I relaxed, finding comfort in being surrounded by the tools of a woman, and even laughed softly at the ridiculous reassurance of skillets and pans. “You don’t use this section often, I take it.”
It was a statement of the obvious. His kitchen was shiny, functional, and barely used.
“Nope. Not much of a cook.” He opened a cupboard door and peered inside. “Must be something we can eat in here, sweetheart.”
I winced at the endearment and wished he hadn’t gone there. It jarred me, suggesting an intimacy that didn’t exist between us. At least, that’s how I felt. I didn’t sling casual endearments around. Some people did. Maybe Gable was one of them, so I let it slide.
If he had plans to seduce me before sending me home, he’d have to keep me awake, and let me eat first.
While he opened and closed cupboard doors, I explored the contents of the refrigerator. A block of cheddar, three beers from a six-pack, half a stick of butter, and a loaf of week-old bread.
“I can work with this.” I laid my bounty on the counter and closed the door of the fridge.
“Harley-Jane Arthur, we’ve struck pay dirt,” he crowed. He beamed with pride as he set his find next to mine. “Hope you like tomato soup, Janie.”
I sorted through a drawer of utensils, slid a skillet onto the stove, found a pot the right size, and assured him, “It’s a veritable feast.”
“What’s veritable mean?” he drawled.
“True, real, absolute, authentic.” I grinned at him. “I was married to a wordsmith,” I admitted. “I can’t help myself. So, this is a veritable feast.” How strange. I hadn’t talked about David to anyone in forever. I’d tucked all the good memories away with him in his casket.
That’s going to stop. Maybe it was the lack of food, but I immediately felt lighter. I contemplated that thought as I performed magic and transformed red goop into tomato soup.
Gable left for a bit, then returned to lounge in the kitchen area, leaning against the counter to watch me.
Warm, cozy, and content, I spread butter in a skillet, ready to grill the cheese sandwiches.
“All hands-on deck.” I pointed at the soup and handed my host a spoon. I probably should have rethought that order.
“Yes, ma’am.” The sound of his drawl made me smile inside. “Janie, that looks mighty fine.” He stirred the soup as he hung over my shoulder and watched me cook.
The kitchen heated fast with him so near. I went from chilled to superhot in sixty microseconds.
By the time the sandwiches were golden brown with cheese melted and dripping from the sides, the traitorous warmth Gable stirred inside me threatened to burst into flames. I slid a sandwich onto each plate and stepped away from him.
He set two big mugs on the counter. I poured the soup, handed him his serving, and looked around for a place farther away from him to enjoy my own.
“Follow me,” Gable suggested.
I would have gladly stayed next to the stove in an area already warm, but he was my host and I followed as he led the way. Sometime while I’d cooked, he’d built the fire in the pellet burner higher until the flames danced up the glass sides.
For the first time, I noticed the mega-size television behind the sprawling leather sectional. He’d muted the sound, but ongoing weather updates scrolled across the screen. Nothing had changed. It was still snowing.
I stood in front of the big-screen television dejectedly. Cars had been abandoned; more than a thousand snowbound refugees filled local establishments. Gusts of up to fifty miles an hour whipped snow into drifts ten to fifteen feet high. The Department of Highways issued a statement that road crews couldn’t get to some areas at all because visibility prohibited plowing.
I held my mug between my hands and sat. The furniture moved under me, my soup sloshed dangerously, and I yelped.
“Sorry.” Gable set his food down, pried the mug from my surprised fingers and set it beside his own on the coffee table. “Stand up for a minute.”
I followed orders as he dropped to his knees and fiddled with a latch under the chair and then the couch.
“All set.”
I sank onto the chair, picked up my sandwich, and took a big bite. Who knew toasted cheese could tasted this good? “Why is your furniture on wheels?”
“I shift stuff a lot. Don’t want to scratch the floors.”
He sat across from me and ate his sandwich and soup. I finished my own in record time, then wanted nothing more than a nap, or a full night’s sleep.
“I noticed you don’t wear your rings anymore.”
