A Taste of Texas Page 4

  Rayne almost smiled. She had to admit, the two Italian carpenters had seemed pleased with their newfound ability to pair Southernisms with the curse words they’d learned in Boston. They’d married New England girls and somehow ended up in East Texas. They possessed amazing carpentry skills and had constructed custom closets in each of the guest rooms. Rayne had nabbed them before they started contract jobs in Plano. It had been a coup since their work had been touted all over the South and featured in Southern Architecture Today. “True.”

  “Yes, true. Now pull on your big girl panties, get your tail end over to Brent’s and make sure he starts tomorrow. Meg and I are meeting with Dawn Hart to look at fabric samples this afternoon, and I don’t have time to bake Brent an apple cake to apologize for my rude niece.”

  Aunt Frances disappeared into the house as if her word was law. The woman had been alone for too many years to compromise. She’d meant what she said. Normally, Rayne would have dug in her heels, but this wasn’t normally. It was Oak Stand.

  She swiped at the mascara that had smudged beneath her eyes. Aunt Frances was right. She needed to stop acting like she was in junior high. She was a grown woman, a grown woman who’d been married, had a child and ran a successful enterprise. She hadn’t gotten to where she was by being immature.

  She sniffed, picked up the resolve she’d misplaced and marched down the steps, heading toward the Hamiltons’ century-old house.

  She could still make out the path that had been beaten into the grass between the two houses long ago. The Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast had been in operation for the past twelve years, ever since her Uncle Travis had dropped dead in the grocery store with a massive coronary. Until that time, it had been Aunt Fran and Uncle Trav’s house, a place full of honeysuckle and sweet gum prickle balls, a delightful place for a child to stomp and skip. Aunt Frances, heartbroken and in need of money, had turned the charming house into a place to share with others. Problem was her patrons were few and far between. Frances eked out a living, yet she seemed content doing so. Ambition had never attached itself to Frances as it had to Rayne.

  A hedge of sweet olive bushes made a natural fence between the two front yards. Rayne followed the square brick pavers around to the rear of the house through the wooden gate to the charming slate-gray carriage house that sat at back of the property. The small house was unfailingly neat and simple, with only a single planter housing a sago palm squatting to the side of the French doors.

  She stood on the small porch for a moment before taking a deep breath and knocking on the glass pane.

  No one answered.

  She knocked again.

  No one.

  The ginger cat leaped onto the porch nearly scaring her to death, but she saw no trace of Brent even though she’d watched him head in this direction.

  She looked around. His truck was parked out front, so he had to be home.

  She raised her hand and banged on the glass pane, bruising her knuckles. Still, no one came.

  Where was he?

  She tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed the door open slightly, just a crack and stuck her head inside. The room was dark but she could make out a simple couch and two armchairs. An enormous flat-screen TV hung on the adjacent wall. Very Spartan. Very male.

  “Brent?” she called against the quiet of the room.

  There was no answer.

  She pushed the door opened wider and stepped inside.

  “Yoo-hoo,” she called. “Brent?”

  The house was dark and silent. She felt a little like the stupid babysitter in a slasher film. Any minute a hockey-masked boogeyman would jump out with a machete.

  The door clicked shut behind her and she jumped. She took a quick step backward, knocking into an occasional table and tipping over an empty beer stein sitting on the table. She caught it with both hands before it crashed to the wood floor. She placed it next to the four remote controls on the table and stepped back, relieved she’d avoided calamity.

  Something hard stopped her progress.

  She whirled around to find Brent standing there naked as the day he’d been born.

  “Ack!” she yelped, bumping into the table and sending the stein crashing to the floor where thankfully it didn’t shatter. “Good gravy, you’re naked.”

  The room was dim, but she could make out how nicely the man fit his skin. How many times had she imagined him naked? Too many to name. For some reason, her fingers started toward the lamp switch, maybe so she could drink him in. She caught herself before she twisted the knob and plastered her hands to her eyes.

  “Yeah, Captain Obvious, it’s my house. And usually you take your clothes off before you shower.”

  She swallowed. Mostly because visions flitted through her head. Visions of her clothes joining his on the floor. Visions of sluicing water and warm, wet skin. All of which were totally…insane.

  She didn’t say a word.

  “So you have a reason for breaking and entering?”

  “Of course not. I mean, I didn’t break in. You didn’t answer the door.” She chanced a peek through her fingers. He made no move to cover his nakedness. Of course. He wouldn’t. She re-covered her eyes. “Will you put on some clothes or cover yourself so I can talk to you?”

  Silence met her plea.

  “Please,’ she finally said, dropping her hands but squeezing her eyes closed. Or almost closed.

  He moved away from her, snatching up a throw from the couch. She cracked one eye to get a brief glimpse of an ass that frankly should never be covered up. She closed her eyes again so he wouldn’t know she’d peeked.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She opened her eyes. He’d wrapped the afghan low on his hips. He switched on a lamp and grinned at her. It was a sexy, knowing grin.

  “You peeked, didn’t you?” he said.

  “I did not,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She hoped she didn’t get struck down for lying. “And I wasn’t breaking in. Just trying to…talk to you.”

  He tugged the throw tighter around his hips. “So talk.”

  Rayne looked around the room. It was clean for a bachelor pad with tasteful bookshelves loaded with books. Was that Thoreau and Kafka next to…Debbie Macomber? She pulled her gaze away and took in a rich chocolate-and-navy-striped hooked rug that centered the room along with the pictures of various birds hanging evenly over the microsuede couch.

