Silver Spoon

by Cheyenne Meadows

  If only he could remember where he knew her from.

  Forgetting his hurry to grab up the book he came for, Spoon stood transfixed, kicking his brain into high gear. Easing closer, he picked up on some of the conversations among those waiting in line. Nothing really helped him put his finger on the elusive information.

  As he stood there, the line dwindled and gradually dissipated, leaving the woman to her own devices. Striding over, he paused in front of the small table. "Where do I know you from?"

  Glancing up, she pasted on a smile. "The gym?"

  He snapped his fingers. "That's it. You work there." His mouth turned into a frown. "Why would you work there if you're a published author? I thought they made good money from book sales."

  She patted the empty seat next to her.

  Maneuvering around the table, he sat down next to her.

  "That's a common myth about writers. Honestly, like in most other businesses, writers have to pay their dues. They aren't normally best sellers their first time out. Or their second. Or their tenth." She took a deep breath. "I like to compare writing books to singers. There are tons of singers out there, but very few overall make it to a Grammy nomination. The same with authors. Most of us have to keep our day jobs in order to support our hobbies."

  Her words rang a bell with him, now that he actually thought about it. The analogy could just as easily carry to professional athletes or even generals in the military. Certainly a common scenario in many professions. "That makes sense."

  Picking up a paperback book resting on the table in front of him, he studied the cover. A man bare from the waist up stared back at him while a silver colored wolf poised in the background, his keen yellow gaze intent upon the man. Spoon flipped the book over, quickly reading the back. He smiled slightly. "Werewolf?"

  She shrugged, her grin softening from the earlier stiffness. "It's what came to me."

  He shook his head. "I don't understand why women read and watch this"—he flicked his hand toward a long set of shelves—"paranormal stuff."

  "Read one. At worst you will know why women like it. At best, you will actually like it." She nodded toward the book still clasped in his hand.

  Hearing the challenge in her voice, he straightened his back. "What if I don't like it?"

  "I'll personally give you a refund."

  He nodded abruptly. "Deal." Standing, he stepped away from the table before pausing and turning back. "I didn't even ask. What's your name?"

  She chuckled, a light and gleeful sound that reminded him of the first songbirds returning in the spring after a long winter.

  "Riley. Riley Bordeaux."

  "I'm Aidan. My friends call me Spoon."

  "Spoon? That's an unusual nickname." Her head tilted in puzzlement.

  He shot her a quick smile. "Have dinner with me tonight and I'll tell you all about it."

  She blinked a few times before she managed to recover. With a wide-eyed look, she shot him a tentative grin. "I'd like that."

  "Good. When are you done here?"

  She checked her watch. "Twenty more minutes."

  "I'll pay for this then meet you back here. How do you feel about cheeseburgers?"

  "I love them."

  With one more glance, he headed to the front of the store to buy the book. Luckily, he found another display that held the hardback action novel he initially came in for, otherwise he would have forgotten it entirely, as captivated as he was with Riley. Waiting in line, he pondered why he'd just invited a perfect stranger, one that he must have overlooked at the gym a dozen times or more, out to eat.

  As callous as it sounded, seeing her tonight in a new light brought her to his attention, whereas he'd typically paid little attention to the sideline workers at places he frequented often, the gym, the grocery store, the bank. Not that he considered them beneath him, he just focused on the task at hand, not the various individuals around him. Sure, he always scanned for anything appearing out of place or erratic, but when everything checked out, he possessed a single track mind. And overlooked a pretty redhead with glittering emerald eyes.

  Riley. The name suited her. Atypical and different. Pretty and easy to talk to, she exuded confidence, kindness, and hinted at a good sense of humor. All top priorities in his list for the opposite sex.

  For a fleeting second, he considered his earlier plans of hitting the bars in search of a hot, willing woman to share his bed tonight. As soon as the thought came, he discarded it like a stained napkin after lunch. In all honesty, the constant search and find mission of bar hopping and one-night stands hit the level of nearly boring. He would share a few hours of empty sex with a woman he just met but didn't even know her last name, before parting before dawn. That worked just fine. Until now.

  Riley sparked his interest in a way no other woman had in a long time.

  Might as well give it a shot. He had nothing to lose by taking her out to see if the brightness wore off after a couple hours in her company. If all else failed, the bar scene would still be there next week.

  * * * *

  Yesterday, he'd nearly bulldozed her over like a mere stop sign on an empty and isolated road. Today, he asked her out to eat. Talk about a crazy world and the difference a day can make.

  Riley mentally shook her head, still reeling from the drastic turnabout in such a short period of time. So what if they landed at a Mom and Pop old fashioned malt shop? The laid-back atmosphere suited a get-to-know-one-another situation fairly well. Who was she to complain either way? Her first date in months included a gorgeous pin-up model with a bit of mystery. For that she would eat bologna sandwiches on a park bench.

  "What do you do for a living?" She tossed out the first pitch.

  "That's confidential." He stuffed a fry in his mouth.

  She blinked at him. The declaration both surprised and unsettled her. Most men, if nothing else, bragged about their careers, even made up ones. "As in, you could tell me but then you'd have to kill me?"

