Prairie Passion (Cowboys of The Flint Hills #2)

by Tessa Layne

  Jamey stared across the corral, brows furrowed, refusing to meet his eyes. “What is this, twenty questions?”

  Whatever had been bothering her must have passed. She was back to her usual piss and vinegar. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know?” he growled.

  “You’re not the first person who’s told me that.” She held her body rigid.

  “You’re prickly as hell and you drive me crazy.” He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. Soft and silky. Just like he’d imagined.

  Her lips flattened grimly. “You know what your problem is?”

  “Let me guess,” he drawled. “I’m a cocky bastard.” That, at least, earned him a half-smile.

  “You’re all hot air. Like a popover.”

  He scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, a popover. All air and no substance. A two-hundred-pound popover.”

  He pushed down a flash of annoyance. “And you know what you are? Some kind of insane Irish crazy. First you threaten to serve my balls on a platter, then you say I’m great with Simon. Now I’m a popover? You need lessons in good natured flirting.” He focused his attention on tightening the cinch, and double-checking Simon’s work on the halter.

  Indignation crackled off of her. “I know how to flirt just fine.”

  He gave Blaze a little pat and checked the cinch one last time. “Do you now? Not unless your prickles are all an act.” He aimed a pointed glance at her. “Maybe you’re the popover in this relationship.”

  She snorted. “This isn’t a relationship. It’s an… annoyance.”

  “You’re right. Relationships involve willing parties. And kissing.”

  She glared at him. “Not interested.”

  He crossed his arms. “Neither am I.”

  “You’re not my type.”

  “You’re the farthest thing from mine.”

  “I don’t date cocky bastards.”

  “I don’t date bossy mouths.”

  She raised her eyebrows quizzically. “You think I’m bossy?”

  “You think you’re not?”

  A blush crawled up her neck, mirroring his own rising agitation. “I didn’t get to be one of the top chefs in Chicago by sitting quietly on my hands and waiting to be told what to do.” Anger laced through her voice.

  Setting his jaw, he tugged on her hand and started for the barn.

  “Are you a sandwich short of a picnic you gobslice? Where are you takin’ me?”

  “I may be an arse weed, or a gobslice, or whatever else Irish you want to throw at me, but I’m not enough of an ass to ruin my brother’s wedding by having an argument in plain sight of the bride and groom,” he ground out, leading her around the corner of the barn.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the guests, he pulled up short, and spun around, pulling her close.

  She clutched at his arms to avoid falling into him, and something slow and sensuous twisted in his gut. “Tell me again I’m not your type,” he rasped.

  Her eyes widened a bit, and she rolled her lips together, shaking her head. “Not even close.”

  “And you’re not mine. Not remotely.”

  “Good.” Her response came out more like a sigh than a statement.

  He nodded, his gaze locking on her lips. “Good.” He paused, the air suddenly crackling between them. “Then you won’t mind if I confirm it.” Without waiting for an answer, he tightened his embrace and covered her mouth with his.

  There was nothing soft about her. Her thighs against his were hard. The muscles under his hands, rigid. But her mouth was another story. Her lips were softer than his favorite down pillow. He moved his own against them, willing her to open. And with a shudder and a sigh, she did. Hunger flooded his veins, urging him on. He swept his tongue across her lower lip, exploring.

  Tasting.

  Sweet as honey and soft as silk. He drank her in like she was the last drop of water in the well. A groan ripped from his throat as he spun her against the wall, his hand fisting in her dress.

  She deepened the kiss, inviting him in further. Her own tongue sliding against his in a battle of wills. His cock stood rigid against his denim. And he ground against her, at the threshold of losing control.

  Jesus.

  If her mouth tasted this good, what about the rest of her? Her pussy must be a slice of Irish heaven. His balls tightened at the thought of dropping to his knees right now and lifting her skirt.