My eyes drifted shut on his too-casual comment. Without opening them, I pulled the chain from under my blouse and displayed my wedding band. “I lost a lot of weight—the ring falls off. I was afraid I’d lose it, so I wear it here.”
I’d wanted to establish a space, a neutral zone I could occupy to ride out the storm. It worked. I heard the clink of cutlery and plates as he carried the dishes to the sink. But all the pheromones he’d been pumping had been sucked back out of the air.
Even after losing him, I could still wrap David’s protection around me like an invisible shield.
“You look tired. Stretch out here if you want.” He brought blankets from the bedroom and dropped them on the foot of the couch. “I’ve got to check on the furnace again.”
I dozed until he set a flashlight next to me. “In case the electricity goes.” Then he retreated, saying, “Goodnight” as he disappeared across the floor.
I didn’t need a second invitation. Glad I no longer had an audience, I unlaced my boots, undid the first button on my pants, curled up beneath one of his blankets, and slept.
Later, I groaned and almost woke up when my boots came off. My socks were wet inside the leaky leather, and they came off too.
“Oh yeah,” I mumbled when he tucked a blanket over my toes and settled it around me. I thought I felt a brush of lips over my forehead, but when I heard him feeding the fire, I knew I’d imagined it.
Chapter Six
By the time I woke, it had stopped snowing, and afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows. My head thumped painfully as I sat up too fast. I’d obviously slept with my mouth hanging open. A trail of drool dried on the side of my face.
I rubbed my cheek, trying to wet my parched lips with an equally dry tongue. Gross.
The television remained on mute with weather disasters scrolling across the screen. I picked up the remote and checked the time. Five-fifteen in the afternoon. I’d slept the day away.
Gable’s note on the coffee table pointed me in the right direction.
Heated the bathroom. Shower’s ready. Water’s hot in the machine. Coffee pods and creamer next to the Keurig. I’m in the furnace room. Clean clothes on the hamper. Happy New Year’s Eve!
I almost wanted to be clean more than I wanted coffee. Hastily I staggered to his kitchen, popped in a Starbuck’s Blonde, and in fewer than two minutes had myself in the bathroom sipping the brew under the shower.
“Oh yeah.” Finished with the first cup of the day, I muttered appreciation for caffeine and set the mug aside.
Never had hot water and soap felt so good. I used his shampoo, which, though harsher than my usual, was certainly better than the alternative: hand soap. Since he wore his hair so short, not finding conditioner didn’t surprise me. Sadly, it would have helped unsnarl my hair.
I wrapped the mass in a towel instead and investigated the pile of clothes on the hamper. I’d expected a pair of his sweats and a tee. Wrong.
Gable had left me three sets of silk camisole, bra, and matching lacy panties, all in my size, with the tags still on.
Above the hamper, three outfits waited on a bronze hook. He’d said Happy New Year and left behind party clothes. It really was December 31. Wow.
I studied the choices, wondering if they represented a Freudian test. On the right hung a white silk blouse paired with midnight blue capris pants. The material and Mandarin style collar on the top made the
outfit very classy. My height guaranteed I’d look like a geisha girl. I passed.
I rejected the bright red outfit in the middle next. Spaghetti straps, very short tube dress covered in rows of fringe. It made me think of Yeehaw Girl draped over Gable the night before.
My lip curled in disgust and I moved on quickly, studying the third choice. The proverbial little black dress. Boring.
Although a garter belt and stockings in three colors rested beneath the other lingerie, what he hadn’t provided to go with any of them was shoes.
Dry-cleaning slips attached to the outfits answered the mystery of where he’d obtained the clothes. Maxine’s Escort Service marked the labels. Baby Doll Escorts to be exact.
Evidently, the owner kept clothes on hand and sold fancy underwear. Sheesh. I felt like I was auditioning for the lead role in Pretty Woman.
According to the news, the Department of Highways said stay home; the mayor and governor did too. Getting to the farm didn’t seem possible yet today. Muttering, “Party time,” I pulled on the fancy clothes.