  He nodded. "Something like that."

  Oh, good grief. Perhaps she should consider calling a taxi instead of riding back alone with him to the bookstore parking lot. "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"

  Spoon met her gaze as he slurped on his straw. "Let's see. I'm employed. A Leo. In good health and like to read."

  Not satisfied with the short list, she prodded him for more. "Any exes, kids, pets?"

  "None of the above. You?"

  "Nope. I lost my old cat last year to cancer and haven't been brave enough to consider another pet, yet."

  His eyebrows furrowed. "I'm sorry. My friends all have animals and they seem quite happy with them."

  She nodded then took another bite of her cheeseburger. While chewing, she studied the man before her. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrower waist, well defined muscles showed beneath the slightly snug long-sleeved T-shirt. A pair of worn jeans molded to his lower half, outlining a terrific rear as she'd noted earlier when walking to and from the car. Sharp brown eyes took in their surroundings with quick observation skills. She truly doubted he missed a single thing, despite the second he took to scan the room. A mouse didn't stand a chance to go unnoticed with Spoon around.

  Spoon. An odd nickname. One he'd promised to explain if she ate with him.

  "Okay. Fess up. How did you get the nickname Spoon?"

  He shrugged while hungrily chewing a large bite of hamburger. "My comrades thought I was born wealthy. Thus, with a silver spoon in my mouth."

  "Was that the case?" If he was worth a fortune, she couldn't tell it by looking at him.

  "My parents' income has nothing to do with my income." The terse words warned her to quickly change the topic.

  Chomping a French fry, she shifted gears. "Here I thought Spoon related to something erotic. Like it was your favorite sexual position or your tongue had spoon-like abilities." She peeked coyly up at him.

  He snorted. "Is your mind always in the gutter?"

  "Well, I do write romance novel
s after all."

  "Speaking of, I bet your parents are proud of you getting published."

  She automatically bristled and shook her head. "My mother passed when I was thirteen."

  He lowered his chin. "I'm sorry. That's a tough age to be without a mother."

  "Thanks." She chose to move ahead rather than focus on the depressing past. "My father… doesn't understand about my writing. He believes romance novels are unclean, and doesn't think anyone of worth would write such a thing." All too familiar anger reared up as she replayed the day she'd excitedly told him her first book had been contracted. Her enthusiasm had dried up like a water puddle in the Sahara desert under his biting scrutiny and judgment.

  Spoon reached out to cover her hand with his, giving a small squeeze. "Sounds like a bigot to me and he's the unworthy one."

  Her lips formed a sad smile. "I agree with you, which is why I rarely have contact with him anymore. I got tired of not meeting his standards and hearing about it."

  His face contorted in a grimace, as if he felt her same pain.

  Intrigued, she poked cautiously into his life. "You have similar difficulties with your father?"

  At first, she didn't think he would answer. His shoulders lifted even as his fingers tightened around a fisted napkin. Long beats of silence passed with only the murmurs of nearby tables breaking through.

  "You could say that." He released a long sigh. "It sounds like our fathers were made out of the same mold. Never satisfied with their children no matter how hard they tried." His brown eyes and face expressed tight restraint, frustration, and anger.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, returning the sympathetic gesture with her smaller hand over his. Her first date in months and they were wallowing in misery over situations out of their control. If it continued, she doubted he would even consider a second date. The thought sent a wave of sadness through her. "My, aren't we getting melancholic?" With a forced smile, she moved to lighten the conversation.

  He nodded. "That we are."

  "How do you feel about dessert?"

  He grinned wickedly as his eyes twinkled with mischief. "What are you offering?"

  She snorted as her face heated. "Letch. I swear. Although"—she tapped a finger on her chin—"you would make an ideal book cover model. Perhaps even a consultant." Peeking up through her lashes, she watched the changing expressions move across his face.

  His head cocked to the side. "Consultant? I know nothing about writing."

  Riley waved a hand dismissively. "No. No. Not about the writing part." Lowering her voice to a sensual pitch, she threw out the pressing question. "So, tell me, what deep, dark fantasies do you have about women in your bed?" Her voice lowered in volume while taking on a husky timbre.

  Spoon's eyebrows rose while the corners of his mouth twitched. "Aim to play them out?"

  She took a long drink of her soda, using the time to pinpoint the perfect answer. "That would be telling."

  A spark returned to his eyes, along with a mischievous grin. Both sent her tummy tumbling in a slow, delicious somersault. Her gut instinct told her he would be a force to be reckoned with in bed for any woman lucky enough to receive an invite.

  Pick me, her inner harlot whispered in her mind. She ignored the tiny voice to focus on the light-hearted teasing. "So, what do you think?"

  "Let me get this straight. You want me to spill about my sexual escapades so you can use the material for your books?"

  "Yes. For the sex scenes. They have to be exciting and each one different. You seem to have the knowledge and firsthand experience. Would you at least consider assisting me with some research?"

  He chuckled, his chest bouncing with the sound. "Which brain of mine do you intend to tap for this information?"

