A Cowboy in the Kitchen

by Meg Maxwell

  She stared at him, joy fluttering for a moment as she heard only that Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen would be saved. Then her fairy godfather morphed back into West when she recalled the word proposition, which meant he wanted something from her.

  “And in return, I...?”

  “You marry me.”

  Annabel’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I need a wife—a wife the Dunkins will approve of—to keep them from fighting me for custody. They like you, they like your family. You’re a chef, you always look nice, you’ll know how to take care of Lucy in a way that will satisfy them. I’m desperate here, Annabel. I need you to marry me—for however long it takes to show them I’m a good father, for me to learn from you how to be more of a mother too. If in six months or a year, whenever, we’re all good, then we can quietly go our separate ways. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m offering a lot in return.”

  Annabel leaned back against the brick wall of the coffee shop, needing something to brace herself against. Good God. West wanted her to marry him—a sham marriage—to keep his daughter. This was serious stuff. The man she’d always loved, still loved, damn it, was proposing marriage. For the sake of his family. It was both awful and understandable at the same time.

  It was a lot to ask. And he was offering a lot in return.

  “I need to go, West,” she said, feeling those stupid tears stinging her eyes again. “I need to process this, okay?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and she looked up at him. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t have to.”

  Yeah, West, I know that. Jerk!

  It was just like him to make it worse.

  “I need to think,” she said again, and took off running.

  * * *

  Lunchtime was so busy at Hurley’s that Annabel barely had time to think about West’s proposition. But she’d been so distracted that she’d forgotten that table six had asked for coleslaw with the meat loaf and not the garlic mashed potatoes, forgot about table ten’s order entirely, then attempted to plate the fried green tomatoes and instead dropped them on the floor and stepped on one, which squished under her clog.

  “You all right?” Clementine asked, searching her face. “I’ve never seen you so disorganized.” She put a bunch of orders on her tray and added the sour pickle to table five’s roast beef po’boy. Annabel had forgotten the pickle.

  “I’m fine,” Annabel said, running the back of her hand across her forehead. “Just got something on my mind.”

  Clementine eyed her again, made up a few baskets of fried mushrooms, and put those on her tray. “I’ll keep the hordes satisfied with these till you can get those orders up. I’ll have Harold come in and help.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Annabel said, hating to let everyone down by messing up. This was her world—she’d grown up in this kitchen, had shucked corn and rinsed vegetables and knew how to spell every spice by the time she was six—and she’d spent seven years in upscale Dallas restaurants. She knew better than to allow distractions to get in the way of work.

  Harold arrived ten minutes later. They all got into a groove, the food served and happy customers leaving nice tips.

  Finally, the dining room empty, the kitchen cleaned and dinner prepped, Annabel prepared a lunch tray for her grandmother and headed down the hall to Essie’s bedroom. How she wished she could tell her gram about West’s proposal, but her grandmother was frail enough without worrying that Annabel would marry a man who didn’t love her to save the family business. Gram would tell her not to marry West, so Annabel decided to keep the proposal to herself for the time being.

  Her grandmother’s room faced the backyard with her beloved vegetable garden where they grew most of the produce and herbs they needed for the restaurant. Annabel knocked and at Gram’s “Come on in,” she carried in the tray of soup and sweet tea.

  “Great news, Gram,” Annabel said, setting down the tray on the swing-out table at Essie’s bedside. “Lunch was very busy today. Not a lull and a line out on the porch. The potato leek chowder and fried catfish po’boy with Creole mayonnaise were big hits.”

  “I can see why,” Gram said, tasting the chowder. “No one makes soup like you, Annabel.”

  Annabel smiled at her grandmother, her silvery white hair in a neat bun—Clementine’s doing. “You taught me.”

  Essie Hurley put down her spoon and stared down, her expression falling. “I’m glad to hear business was good today, sweetheart, but I’ve been meaning to tell you... I—” She glanced away, then back. “The restaurant is in bigger trouble than I let on. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look through the books. I was hoping Georgia would come home and maybe see if anything could be done at this point, but between the competition and my health failing, it looks like Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen might have to close its doors. And that’s okay, sweetie. You’ve got a life in Dallas, and maybe if I close up shop, Clementine will have a chance to see the great big world out there instead of spending her life waitressing at her family restaurant.”

  Annabel saw the resignation in her grandmother’s face, the pain in her eyes. Essie Hurley had started Hurley’s fifty years ago as a twenty-five-year-old newlywed, been through ups and downs, including the loss of her beloved husband and then her only son and daughter-in-law. If Annabel could help it, she wouldn’t let her grandmother, especially in her condition, suffer the loss of her beloved restaurant.

  “Gram, first of all, Clementine is exactly where she wants to be. She’s a small-town girl and loves Blue Gulch. And second, I have no interest in going back to Dallas. I want to be here with you and Clem and work in the kitchen. And third, there’s no way we’ll let Hurley’s close. We’ll get through this, just as you always have. And if today’s any indication, business is picking up.”

