“Root beer. It goes great with the filet. Surprising but true.”
A soda? He’s offering me a soda with my steak?
When Whitney knitted her brow, he continued, “Hard root beer. I brew it myself.”
“Sounds delicious.” Whitney bit into her bottom lip. “Maybe just a taste. I’m more of a martini girl.”
“Gotta respect a woman who knows what she wants.” He poured an ounce of deep amber liquid into a brandy snifter. “But give it a try. See what you think.”
Whitney raised the glass to her lips and sniffed. It smelled like root beer and deep black licorice. She wrinkled her nose in suspicion before taking a sip. It tasted like soda . . . with quite a kick.
“Mmm, delicious.”
“Yeah?” he asked, running his fingers through his hair. “Glad you like it. Be careful, though, it’s twenty percent alcohol.”
Whitney tapped a finger against her chin, studying the man behind the bar. She was guessing he was about six two, and he had a broad chest and muscular arms. Unlike the rest of the staff, he was dressed in a simple black button-down oxford shirt, the top two buttons left undone. She couldn’t see his bottom half, but hoped to see all of him before the night was through. He was sex on a freaking stick, oozing masculinity as he cocked his head to the side and leaned in closer to Whitney, placing all of his weight against the bar.
“Ah, I see what you’re doing.” She narrowed her eyes playfully.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
She could smell his scent, woodsy and clean. He smelled of cedar planks and soap. Fresh and clean . . . her favorite. “You’re trying to get me drunk.”
“I guess you have me all figured out, Miss . . .”
“Bartolina. Whitney Bartolina.” She extended her left hand. He examined it, looking at her naked ring finger before kissing gently just below her knuckles.
“Gorgeous name.” He nodded. “Fitting. And what brings you to Montana?”
Whitney tilted her head, looking at him from the corner of her eyes. “How do you know I’m not from around here?”
He chuckled, before leaning back with a smirk. “Just a hunch.”
“I’m here for work.”
“What do you do?” he pressed. She loved that he wanted to know more about her. Most men didn’t ask a lot of questions, they just talked about themselves. She couldn’t remember the last time a man asked about her job and since she was passionate about her career, it was something she was eager to discuss.
“I’m a casting director.”
“Interesting,” the unnamed hottie said with a nod. “Would I have seen anything you’ve cast?”
“Do you know Luke Kingston? Gina Romano?”
He nodded with eyebrows raised. “Of course. Follow the Sun. Impressive.” He paused for a moment, drinking her in with his eyes. Adrenaline shot through her body. Jesus, this man is gorgeous. “What is a casting director doing in the hills of Montana? Shouldn’t you be in L.A.?”
“I’m casting a competition show. Cooking, actually. We’re scouring the country looking for the next big chef.”
“Hmm, having any luck?”
Whitney nodded, but scrunched her lips to the side. “Yes and no. We have a few main contenders, but not as many as I’d like.”
She looked down at her untouched food. Her mouth watered as she wondered if it’d be rude to dig in while continuing her conversation with the handsome stranger.
“How rude of me,” he said, as if reading her mind. He pushed away from the bar and stood tall, gesturing toward her plate. “Please, enjoy your meal.”
“I, uh . . .” she began as he walked away, “I didn’t get your name.”
“Wes,” he said with a half smile.
Of course it is.
The name suited him perfectly—rugged, masculine, the perfect name for a cowboy.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
He retreated from the bar and Whitney sliced her first bite of steak from the rare filet. It melted in her mouth. The sweetness of the huckleberry reduction combined with the sharp flavor of the crumbled bleu cheese invigorated her palate. She closed her eyes and moaned. She wanted a special moment with this cut of meat. It very well may have been the best filet she’d ever tasted. She couldn’t get her second bite in fast enough, and a contented sigh left her mouth.
“It’s amazing, huh?” her original bartender asked with a laugh. “Wes is a genius with a steak.”
“Wes? That Wes?” Whitney looked in the direction Wes had gone. “He’s the chef?”
The bartender smiled, wiping down the counter with a dish towel. “And the owner.”
Then it made sense. “He’s the Wesson?”
She nodded. “He’s incredible.”
Whitney wanted to know as much as she could about him. “How long has this place been in business?”
“A little over three years.”
“Impressive,” Whitney said, remembering how popular the restaurant was with the locals downtown. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Good.”
“Hey, um . . .” Whitney leaned in, lowering her voice. “Is he married?”
The bartender giggled. “Sexy, isn’t he?”
“Um, yeah, just a little.” Friendly sarcasm dusted her words. “Seriously, though, is he?”
“Nope.” She lowered her voice, stepping closer to Whitney, a conspiring look on her face. “And just so you know, I’ve never seen him deliver food to anyone. Ever.”
“Oh, stop.” Whitney brushed the bartender off, shaking her head before taking another bite of the mouth-watering steak.
“Seriously, he makes the rounds like most owners do, but he doesn’t deliver food. He stopped me from taking your plate, and told me he had it”—she stopped to make air quotes with her final word—“handled.”