I understood why Gable had wheels on his furniture when Teague Logan and Marty Jones showed up carrying DJ equipment. Gable remained MIA but his friends rolled the couch to the side of the room and set up a long table and speakers.
“I thought the city was in lockdown.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, babe,” Teague muttered, as if that explained all.
Gable came in rolling a dolly stacked with boxes containing booze. He and Marty unloaded the lot and Marty set up a bar while Gable left, returning with another load he took to the kitchen.
He gave me a thumbs-up when he saw me and drawled, “You look mighty fine in red.” At the last moment, I’d decided the stained boots complemented the fringe.
Shortly though, he carried a flannel long-sleeved shirt to me. “How about you wear my shirt to protect your dress.”
“Yeah?” I stifled a giggle, wondering if Maxine had her escort ladies wear protective covers when they used her costumes.
“Yeah. You’ve seen that cookin’s not part of my skillset, and you proved earlier you’ve got it down pat. So, it’s up to you to turn that stuff I just risked life and limb to obtain into eats for tonight.”
So, I slipped into his gray plaid flannel, wrapped myself up like a Christmas turkey, and made finger sandwiches. Then, I cut the cheesecake and arranged it on a tray along with cookies, cake, and candy.
Chips, pretzels, cheesy snacks, and nuts went on another.
“Where did you get all this stuff?”
“Fixed a man’s refrigeration system a while ago. He didn’t have any money. Owed me a favor. He owns a grocery. I collected.”
I wondered how many people owed Gable favors. I knew I did. I wondered if fixing his veggie tray and party food could be considered payback.
“When should I put this out?” I deferred to Gable’s time schedule. It was his party. I was the head caterer. Sort of.
I made a move to set up the eats when men began to arrive around ten. Church had walked in and was manning the booze, and most of the guys headed in that direction, grabbed a beer, then clustered around a football game playing on the big screen.
“What are you drinking, Janie?” he called to me.
“Surprise me.”
Church gave me a nod and said, “One Moscow Mule coming up.” He poured, mixed, shook, garnished, and handed me the concoction.
Gable appeared at my side and smirked at my glass. “Got a kick to it. Little woman like you might want to go easy.”
I ignored his advice. I was the caterer. If I wanted to stand in the kitchen and get smashed, I would. I tasted the icy drink and it was innocuous enough. I’d sip slow and make one last the night.
“I talked to Beth,” he changed the subject. “Told her you wouldn’t be back at the farm yet. Kenny’s covering.”
Then he ordered me to back off with the pretzels and chips. “They’re all pigs. Don’t put the food out ’til later.”
By eleven, the ladies started to arrive and I tried to set out the food. He allowed the vegetable tray, but nixed the cheesecake and sandwiches until after midnight.
While Church played bartender, Teague took care of the music. Those two were a premium combo. I retreated to the kitchen and separated some of the cookies from the cheesecake, which was supposed to be the big treat after midnight. I planned to sneak some more food to the table. Sheesh. People needed to soak up the booze they were no doubt throwing down.
It was hot in the kitchen and I’d emptied my glass too soon. After I carried the new snack out to the skimpy food table, I decided to get Church to make me another Moscow Mule.
I sipped some of that one, then I lost enough inhibitions to kick off my ugly boots and dance.
Why did I ever doubt this dress? I loved the way the fringe went one direction as I gyrated in another. I got so caught up in watching it sway, I didn’t realize I had a partner until Gable’s finger lifted my chin and I stared at him.
I grinned at him. He grinned back, leaned close, and promised, “I’ll watch ’em for you.”
Fuddled, I didn’t get what he meant. Then I looked down again and saw my chest bouncing underneath the cute red fringe. I giggled. “Okay, you watch the girls, I’ll watch you.”
Teague must have been watching us both because he played Martin Garrix’s “Don’t Look Down.” I waved at him and gave him a thumbs-up.
The music grew louder the closer we got to midnight and the dance floor, which was essentially everything but the roped-off motorcycle in the corner, got crowded. Cowboy obviously knew a lot of hard partiers and they were all here.
