Prairie Passion (Cowboys of The Flint Hills #2)

by Tessa Layne

  Grabbing a new knife, she began breaking down the pheasant breasts, tossing them in a separate prep pan.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Brodie still lounging in the doorway. “What?” Did he have to watch her that way? It was positively unnerving the way her tracked her movements. She glanced up again, then shrieked as her knife slipped and sliced her thumb. “Goddammit.”

  He lunged from the doorway, eyes full of concern.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He crossed around the island to where she stood, putting pressure on her thumb. It was a deep cut, but not so deep it would need stitches.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Just get me the first aid box next to the sink.” She moved behind him, turning on the water and letting the stream clear out the cut.

  Yeah. The cut was a good one. Total rookie move.

  “What happened?” Was that an edge of fear in his voice?

  “I’m fine. I wasn’t paying attention, and my thumb got under my knife. Hand me an alcohol wipe.”

  He tore the wrapper, his hands shaking slightly.

  “Oh God. You’re not one of those people who faints at the sight of blood, are you?”

  “Me? No.”

  “I don’t have time for you to pass out on me today.”

  He handed her the wipe. She hissed in as the alcohol sunk into the cut and pain shot up her hand.

  “You sure you okay?”

  “Only a flesh wound. Stop hovering.”

  He cracked a small smile at her joke, but his eyes remained full of concern.

  “Band-Aid. I’ll need two.” She pinched her thumb hard while she waited for him to open the first one.

  He handed the first one to her, and she wrapped it as tight as she could stand it. There. That should staunch the bleeding for the moment. He handed her the second, and she covered the rest of her thumb.

  “Finger condom?”

  “What?”

  She smothered a grin at his expression. “Finger condom, in the corner of the box.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “What the hell does it look like? Keeps everything clean and tidy.”

  He handed the small package to her, a flush coloring his neck.

  “See?” She tore the package. “Just like the bigger version, minus the spermicide.” She winked at him as she rolled the latex down her thumb.

  “Well I’ll be damned.” The laughter left his eyes. “Jamey.”

  The silence stretched between them.

  “Is there something else you want to say, Brodie? I’ve got prep work to complete, or dinner will be late.”

  He remained where he was, looking down, shuffling his feet. Why in the hell did this sudden awkwardness hurt?

  A voice giggled from the doorway. “Brodie sweetheart, watchya hidin’ out in the kitchen for? Brandi and I need you for cornhole.”

  Brodie coughed, guilt flickering in his eyes.

  Jamey plastered on a smile and peered over his shoulder. “It’s Cami, isn’t it? He’ll be out in a sec.”

  The young woman assessed her coolly, tossing her bottle blonde hair over her shoulder.

  He coughed again and flashed Cami a brilliant smile. The kind of smile that slid panties right off bottoms like they were greased with Crisco.

  “Be right there, darlin’. You gals get the game set up.”

  Not that a smile like that would work on her. Ever. It didn’t have to. You practically threw yourself at him. The realization she was nothing more than a notch on a belt buckle stung. Her own damned fault for letting her hormones get the best of her.

  What did Maddie like to call them? Pheromones? Maddie had teased her about them the last time she’d popped over for a chat. Heat flushed the base of her neck. Regardless of what they were called, she wouldn’t be making that mistake again anytime soon. The other night had been a blip. A physical way to let off steam, like the steam valve on a pressure cooker. Nothing more. She couldn’t let it be anything more.

  Taking a deep breath and keeping her professional smile in place, she waved her thumb.

  “Thanks for the help. I’ll put the appetizers out by six, dinner at seven.”

  She grabbed her knife and resumed breaking apart the pheasant breasts. The sooner she finished, the sooner she’d be able to move to the next item on her laundry list.

  “Jamey.” He put his hand on the top of her arm.

  She froze. “Don’t ever touch me when I have a knife in my hand,” she bit out through gritted teeth.

  He dropped his hand, but remained behind her.

  “Out.” She risked a glance over her shoulder, glaring. His blue eyes were filled with confusion and a little hurt. “Out. Of. My. Kitchen.”