  Just as quickly as it started, she gave him a push, and tore her lips from his, eyes glazed and gasping for breath. “Have you lost your marbles you nutter? You can’t go kissing me.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I-I-I have a business partner.” She crossed her arms.

  “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “We- we’re… getting married.”

  His eyes flew to her bare left hand, then back to her face. “Bullshit,” he stated flatly, rubbing his hand over his face.

  Her eyes widened.

  “That’s right. I call bullshit. If you haven’t already married him, darlin’, and from the looks of your left hand, it appears you haven’t, he ain’t interested.”

  She scowled at him, eyes sparking in challenge. “And you know this because?”

  He braced an arm against the wall, leaning in close. So close her breath tickled his skin. “Because I don’t care how scrawny and mouthy you are, I’d never let you out of my sight if you were mine.”

  Before she could protest, and before he could stop himself, he brushed his lips against hers one last time, savoring the sensation. Then he pushed away from the wall, and stalked around the corner back to the party. Only a two-by-four to the head and a bottle of scotch would purge Jamey Irish Whiskey O’Neill from his system.

  CHAPTER 4

  Three Months Later

  The summer sun beat ferociously down on the pavement as Jamey hurried past the neon sign of Frenchie’s. She’d never enjoyed summers in Chicago. Especially this summer, when every time she passed her beloved restaurant sign, a knife twisted in her ribs. The O’Neill’s part of the sign had been taken down weeks ago. Frenchie O’Neill’s – now just Frenchie’s, was her restaurant, dammit. Her concept, her baby, her money she’d stupidly sunk in without the contract her brother Jarrod warned her she should have. All for the love of a conceited, lying, cheating, man-whore of a Frenchman.

  Not only had he screwed her out of her savings. He’d been schtooping the hostess, right under her nose. Because Barbie Bimbo’s daddy wanted to franchise the Frenchie’s concept – without her.

  She might have been able to live with the sting if Jean Luc had been willing to part ways fairly. But no. When she’d threatened to go public with the scandal, Froglegs had threatened her. “Good luck, Cherie. Where will you go when ze entire town knows you refuse to work with flour?”

  It wasn’t that simple, and he knew it. Jean Luc had refused to budge on making the kitchen gluten-free. Even though she’d run numbers and showed him the bottom line was safe with a few modifications. Plus they would have a new and very loyal clientele once word got out their kitchen was gluten safe.

  But her concept had been too much for his ego. The fatal flaw in her plan to turn the kitchen gluten-free was that it took the limelight from him. And what had he done to remind her this had been his gig from the get-go? He’d made good on his threat. Every chef in Chicago now knew she had celiac. Colleagues she’d had drinks with suddenly wouldn’t take her calls. She wasn’t worth the risk. Damaged goods. She’d gotten that message loud and clear.

  Jamey grimaced, taking the stairs by two up to her apartment right across the street. Never again would she blindly trust someone else with the business side of a food venture. Never again would she enter into a business relationship without a contract. Never again would she mix business and love. The cost was too high. At this moment, her life could not possibly be more pathetic.

  A turd floating down the sewer drain had it better than she did.<
br />
  By a longshot.

  She jammed the key into the door a little too vigorously, and once inside, shut the door a little too hard. She didn’t care. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the old lady next door was deaf. She tore off her chef’s coat and stomped to the kitchen.

  Chicago hadn’t been the same since Maddie had moved back to Prairie, Kansas, and married a handsome cowboy. A cowboy with a sinfully hot and very obnoxious brother.

  She wrinkled her nose at the memory of Brodie Sinclaire. A few inches shorter than Blake, and broader. Beefier, thanks to all that hard ranch work. And hotter.

  So hot she could fry an egg on his abs. His kiss had flat out incinerated her. His piercing blue eyes had a way of boring through her and making her all hot and itchy. But – and this was a big but as far as she was concerned – he was an ass. All hot air and no substance. Too much like Jean Luc.