“Hmm.” Curiosity more than piqued, she looked toward the swinging kitchen doors and wondered when he’d join her back at the bar. When she looked back at the bartender, she was confused. The once sunny employee now looked conflicted, with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.
“Keep that between us, okay? I don’t wanna get in trouble—I like my job.”
“What’s your name?”
“Anita.”
“Anita, I’m Whitney. And I never spill a secret. No worries.”
Anita’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks.”
Whitney shrugged before taking another rich, buttery bite of sweet potato. “Of course.”
“Can I get you anything else before I grab your check?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“It’s on the house,” Wes said, seating himself on the barstool next to hers. She dabbed the napkin to the corners of her mouth and smiled at her host.
“How nice of you.” She cleared her throat and turned to face him as Anita walked away, allowing them privacy. “Compliments to the chef.”
Wes tipped his head as if to acknowledge Whitney’s detective skills. “Wesson Rancourt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Wesson . . .” Whitney sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, noticing that Wes’s eyes focused on the action. She could tell he was just as attracted to her as she was to him. “That’s an interesting name.”
He continued staring at her mouth. “I prefer unique.”
“So, tell me—are you named after the gun . . . or the cooking oil?”
Wes threw his head back in hearty laughter. “That’s a new one.” Ever so slowly, he shook his head and peered into Whitney’s eyes.
“Seriously, though. Am I on the right track?” she asked.
“I come from a long line of hunters, Ms. Bartolina.”
“Whitney,” she insisted. “So the gun then?”
“Yes, admittedly, I’m named after a gun.” He shrugged. “But there’s a real story there.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
“When my father proposed to my mother, he was dirt-poor. I mean, really down on his luck, but he did have h
is gun.”
“He sold the gun to buy a ring?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he continued with a nod. “It’d been in our family for generations, passed down since the Civil War. My grandfather damn near killed him for doing it. Dad didn’t want to part with it, but he wanted my mother more.”
“Impressive. What kind of gun?”
“Revolver. I have it if you’d like to see it.”
“Wait, I’m confused . . . you said he sold it.”
Wes leaned forward, placing his hand on Whitney’s elbow. A shiver moved down her spine. “You didn’t give me a chance.”
“Touché.” She shifted in her seat, giving him better access to the rest of her arm. “Please continue.”
“He sold the gun to buy a ring. But he kept tabs on it, visited the dealer every so often to make sure it hadn’t sold. A few years later, when my mother was pregnant with me, she insisted he buy it back to give to his son. They were doing much better by then so he could justify it.”
“Wow. That’s nice.” Whitney smiled. “I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d tell me such a sweet story.”
He raised his chin. “And why is that?”
“You don’t seem sentimental.”
He crossed his arms, looking curious. “How do I seem?”
“Rugged. Matter-of-fact. The phrase take no prisoners comes to mind. When I first saw you I thought you were a cowboy.”
Wes released a chuckle. “You’re not entirely wrong.”
“Let me guess . . . the taxidermy up front . . .”
“Guilty as charged. I come from a long line of hunters, and I was raised on a ranch just a few hours from here.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
Wes grinned. “It is. Different from the work you’re used to, I bet.”
You’re teasing me, Cowboy, but I’m up for the challenge.
“Well, casting isn’t physically strenuous, but it’s tough in its own right, and I’m no wimp.” She tapped her fingertips against the bar. The air swiftly left her lungs when Wes took her hand in his own.
“Nice manicure,” he teased.
She smirked, pulling her hand away and hiding her freshly painted nails. “Comes with the territory. I’m not going to apologize for taking pride in my appearance. I represent the network.”
“Such a city girl.” He winked. “You’d never survive on a ranch.”
She placed her hands on her hips. The rebellious part of her wanted to demand a chance to prove him wrong. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He licked his lips as he eyed hers. “All teasing aside, it was a great way to grow up. I learned the value of hard work, of respecting animals, and appreciating sore muscles at the end of a long day.”
I’d rub those sore muscles for you all night long . . .
Not only was she fascinated by his soulful eyes, gravelly voice, and rough yet soft demeanor, Whitney was fascinated by Wes’s upbringing, by his story—so different from her own.
He switched the topic back to her. “And you, city girl, are you sentimental?”
“Very,” Whitney said with a decisive nod, but Wes didn’t seem convinced. “What?”
“I don’t know. Somehow I think the phrase take no prisoners might apply to you too.”
Right on target, Cowboy.
“I guess you could say I’m pretty honest, and my bullshit tolerance is pretty low. Although, lately . . .” Her words trailed off. The last thing in the world she wanted to discuss was the fact that she’d been bamboozled by Nolan Rivera. That chapter of her life was over. She was ready to wipe the slate clean and move on. And she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious about moving on with the handsome Wes Rancourt and his devilish grin.
“You were saying?”
“Never mind.” She waved off her moment of self-pity. She was on to bigger and better things and the wheels in her mind began to spin. She pictured Wes standing comfortably in front of a camera crew, charming the studio audience, network executives, and women watching at home with his smile and charisma. His culinary talents were on par with her front-runners. In fact, he and Joe would make for some interesting competition.