  "Hmmmmm." Her focus lowered for a second before returning to his face. "That's a good question. I'll have to think about it, but I should probably warn you that I'm not a one-night stand kind of woman."

  "I didn't imagine you were." Spoon's low baritone sent shivers up her arms.

  "And, I don't have sex on a first date, either."

  "I don't expect you to."

  She beamed at him. "I think I like you, mystery and all." For the first time in forever, she actually enjoyed bantering with a man, razzing and flirting.

  He matched her grin. "That's good to know."

  Heady with the new found joy, she dove in once more. "I don't suppose you'd like to get together again soon? With me?"

  Surprise briefly flashed across his handsome face. "Best idea I've heard all day."

  Anticipation, intermingled with relief, coursed through her body. Perhaps finally her lucky star shone brightly over this prospect. Full of hope, she wrote her phone number on a clean napkin. "Call me. Anytime. I mean…" Her voice faded as her face heated at the sheer desperation she detected in her own voice.

  He chuckled while pocketing the paper. "You working tomorrow?"

  She nodded.

  "I'll definitely make a point to drag my lazy ass out of bed and go for a workout then."

  "I can't wait." To watch sweat dampen his T-shirt, causing it to cling to that delicious body. To see his strong muscles flex and extend with each set of weights. To drool as he bent over time and again to exchange dumbbells.

  "Lady, take my advice. Never play poker." He grinned at her while slurping on his soda.

  She chuckled. "Think I'll lose, big time?"

  Spoon set his empty cup back on the table. "Money, yes. You want to play with me and lose your clothes…" He shrugged.

  Boy howdy. Now that's one game I would love to play. Sign me up.

  Chapter 4

  Spoon returned home, tossed his keys on the countertop and switched on the lights. The paperback book soon followed, landing on the arm of his recliner. A weathered leather sofa and the chair, along with a modest television on a walnut stained wooden stand, comprised all his living room furniture.

  The one bedroom apartment served as a home base, though he spent more time away than in residence. An expensive rental fee for such a small area, but the amount reflected the extra security of a gated community along with the intercom service. With his prolonged absences from home and attachment to his goods, he didn't squabble over the price. It afforded him peace of mind while he hung out at home for some much deserved rest and relaxation, and a firm belief that his small corner of the world remained safe while he chased bad guys across the continent.

  Marching into the kitchen, he pulled open the fridge, peered inside at the small number of offerings, then grabbed a beer. I really need to hit the grocery store tomorrow. In all reality, his icebox remained bare most of the time, a side effect of being yanked away at a moment's notice, leaving any and all perishables to become a science experiment until he returned home.

  Disregarding the two barstools and matching round dining table, he headed for the open living area and his favorite chair. Easing down, he released a sigh, his mind replaying the unusual events of the day.

  Riley. Not the type of woman he usually dated. Yet, something about her just clicked, compelling him to ask her out to a malt shop of all places. No matter. She must have enjoyed herself since she bravely asked for another date before the first even wound down. He certainly did. Hell, he relished sitting around and shooting the bull with Riley more than he had with all the one-night stands in recent memory. Her quick wit kept him off balance even as her smile brightened up her round face. She had curves in all the right places. Brains. Personality. And a decent body. He could do much worse.

  Checking his cell phone, he noticed a message from his father. With a frown, he set the device aside for the moment, refusing to listen to the recording. Why bother? He already knew what his father wanted. The same thing he wanted for the past three years. For him to return to the company as some sort of liaison between his father and the mining companies and to live under his father's heavy thumb. Every time, he told the old man no. A word Willard Brentwood didn't understand.

 
; All in all, the reason Spoon lived a fairly frugal existence, collecting money like other people aggressively sought and purchased rare artwork, revolved around his sheer determination to control his own choices in life. Some considered him a penny pincher, but he preferred the term cautious. Why spend your entire income on unnecessary or duplicate items? That never made sense to him, not when he saved for a much more deserving cause. His dream.

  Unlike many military men who lived in the present, he banked on the future with full realization that he could only continue with such a physically and intellectually demanding career for a finite amount of time. With an early retirement, he would be forced to find other means of supporting himself in a tough economy filled with bias against fresh veterans with little job experience other than Army life.

  Let his brother, Matt, take the position with his father's company. It's all the kid ever wanted to do anyway. As much as Spoon rocked the boat, Matt toed the line, both falling short in their endeavors to garner their father's all important attention and approval. Instead of giving up, Matt simply shrugged everything off like a mere oversight, pointing out the many hours their father gave to the business, trading his family time for a steadily growing company that kept a roof over their heads, food on the table, allowed for an increasing number of luxuries, and eventually a solid standing in high class society.

  Despite being near mirror opposites, Spoon and Matt got along fairly well, even now, with their father stubbornly overlooking the educated and willing youngest son for the prodigal wayward oldest.

  Speaking of Matt… Picking up his phone, Spoon placed a call. "Hey, bro. How's post MBA life?"

  "It's going. How about you?"

  "It's going, too."

  "Uh huh. Wait. It's Friday night. Why aren't you going at it hot and heavy with the catch from your latest fishing expedition? Don't tell me you struck out!"