  And it irked her that in the span of thirty seconds he’d accurately summed up her non-relationship with Jean Luc. And told her she’d needed lessons in flirting. It double irked her that he’d called her scrawny. If you were mine, I’d never let you out of my sight… What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  As. If.

  Did all the cowboys in Prairie use some kind of cowboy testosterone spray?

  “Never let you out of my sight, my ass,” she muttered as she rifled through the sink for a glass that looked passably clean. “Who talks like that?”

  She might run a spick-and-span kitchen, but her home life had always been a bit of a disaster. For too long, she’d counted on Maddie’s sense of order to keep her functioning outside of a professional kitchen.

  Jamey rinsed a little water through the glass, then poured out the last of her crisis bottle – 12 year Redbreast Irish Whiskey. In her opinion, the best of its kind. Who cared that it was three-thirty in the afternoon? This would be the last drop she’d enjoy for the foreseeable future. Swirling the whiskey in the glass, she leaned against the counter. Best to make the toasts count.

  She would toast every blessed sip remaining, then swallow her pride and call her brother, Jarrod. What was a little more humiliation after the day she’d had?

  Without a doubt, today had been the crowning turd on the shitpile of her life. Bad enough she’d had to take the most humiliating temp job for a chef of her standing – dishing up slop in the cafeteria at the local elementary school. Worse still, she’d gotten fired by a battle-axe in a hairnet for refusing to serve pink slime. As if that goo was fit for human consumption.

  Raising the glass, she spoke into the silence. “Here’s to never depending on fuckwits, numpties, or shitdonkeys ever again.”

  She sipped, letting the warmth settle in her belly.

  “Here’s to self-humiliation and listening to I told you so’s from your family.” She swallowed down a lump of despair right along with the whiskey.

  Her throat hitched a little. “Here’s to never having beer, or croissants, or-or bread… ever again.”

  The lump of despair she’d swallowed, ballooned, and threatened to close off her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears that were pricking behind her eyes not to flow. Five months into a celiac diagnosis and she was finally coming to terms with the reality that cheating had violently painful and lasting consequences. And while she’d tried valiantly, she also had to accept there was no way she could ever work in a standard kitchen again. Breathing flour dust wreaked nearly as much havoc on her body as taking a sip of beer.

  Her final toast came out in a whisper. “Here’s to being blackballed by your so-called fiancé, and never working in a five-star kitchen again.”

  Taking a deep shuddering breath, she tipped her head back and downed the last of her liquid sanity, licking the inside of the glass to catch every drop. She slammed the glass down on the counter, the echo of it momentarily ringing against the cupboards.

  God she hated living alone.

  But she sure as hell couldn’t slink back to her family in Boston after the disaster she’d made of her life here. They’d begged her not to move to Chicago with Maddie in the first place.

  But noooo.

  She wanted to prove something to them. Prove she could manage on her own, creating art out of food. She’d gambled everything and come up short. In every aspect of her life.

  Jamey tipped up the bottle a final time, hoping for one last tiny drop. No such luck. “Oh how the mighty fall, Jamey. How the mighty fall.”

  How on God’s green earth was she going to make rent next week without calling Jarrod? When she finally disclosed what went down with Jean Luc, he’d strangle her through the phone. She’d managed to put him off the last three months by insisting she was fine. But now she had to face the music.

  Her phone buzzed in her purse. Reaching for it, she smiled for the first time that day. “Mads! How’s the little mummy?”

  Maddie’s delighted laugh crackled through the speaker. It warmed Jamey’s heart to see her best friend so happy in life. She pushed aside the twinge of envy that sparked. Maddie’s childhood had been difficult. She deserved every happiness.

  “Jamey, I’m glad I reached you. I wasn’t sure if this was a good time.”

  Jamey plastered on a fake smile, hoping it would come through the phone. “Oh, it’s always a good time to talk to you. You know that.”

  “Are things still rough with Jean Luc?”

  Guilt wound through her. She should have at least told Maddie what was happening.

  “Ah. About that… you could say we’re pretty much through.”