The blonde from the night before suddenly appeared by Gable, gyrating her nicely proportioned hips and maybe-too-big bottom, while she leaned against him and reached for his hat.
“No way, Yeehaw Girl, this ride’s mine tonight,” I crowed, grabbing his Stetson, and setting it on my head.
Gable danced closer. I grinned and kept bouncing, blondie disappeared, and the countdown to midnight started. He steered me toward the big television where we watched the people clustered in Times Square, ready for 2016.
Teague cut the music, our countdown began, bodies pressed closer to the television, and me being short, I couldn’t see.
Gable wrapped me in his arms and jostled his way closer to the big screen.
“Want me to ride on your feet?”
“You can ride me six ways to Sunday, sweetheart,” he growled, making me tingle all over.
Sheesh, Gable was a sexy beast. I told him so. And then the ball dropped, Teague or someone flashed the lights, strobes went off, people cheered on-screen and off, and Cowboy Matthews kissed me.
And kissed me.
And kissed me. He tasted good. I leaned into him, taking all he gave, and wanting more. He was adept at kissing. When I didn’t open to him, still that much in control of my sense, he nibbled my ear, then my jaw, and brushed his tongue and lips over my neck.
Oh yeah. When I finally surfaced, I discovered we’d somehow moved from the crowd around the TV to the kitchen nook. I don’t remember walking. Maybe I floated on the fumes of the alcohol I’d consumed.
I stared up at him. My lips were numb and my body on fire. “Maybe we should cut the cheesecake,” I whispered.
“Whatever you want, baby.” Gable was nice that way. He always seemed to agree with what I wanted.
But then he dropped a kiss on my shoulder and began nibbling his way up my neck until he found my mouth again.
Oh yeah.
Chapter Seven
I woke up in his bed. I didn’t want to turn my head to look, but I suspected I wasn’t alone. Either that, or I’d slept with a teddy bear—a big teddy bear.
I eased my eyelids open. Ouch. Oh God. My head. I must have moaned.
“You going to live?” Gable’s gravelly voice murmured the question into my ear.
I winced. Under my head, his chest moved. Not a stuffed toy. I drew in his scent, an aphrodisi
ac cocktail that sent my pulses pounding—alcohol, that tantalizing spicy cologne, sweat—pungent shrieking male.
When my nose brushed his chest, I greedily inhaled the essence of man, blended with the musk of arousal. Well, that certainly jolted me awake.
The chest under my ear moved again, and I heard his rumbled laughter.
This is awkward. I mean… In stealth mode, I eased my hand lower. Oh God. I no longer wore the red dress with the sassy fringe. But… I wasn’t naked. My fingers touched silk camisole. Another delve discovered no bra. I squirmed. I had on my panties.
“Something wrong?” Gable reared up on his elbow. My gaze remained fixed on his chest.
“Uh. I don’t remember too much,” I admitted.
“Is that right? Might have been those Moscow Mules you were throwin’ down.” He ran his finger up my arm and I shivered. It proved to be his own stealth move. He reached my chin and forced my gaze up.
“You want to ask me something?” Gable growled.
I closed my eyes guiltily. “What did I forget?”
“You don’t remember kickin’ Cheryl’s ass?” he drawled.
My eyes flew back open. “I don’t know a Cheryl.”
“You called her Yeehaw Girl.” Gable was clearly enjoying my misery way too much.
“I fought her?” I didn’t remember that. I might have poked her shoulder. But…
“You don’t remember downin’ three more Moscow Mules after that, dancin’ until everyone left, then draggin’ me back here and takin’ me to bed?”
“I… I…” I gnawed on my lip, staring up at him, trying to remember.
“You don’t remember strippin’ down and bumpin’ uglies with me until we both passed out?”
Bumpin’ uglies? No. I most certainly did not remember that. Gable didn’t have an ugly spot on his body.
It hurt like hell, but I managed to wrinkle my forehead in a frown. “None of that happened, did it?” I glared at him.
“Nope.” Wearing knit boxers stretched by a prodigious morning erection, he rolled out of bed and strolled to the bathroom.
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