  Annabel wasn’t sure what to say about Georgia not coming home. Where her older sister was—why she wasn’t coming when she was needed—that was just as worrisome as the possibility of losing Hurley’s. But Georgia had to have a damned good reason for staying away.

  Tears pooled in Gram’s blue eyes. “We’ve had good days in the past too. I’m a fact facer and numbers don’t lie. I’ve had a good run, Annabel. Fifty wonderful years. It’ll be okay, honey.”

  Tears pricked Annabel’s eyes too, a combination of anger and determination keeping them at bay. She could plainly see it wouldn’t be okay. And losing Hurley’s might be just the thing to push her frail grandmother over the edge. “Gram, listen to me. I’m not letting Hurley’s close. I’ll make some kind of deal with the bank. I’ll do what I have to do. But Hurley’s will not close.”

  Her grandmother slipped her hand into hers. There was no way she’d let her gram down. Essie Hurley had taken in her three granddaughters when their parents died, putting aside her own grief over losing her son to be there for three young teenagers who’d howled in pain every night and walked around like zombies during the day for weeks until the shock had settled some. Annabel would not let the bank take away the one thing that had sustained her grandmother, sustained their family, all these years.

  I’m willing to take care of the bills, payroll, the loan in its entirety and flesh out the business account with enough capital for improvements. I’ll make sure Hurley’s stays open and give you the breathing room so that the restaurant can start turning a profit again.

  She needed West.

  He needed her.

  To be honest, he’d had her at “marry me to save my daughter.” If a sham marriage would save his family, she’d have married him for that reason alone. That he could save Hurley’s would just make it all easier to swallow.

  Essie’s eyes drifted closed, so Annabel quietly picked up the lunch tray and carried it back to the kitchen. She pulled out her phone and texted West: I’ll see you at 9:15 at your house for th
e appetizer lesson.

  She’d get through the dinner rush at the restaurant without dropping a plate of fried green tomatoes or confusing the sides. On her breaks, she’d work up her list of questions—and, boy, did she have questions—about how exactly this “marriage” would be set up. You could fool a lot of people, but you couldn’t fool a kid—nor would Annabel want to, and she was sure West wasn’t willing to do anything that would confuse Lucy.

  Immediately three more questions popped into her head, one that made her blush. She should really write these down.

  Is that a no to my proposal? West texted back.

  You still need to know how to make bruschetta & healthy snacks for Lucy, she texted. Wife or no wife.

  She quickly added: PS—I have questions about how this is gonna work.

  Me too, he texted back. And now I’m hopeful you might say yes.

  God help me, she thought.

  * * *

  How is this going to work? West wondered as he peeked in on Lucy, fast asleep in her bedroom. He tiptoed in and moved a ringlet of hair off her face, and she shifted, squeezing the stuffed Eeyore her mother had given her for Christmas a few years ago. He moved the pink and white blanket up to just under her chin, his heart constricting.

  “I’ll do anything for you,” he whispered to his daughter, touching a kiss to her forehead before slipping back out of her room.

  As he headed into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee—he had a feeling he and Annabel would need the strong stuff—he tried to think about how the business marriage would be set up. They’d have to look like a real couple, of course, share a home, a bedroom.

  A bedroom.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Annabel to say she was here, on the porch.

  He opened the door, and there she stood, carrying a grocery bag. Her long, silky auburn hair was loose around her shoulders, and though she had on a long, thick, open cardigan, the white T-shirt she wore, tucked into tight jeans, her feet in flip-flops, her toenails painted a shimmery red, made him want to grab her close and just hug her, to breathe in the scent of her. What he felt was something like...need, and it unnerved him. He stepped back and held the door open wide.

  She offered a tight smile. “I didn’t want to risk waking Lucy by ringing the doorbell.”

  “That’s exactly one of the reasons why you’re perfect to play this part,” he said, taking the grocery bag. “You think of things like that and you’re not even a parent.”

  A strained look crossed her face, but then it disappeared and she started for the kitchen. He followed her in. “I brought lots of fruit and vegetables.” She pulled produce out of the bag onto the island. She slid over an almost empty bowl that had once been full of fruit and stacked apples and oranges and a bunch of bananas inside. “After school, when Annabel gets home, she can just grab an apple, and you can show her how to spread a little peanut butter on slices for added protein, and—”

  “Annabel,” he interrupted, taking both her hands and stilling them. She was talking a mile a minute, and he’d bet his truck she was nervous as hell about what they really needed to talk about—and Lucy’s after-school snack wasn’t it.

  “So I guess I’d move in,” she said, glancing everywhere but at him. She finally looked up at him.

  He nodded and let go of her hands. “For all intents and purposes, as they say, it will be a real marriage. For as long as necessary,” he added quickly, wanting to make sure she knew there was an out, that she wouldn’t be stuck with him forever. “Why don’t we have some coffee and sit down and talk it out?”