  He clenched his jaw, eyes flaring. “I don’t know what just happened, but we’ll talk this through later.”

  He stalked off through the door to the dining area. Like he had any right to be mad at her. He was the one flirting with the guests.

  She redoubled her efforts on the pheasant, jamming the unproductive thoughts back to where they came from. The last thing she needed was to get twitterpated over a hot cowboy in tight jeans. Too much was riding on this weekend. She needed it to go well.

  Brilliantly, really.

  With the kind of circles Mason Carter ran in, who knew what chef or restauranteur he might be able to introduce her to? She needed to focus on making art this weekend and securing her next gig. That meant keeping her mind off Brodie’s luscious ass in a pair of denims. And his thick cock pushing into her. And the scrape of his stubble across her nipples.

  Giving herself a shake, she tossed the last breast in the prep pan. She covered it and put it in the fridge. Next, she gathered the carcasses and tossed them into the large stockpot on the back of the stove. The stockpot was already filled with her signature mirepoix, a mixture of onions, carrots, celery, sea salt, thyme sprigs, and her secret ingredient, celery root. Popping the lid on, she set the gas to low. By this time tomorrow, she’d have a velvety stock ready to make magic.

  Jamey glanced at the clock. Ninety minutes until the appetizers needed to fire. Once the polenta was prepped and spread on a sheet tray, she could start on the venison and pork belly meatballs. Venison was too dry for a meatball on its own, but with a little fat and flavor from the pork belly, the combo would be perfect.

  Grabbing a clean knife, she settled into the rhythm of prep work. Slice, dice, measure, stir. The repetitive action settled her nerves and sharpened her focus. Everything faded except the tactile pleasure of creating a feast.

  An hour later, a throat clearing pulled her out of her zone. She popped her head up to see Mason Carter hovering in the doorway. “What is it with you men lurking at the door? In or out.”

  He flashed her a grin and held up a bottle of her favorite twelve-year Redbreast and two glasses. “I come bearing gifts.”

  He was a big man. A little taller than Brodie, but leaner, and an intelligence in his eyes that indicated he never missed a detail. His mildly unkempt sandy hair gave him more of a boy next-door appearance than a billionaire with a killer instinct.

  She couldn’t help but smile back. “A man after my own heart, Mason. I’d shake your hand, but you can see I’m a bit messy.” She lifted hands from the meatballs she’d been rolling.

  He stepped over to the island, placing the bottle on the counter. “What are these?”

  “Venison and porkbelly meatballs.” She rolled a ball in cornstarch before placing it on the parchment.

  “Can I help?”

  She smirked at him. “You mean the billionaire cooks?”

  “Hell yeah. Dad’s third wife was a self-styled Julia Child. She made sure my sister and I knew our way around the kitchen.”

  “Don’t you want to relax with the other guests?”

  He shook his head. “My crew are getting settled across the way, and I don’t care for small talk. Besides, Brodie seems to be doing an excellent job of entertaining the ladies.”


  She didn’t miss the admiration in his voice. A flash of jealousy stabbed through her. “I can’t imagine you need lessons with the ladies, Mason. But yeah, Brodie takes his hosting seriously.” Too seriously.

  Stop it, Jamey. He doesn’t belong to you.

  Mason shrugged. “Charm seems to be a Sinclaire trait. One that doesn’t run in my family… So how ’bout it, chef?” He waved his hands. “Or are these hands too pretty for you?”

  She snorted. “I hope you like taking orders.”

  “Keeps me humble.”

  “Then wash your hands, grab a dish towel, and get over here.”

  She showed him how to ball and roll the meatballs in cornstarch and took the first tray to the stove for frying.

  “Don’t most people use flour?”

  Jamey winked at him. “I’m not most people.”

  “No foolin’. Seriously. Why not flour?”

  “Crisps better than flour.” And I have this tiny issue with gluten.

  “Why’d you leave the restaurant in Chicago?”

  “Enough with the questions.”