Maybe, just maybe . . .
“So, listen, everything was out-of-control delicious,” she continued. “Best steak I’ve had. Probably ever.” She sat up straight, crossing her legs in front of her, and wrapped her hands around one knee. “In fact, I have a proposition for you.”
Wes raised one eyebrow. “You have my full attention.”
“I want to invite you to compete on the show. Your cooking is just as good as any of our contestants. You’d skip the auditions and head straight to the semifinals next month in Los Angeles.”
Wes crossed his arms and leaned back in his barstool. “And why would I do that?”
“The winner gets his own television show.”
“Hmm.” His fingers dragged through the scruff on his chin as he stared at her and she wished she could read his thoughts.
“So . . .” She leaned forward. “What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not sure.”
Whitney went into sales mode. “I think you’d be a natural on screen. You’re handsome, charismatic, and you—”
Wes laughed quietly to himself and put his hand out in front of him. “It’s not about self-confidence. Cameras don’t scare me.”
“Then what’s your hesitation?”
“Look around you. It took me years to build this place—I’ve poured myself into every brick, every stone, every font used on the menus. My heart and soul are here, Ms. Bartolina—”
“Whitney.”
“Yes. Whitney.” He scratched the back of his neck. “To abandon this place now just as we’re cashing in on all that hard work would be . . . well, it’d be a travesty.”
Whitney understood—clearly his restaurant was a huge success in the Billings area, and obviously he’d spent quite some time working through every detail of the establishment. But something in her gut told her he belonged on the show. Perhaps she was fooling herself and her attraction to him was dictating her determination—that remained to be seen. All she knew was that Wes belonged on her show. He would be a strong, if not the strongest, competitor and his rugged good looks and demeanor would make women across the nation swoon over their bowls of popcorn. Wes had star quality, and she wasn’t about to take no for an answer . . . not yet.
“Will you think about it?” She reached into her purse to retrieve a business card and placed it in his hand. “That’s my cell number. I’m not leaving for another thirty-six hours or so—promise me you’ll think about it.”
Wes stared at the card resting in between his fingertips before looking back at Whitney. “I’ll make you a deal.”
She slid from her barstool and placed both hands on her hips, having déjà vu. She and Charlie had made a deal too. He’d wanted a night on the town with her before deciding whether or not to pursue the show . . . and her. “I’m listening.”
“Meet me tomorrow and we’ll spend the day together. At the end of the day, I’ll give you my decision.”
Whitney decided to play hard to get. “Why can’t you just think about it on your own and give me your decision later?”
“I could do that.” He gave a quick nod, rising to his feet, and took one of her hands in his. “But I’d like to see you again.”
“You could see me now.” Never one to hold back her intentions, Whitney tilted her head to the side and squeezed his hand.
He licked his lips and sighed. “Tempting, but that’s not my style. I want to know much more about a woman before I . . . see her. So far, I love everything I see. But I want to know much more—who you are, what makes you tick. Everything.”
Whitney was unsettled. No one had ever said anything like that to her before—no man had ever wanted to know everything about her, not even Nolan, with whom she was involved for years.
For God’s sake, Nolan couldn’t even remember her favorite candy!
Whitney scrunched her nose. “Um, I think we’d need more than a day for that.”
“Gotta start somewhere.” He took the other hand in his and closed the space between them. She could feel his breath on her forehead as he looked down into her eyes. “What do you say? Meet me at ten?”
She swallowed hard, wishing his lips were on hers. “Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Come to my hotel. I’ll write the info on my card.” She grabbed the business card from his hand and a pen from her purse, and jotted down her hotel information before handing the card back.
“Perfect.” He placed the card in his back pocket. “Let me walk you out.”
Whitney’s stomach clenched, not knowing if Wes was giving her the brush-off, or if he was genuinely interested in getting to know her. Her gut told her their attraction was not only undeniable, but completely mutual. But what if her gut was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time since starting this trip. Her hand remained in his as they walked to her rental car.
“So . . .” she began, looking into his eyes, trying to figure out his intentions.
He smirked. “So . . .”
She laughed to herself, closing her eyes and shaking her head, ready to hang her head in shame and drive back to her hotel to sleep off their encounter. But when she opened her eyes, she saw his smirk had disappeared into the darkness. He was staring into her eyes with a genuine look of wonder. Wes moved toward Whitney, backing her into the side of her rental car. His hands gripped the roof of the vehicle and he leaned in close. She licked her lips, anticipating a kiss. Her heart was pounding like a drum beneath her silk top. The tension, the electricity between them was palpable.
He leaned in, his nose almost touching hers. “Not yet.”
Playfully, Whitney groaned, rolling her eyes. “Seriously? You’re killing me.”
“See you in the morning?” he asked, ignoring her attempt at a tantrum, running his fingers through her curly locks. A shiver ran down her neck as he touched the strands gently. “Ten o’clock.”
“How about nine thirty?”
“A little eager, hmm?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps.”
“Nine thirty it is.” He smiled. “Drive safely.”
If You Can't Take the Heat Page 9