  She nodded, wrapping her cardigan sweater around herself and sitting at the kitchen table, the low sliver of moon just visible in the bay window. He handed her a mug of coffee and watched her slowly add cream and a spoonful of sugar. It was clear she needed a minute before he launched into the mechanics of their would-be marriage.

  “A real marriage,” she repeated. “I’m confused by that because...because a real marriage is based on a few things that aren’t going on between the two of us.” She wagged her finger back and forth from him to her.

  He sat down and took a sip of his coffee. “Well, I guess I mean a real marriage in the sense that we’ll live in the same house, share a bedroom, act like husband and wife when we’re in public.”

  “Share a bedroom,” she said slowly. “For appearances’ sake, you mean.”

  He held her gaze, and as her cheeks slightly pinkened he was consumed by the urge to rush over to her and kiss her, to take off that thick beige sweater and slowly undress her, feel her hair slide down his chest, let his hands roam where they wanted. She looked away and wrapped her own hands around the coffee mug.

  He’d gone back and forth on this one. He thought that keeping things “professional” in their business marriage was the smartest thing to do; after all, this whole marriage would be about Lucy, about him being a better father, about him able to be a father. It wasn’t about sex. But then he started thinking of the effect Annabel had on him and the reality of sleeping next to her every night. Maybe they could fulfill certain needs while still keeping things...businesslike.

  Daisy ambled over to sniff Annabel’s foot, which gave him a few seconds before he had answer. A wrong word and she might sprint out the door.

  “Not necessarily, no,” he said. “I mean, we’ll be sharing a bedroom. Every night. Sleeping in the same bed, inches apart. But if you want to keep things strictly platonic, I’ll abide by that. I’m just saying that I’m a man and you’re a woman and you’ll be an inch away from me in bed.” The memory of her, half-dressed underneath him in the hayloft of his family’s barn, came slowly into his mind, the feel of her lips, how soft her skin was, how badly he’d wanted her.

  She nodded slowly, and he was dying to know what she was thinking. Had he offended her? Was it too much to want sex on top of everything else he was asking? She had to know the effect she had on him, had always had on him. How was he supposed to resist her? He would, of course, if that was what she wanted.

  “Let’s leave that one for later discussion,” she said, giving Daisy a rub under her chin. The dog jumped on the window seat and curled up, snoozing in seconds flat. “What about Lucy? What are you going to tell her?”

  He took a long slug of his coffee. “I’m going to tell her that the nice lady who helped her make a cake sundae at Hurley’s the other day is a wonderful person and that I’ve decided to marry her. Seems like enough information for a six-year-old.”

  Annabel nodded. “And the Dunkins? Is that what you’re going to tell them?”

  A chill ran up his spine. “I’ll tell the Dunkins that I’ve decided it would be in my and Lucy’s best interests if I had a good wife who’d make a wonderful mother.”

  “Aren’t they going to ask if you love this good wife who’d make a wonderful mother?”

  “They don’t care if I love you. They care that you’ll be a proper influence on Lucy and make sure she’s taken care of.”

  Again, Annabel nodded. “And so I’ll make healthful family meals, keep Lucy’s ringlets tangle free, make sure she’s dressed in a way that doesn’t set Raina Dunkin flying into the attorney’s office, catch her if she falls from that crab apple tree and then in a few months or so we’ll reevaluate the need for the marriage?” For a moment her dark brown eyes looked so sad that he froze, but she sipped her coffee and her expression changed, back to business.

  “That’s it exactly,” he said, relieved that she so completely understood what was necessary. What was necessary. The whole thing stank—even if she did agree to sex. West didn’t like having his hands tied, being forced into something, especially something as sacred as marriage and vows.

  He stood up and paced the length of the kitchen, mad as hell suddenly that he was being forced—and that he was asking something like this of Annabel.
He was tying her hands too—how could she not help him? And how could she not after he was dangling his bank account in front of her when her family business was in jeopardy?

  Sometimes he really did feel every bit the jerk his parents, the Dunkins and a few women in town thought him to be. He guessed he should include Annabel in that group too.

  Hell.

  He tried to imagine how his parents would react if they were alive to hear the news that he was marrying Annabel Hurley. His father would probably tell him he was proud of him for the first time. His mother would worry for Annabel’s heart, mind and soul. He’d loved his parents and he hated thinking of them this way, but yeah, it burned to know he’d finally win their approval with a sham marriage. It just figured. What was real didn’t matter. Everything was about appearances. It had always been that way with his parents. And it was that way with the Dunkins.

  And then there was Annabel. A woman who probably wished she’d never had to lay eyes on him again after what he did to her seven years ago. Now he’d talked her into marrying him to save her family’s business.

  He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, red-hot anger churning in his gut. “You know what, Annabel, I think we’re done here. Peanut butter on apple slices. A banana. I got it. You’re clear on the marriage arrangement. So let’s call it a night.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “Well, if you’re all set.”

  Sarcasm. He sighed, wishing he could explain everything bashing around in his head. “Do you have more questions? Something we didn’t cover?” The weariness in his voice surprised even him and he sat back down.