  Mason rolled a meatball in the cornstarch. “Just curious. I was surprised when Maddie mentioned you’d taken over the kitchen here.”

  “I needed a change.”

  “Is that code for a bad break-up?”

  “You never miss a thing, do you?”

  “It’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

  Jamey lowered the first batch of meatballs into the hot oil and covered the pan with a spatter guard. She leaned her hip on the counter behind her. “I hear from Maddie you’re working on a similar concept in Montana.”

  Mason moved to the sink to wash his hands, then reached for the dishtowel. “Sure am. I have about eighty-thousand acres in the Paradise Valley.” He moved around the island and poured them each a measure of the whiskey.

  She transferred the meatballs to a cooling rack, and lowered the next batch into the oil. Taking the glass he offered, she took a long sip, relishing the way it warmed her insides. The same way Brodie did when he gave her one of his scorching hot looks.

  Huh.

  Even Jean Luc had never heated her like a taste of twelve-year Redbreast.

  She glanced up to see Mason studying her thoughtfully. “What would it take to for you to come set up shop in Montana?”

  Jamey rolled her eyes, grinning. “I told you at the wedding. All the money in your bank account won’t convince me to leave the big city.”

  “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head, pushing away the pang of regret. “Nah. Just until the lodge gets on solid footing. It’s a favor, that’s all.”

  “If you ever change your mind, put me at the top of your list.”

  A throat cleared and they both looked up. Brodie stood, bracing an arm on the doorjamb, the cool assessment in his eyes at odds with the easy smile he wore. “Since when are you recruiting the guests for help, Chef?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Why in the hell was Mason Carter trying to woo away his help? And what in the hell was he doing with his sleeves rolled up in his kitchen?

  Mason cracked a cautious smile. “Just lending a hand.”

  Trying to steal my help is more like it.

  Jamey glared at him before taking a sip of her whiskey. “I’m happy for the help.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me then?” A wave of hurt coiled through him. He’d have stopped entertaining the guests to help her. All she’d had to do was ask.

  She clenched her jaw and smiled frostily. “Mason, would you please excuse us? I can take it from here.”

  Mason’s eyes filled with concern as he looked back and forth between the two of them, a frown lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Everything okay?”

  Jamey tossed a dishtowel into the dirty linens bag under the island before turning back to the stove. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Mason finished his drink and placed the glass on the counter. “If you need anything–”

  She waved him off. “I’ll handle it.”

  Brodie kept his smile in place as Mason brushed past and into the dining area. Mason was a good guy, even if seeing him all chummy with Jamey made him see red. Jamey whirled around, eyes flashing fire.

  “Why’d you do that? Piss on a fire hydrant?” She grabbed the tray of meatballs from the island and moved it to the stove, slamming it down hard.

  “Maybe I don’t like it when other people start honing in on my territory.”

  Clenching a fist at her side, she carefully removed the meatballs from the oil, and lowered in another batch. She grabbed her glass, drained the remaining amber liquid, and raked her gaze over him, eyes glittering. “Is that what you think I am? Your territory?

  Aww shit. That hadn’t come out right. “No. Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?” The air between them charged. “Let me make this clear. The only territory you need to worry about is the territory between your legs which will be sorely lacking if you don’t get out of my kitchen right this second.”

  Dammit if her temper didn’t stir something devilish in him. He wanted to poke at her some more. See the fire that blazed so strongly inside of her. He shook his head, tutting, and stepped around the island, invading her space.

  “You catch more flies with honey, bossypants.”

  She flushed and turned back to the stove, removing the last batch of meatballs and turning off the gas. “You’re presuming I want to catch flies.”

  “Don’t you?” He reached out and captured her hand, bringing it up to inspect her injured thumb, and placing a kiss on the palm of her hand. She sucked in a breath, but didn’t move away.

  “So fiery. So feisty.” He murmured the words into her hand, relishing the tendrils of desire that rippled through his abdomen. This verbal dancing was torture. At the same time, it sharpened his awareness. Made him hyper alert.