  The sympathetic gasp on the other end of the line was all the confirmation Jamey needed that she’d been right in not saying anything.

  “Jamey. Oh no! When? What are you doing about the restaurant?”

  She pinched her nose. Craptastic. All her chickens seemed to be coming home to roost today.

  “About that too… umm…” Best just to get it out quickly and have it out in the open. “He’s a witless man-whore, Mads. Was boffing the hostess right underneath my nose the whole time. Then sold out my interest to an investment group to make a chain.”

  Maddie’s gasp of horror made her cringe.

  “Nooo! Jamey. He can’t possibly do that. Can he? I’ll ask Blake. He knows all about that stuff.”

  “No. No need. I ah… didn’t insist on a contract.”

  Shame and humiliation rolled over her in waves. Saying it out loud made her sound like the world’s biggest idiot. “Jarrod tried to tell me, but I was too stubborn, an-and in love, and too scared Jean Luc would bail if I demanded a contract. I should have known. I should have suspected he wasn’t above board. But…” She took a shuddering breath. “I needed his name and his connections. Oh God, Mads.” Tears pricked her eyes for an instant. “I was such an idiot.”

  There. At least now, some of the worst of the last few months was out in the open.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Maddie’s voice was sharp with accusation. “I’d have come up to help you. My new job didn’t start until last week.”

  Jamey let out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t want to rain on your parade. You’ve had enough to deal with settling into a new life.”

  “I’m hurt, Jamey. You know I always have time for you. No matter what.”

  Great. The guilty knot in her chest stabbed at her. Now she’d offended her best friend. And she still hadn’t fessed up about having celiac. What would happen when Maddie found out she’d been holding out on her for months?

  “Are you okay Jamey? Do you need anything?”

  Maddie’s question about did her in. Tears threatened to spill again.

  “Yeah… Yeah… You know me. I always manage.”

  “Stop it, Jamey. You know you don’t have to go it alone.”

  There it was. That pitying tone of voice. The reason why she couldn’t go home to Boston. Or ask anyone for help – her brother or Maddie. Why she had to figure out something. Anything. Even if it was, God help her, scooping ice-cream on Navy Pie
r.

  “Do you have anything lined up?”

  Jamey shrugged. “A few things. I’ll be fine.”

  Maddie was like family, which meant Jamey couldn’t disclose how precarious things were to her, either. Maddie would phone Jarrod in a heartbeat and send the cavalry in.

  “How lined up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, have you made a commitment to anyone?”

  Jamey cocked her head. Maddie never beat around the bush this way. “What’s going on Mads?”

  “Oh God, Jamey. We’re in a pickle down here with the hunting lodge. It’s only been up six weeks and already it’s a disaster. Brodie’s messed everything up and Blake’s ready to kick him off the ranch.”

  That perked her up.

  “So bad boy Brodie can’t seem to keep his nose clean, huh?”

  As hot as his kisses had been, she was still pissed he’d called her scrawny.

  “Blake was hoping he might be able to retain you for six to eight weeks to get the kitchen running properly.”

  She cocked her eyebrow, reaching for the empty bottle of Redbreast and turning it upside down to see if anything dribbled out. “Tell me more.”

  “There’s not much to tell. He needs a strong hand in the kitchen, and someone who can manage a simple budget.”

  “I’ve always worked alongside business managers, but if you promise it’s simple, I could do it. Who else would be in the kitchen?”

  “Just you, unless you wanted to hire help. You know how Blake loves your food. You’d really be helping us.” Maddie took a deep breath. “In addition to salary, Blake will pay the condo lease through the end of the year, so you can come back to Chicago, if you choose, and have time to find something new. Although, maybe if you like running the lodge, you’d stay? I figured it was a long shot calling you, but I’ve missed you. I’d be thrilled to have you close again.” Maddie’s voice held a note of hope.

  “So I’d have complete control in the kitchen?” Would Blake and Maddie care if it was a gluten-free kitchen?