and brought the two dishes of figs over to the table.
He cleared his throat again. “I realize that, but eggplant’s a tricky vegetable when it comes to cowboys. They might accept it breaded and fried in eggplant parmesan, but I’m not sure they’ll take to it in a stew.”
“So ratatouille without the eggplant.” She sat next to him because the idea had been to study the recipe together. “Maybe I should fix something else, instead.” His warmth and his scent reached out to her.
“No, I think this will work.” He pulled his dish of figs closer. “Thanks for fixing this.”
“You’re welcome.” She cut through the whipped cream with her spoon and scooped up a bite of fig and cream. Sitting within easy touching distance of him made her tremble, and she took another calming breath. She didn’t want to drop the mouthful of dessert in her lap.
But she was determined to eat and prove that she was in control of the situation. She put the spoon in her mouth, but not all the whipped cream made it. She had to lick away the excess.
She thought he hadn’t noticed until she realized his breathing had changed. When she peeked over at him, he was watching her with that same intensity that played havoc with her pulse rate.
Closing his eyes, he pushed back from the table. “You know, maybe I should turn in, after all.”
She had the distinct impression he was running away before he did something totally inappropriate. And how she wished he would. But he was acting like a responsible adult, so she would, too. “All right. But should I substitute something for the eggplant?”
“Yes.” He picked up his bowl of figs. “I’ll take these with me, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. What should I substitute?”
“Potatoes.” He headed out of the kitchen.
“Potatoes? Really?”
“Yes,” he called over his shoulder. “Cowboys love potatoes. See you tomorrow, and thanks for a great meal!”
She stared after him, not sure whether to feel rejected by his abrupt departure or immensely complimented because he’d almost lost control of himself. She settled on feeling complimented.
But knowing they wanted each other this much changed everything. She wondered if he’d abandon the evening meal planning he’d suggested. If they went ahead with it, something was bound to happen. He had to know that as well as she did.
Would that be a mistake? From what she’d gathered from Aunt Mary Lou, the Chance family didn’t interfere with their employees’ personal lives as long as they fulfilled the duties they were hired for. Yet Aurelia didn’t want to do anything that would reflect poorly on her aunt.
Being the aggressor in the relationship might look really bad, so no matter how much Matthew turned her on, she wouldn’t pursue him. If he decided to resist temptation, then she would admire him from afar. But if he decided not to resist… Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine the possibilities.
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br /> 3
WOUND TIGHT FROM his encounter with Aurelia, Matthew carried his dessert down to the bunkhouse. He hoped the card game was still in progress. He desperately needed a distraction.
He’d been here less than an hour. Seducing the ranch cook within the first sixty minutes of arriving was not his style, but he’d come damned close to doing exactly that. He was the kind of man who liked to take it easy and work up to things. That was one of the qualities that made him a good horse trainer. So he needed to dial it back several notches.
Pushing open the screen door, he took in the welcome sight of six cowhands playing poker on a battered wooden table positioned in the middle of what was obviously the bunkhouse kitchen. They’d fortified themselves with beer, soda and various kinds of chips. A couple had cigars going. They all looked up from their cards as Matthew walked in.
“Hey, Matthew!” Jeb folded his hand and laid it on the table. “Let me introduce you to everybody.” He pointed to a dark-haired cowboy on his left. “This joker is Tucker Rankin. He’s only here for a couple of nights while his fiancée is at some forestry conference in Spokane, but the rest of these bozos live here full-time, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with them and their snoring.”
“Speak for yourself, carrot-top,” a rugged blond guy said. “You’re a damned buzz-saw.”
“Am not, Shorty. That’s coming from Danny’s bunk.”
“Hey!” A guy with prominent ears pointed his cigar at Jeb. “I do not snore. And that’s a fact.” He stood and extended his hand to Matthew. “Nice to meet you, Tredway. I’m Danny Lancaster. I admire your work.”
“Thanks.” Matthew transferred his dessert to his left hand so he could accept the handshakes of the rest of the poker players as they introduced themselves. Besides Shorty LaBeff and Danny Lancaster, the two cigar smokers, the table included Bob Gilbert, who wore wire-rimmed glasses, and Frank Delaney, who had a neatly trimmed mustache.
Danny glanced at Matthew’s bowl of figs. “Those things look familiar. The trash is over yonder.” He gestured with his thumb.
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