  “Brodie…” She leaned in, green eyes darkening.

  “You captivate me.”

  She yanked her hand away, eyes full of doubt. “Until the next guest sashays along. Now out.” She waved her hand toward the door.

  He wasn’t leaving yet.

  Not by a long shot.

  He settled himself against the stove, stretching out his legs, blocking her passage as realization hit him.

  “Wait… are you jealous?” He was an ass for not keeping the glee out of his voice.

  She eyed him warily as she grabbed a dozen eggs from the fridge. “I have nineteen mouths to feed this weekend, and you refused to let me hire help. Now you want to have a heart to heart in my kitchen?”

  He shrugged, grinning. “Don’t avoid my question.”

  A blush inched up her neck. Holy smokes, she was jealous. A little thrill coiled through him. He lowered his voice. “Why are you fighting this, Jamey?”

  She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Out. Now.”

  He pushed off the stove and came to stand next to her. “Your temper doesn’t scare me.”

  She glanced over, momentarily pausing her egg cracking.

  He reached out and caressed her cheek, running his thumb across her full lower lip. “You’re going to have to do a lot more than yell at me to get me to leave.”

  The hungry look in her eye made his cock stand at full attention. God he wanted more of her. One taste… one naked moment, was far from enough.

  Her tongue flicked out nervously and brushed against his thumb. He bit back a groan as his cock jolted from the electricity.

  “What do you want, Brodie?”

  He grinned slowly. He couldn’t help it. “You darlin’. Hot and bothered underneath me. Beggin’ me to love you.”

  Her eyes widened and flared. “I don’t beg.”

  “You will. And I promise you. You’ll love every damned minute of it.”

  He brought his mouth to hers, his tongue invading without invitation, sweeping through her sweet, whiskey-tinged mouth.

  She made a little noise in the back of her thr
oat as he wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her against him. She clutched his sleeve and deepened the kiss, her own tongue sparring with his.

  He growled, rolling his hips against hers, then pulled his mouth from hers, steadying himself. If he didn’t stop this second, he’d throw her down on the floor right now. Guests and dinner be damned.

  Her hand flew to her mouth as she took a step back. Her face contorted in pain and she dropped her focus to her bowl. “Don’t toy with me, Brodie Sinclaire.”

  Frustration overwhelmed him. “I’ve never been more serious,” he bit out, clenching his jaw.

  Her mouth flattened in obvious disbelief. Did she have to be so stubborn? He’d never worked so hard for a woman’s attention.

  Ever.

  “Don’t believe me? Watch me rope at the rodeo tomorrow afternoon. Then let me take you out to the Trading Post tomorrow evening. Everyone will be eating at the fairgrounds tomorrow night, so you won’t have to cook.”

  There. He’d asked. The air thickened between them as she stared at him through narrowed eyes.

  Letting out a breath, she nodded once. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  Relief whooshed through him as he flashed her a grin. Once she saw him in his element, she wouldn’t think he was such a fuck-up. “You’ll have a great time. Promise.”

  A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  He stepped close again and tilted her chin. Brushing his lips against hers, he murmured low. “For the record, your prickly act doesn’t fool me for a second. You’re sweet as honey on the inside.” He kissed her harder, allowing himself just one more taste of her lips. “And I love your taste.”

  Her quick intake of breath warmed his insides. He shifted back and winked at her before she could smack him, or say anything. Then wheeled and strolled out of the kitchen, whistling “Home on the Range”.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jamey wiped a bead of sweat off her brow. She’d be toasting herself after cleanup. Nineteen plates to fire, and no sous. She’d achieve rock star status, at least in her own mind, if she pulled this off without a hitch tonight.

  Ben, his friends, and Mason’s ranch hands sat at the long table in the great room. Blake, Maddie, Simon, Mason, and his foreman sat at a table on the front patio. Her biggest challenge would be getting the mains out fast enough that the first plates weren’t cold by the time the last plate dropped. She’d opted to serve the salad family style, which irked her. Presentation always made the food taste better. But she knew her limits. She was pushing them as it was.