  “Ahem.” He cleared his throat.

  “Oh, um, I came to apologize,” she said, keeping her gaze on the print of a snowy egret. She didn’t want to look at Brent again. He was more tempting than chocolate chip cookies, a virgin beach with no footprints and a kitchen utensil sale all rolled into one. Rayne was afraid she might do something insane, like kiss him. Or join him for a naked frolic around the living area.

  What the hell was wrong with her? She was a deliberate woman. Responsible. Businesslike. Horny. Strike the last thought. She concentrated on the egret’s feathers.

  “Apology accepted, though I don’t think you did anything wrong. You were honest. That’s not a crime.” His voice was emotionless. Nothing to read in the remark.

  “Well, so I’m not necessarily sorry, but I did come to see if you would do the work. I shouldn’t have—” She tried to recollect her thoughts. “What I’m having trouble saying is that I shouldn’t have let our past interfere with the future. That’s silly. We need your help.” She moved her gaze to something besides the egret. This time the little blue button on the remote control.

  “Rayne, look at me.”

  “I can’t.”

  He sighed. “Why?”

  “Because this feels like a contrived romance novel plot. Sex-starved widow encounters hot old flame,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “So don’t make me look at you.”

  He was silent.

  She sneaked a peek. Face only. “What?”

  “Are you really sex-starved?” His voice was more than curious. As if maybe he was considering dropping the
woven throw. She didn’t want that. Or at least wasn’t supposed to want that.

  She swallowed her panic and laughed. “You might as well ask me what I weigh. That’s something I’d never admit to.”

  “Then head for the door, woman, because if you stay, we might rewrite history.”

  Rayne rolled her eyes. Again. “Seriously? That’s the kind of line you use on women?”

  Brent reached out, clicked off the lamp and moved her way. “Oh, yeah, haven’t you heard? I’m the master of pickup lines.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Rayne said, moving toward the door in case he wasn’t teasing, even though part of her wanted to stay and find out. His laughter dogged her steps. The son of a gun was playing with her. She flung a last look over her shoulder. He stood framed against the darkness like a naughty ad for men’s cologne or close-shaving razors.

  “So will you be there tomorrow?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. You can count on me.”

  Rayne arched an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”

  Then she turned and made her way to the inn wondering if his promise meant as much now as it had back then. And wondering why she hadn’t left as soon as she’d seen he was spectacularly naked.

  She didn’t know the answer to one question and was very afraid of the answer to the other.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE SOUP BUBBLED MERRILY on the stove as Rayne sliced truffles for the fennel and dandelion salad she would serve atop the thinly sliced Bosc pears. The rich smell of chicken broth made her tummy growl, but she kept slicing through the earthy pungency of the delicate fungus, while ignoring the smoky Gouda cheese sitting on the wooden cutting board. She’d found the cheese at a farmer’s market in Dallas last weekend. It was divine and she’d already sampled too much of it.

  “Mom, can we buy some Pop-Tarts?”

  Rayne recoiled as if Henry had asked to eat a booger. “Good Lord, no. Where have you eaten Pop-Tarts?”

  Henry shrugged. “Back in Austin. At Kyle Warner’s house. He had all kinds of them. Strawberry, cinnamon and blue—”

  “Stop.” Rayne threw up her hand. “Do you know what kind of ingredients are in those things?”

  Henry’s brown eyes didn’t blink as he stared at her. “I don’t care. I saw a kid eating them at school today. They had icing on the top.”

  Meg dropped the books she was carrying onto the counter. “Give it up, bud. You’ve got the same chance as a nun getting a navel ring. Not going to happen. She’d rather you eat dirt than something with all those chemicals. Be glad you didn’t eat it recently or you’d be getting purged.”

  “What’s purged?” Henry asked, flicking little pieces of the cheese with his fingers.

  “Stop,” Rayne said for the umpteenth time that day.

  “Making yourself throw up,” Meg said, making the motion of sticking her finger down her throat.

  Rayne shot her assistant a glare as Henry screwed up his face and groaned, “Gross!”

  Brent stomped into the kitchen and sniffed. “What’s gross?”

  Meg fluttered and it made Rayne roll her eyes. Her assistant said Brent Hamilton did nothing for her. That, however, wasn’t the way she acted. Her slightly Gothic, slightly punk, but wholly intelligent employee actually batted her heavily made-up eyes at Brent. “Whatever you want to be gross, stud muffin.”

  Rayne mimicked Meg’s gagging action from a moment ago, making Henry laugh. She’d tried hard to overcome her strange feelings toward Brent over the past two days, treating him as she would any other employee. Though his gorgeousness made it plainly difficult to accomplish. After all, he’d taken his shirt off this morning inspiring Meg to use the word yummy way too often. The man had to stop taking his clothes off. Had to. “Do you have Pop-Tarts, Mr. Hamilton?” Henry asked, sliding off the stool beside the kitchen island.

  “I may have some cinnamon-brown sugar ones left over from the baseball sleepover,” he said eyeing the tomato-basil soup on the stove.

  “Wait. You have a baseball team?” Henry’s eyes lit up with interest. Rayne felt her mom radar start beeping.

  “I don’t have one. I coach one,” Brent said. Rayne could tell he wasn’t paying attention to his words. He was staring at the oat-bran muffins she’d made with the stone-ground wheat. He obviously had no idea what he’d done. How he’d unleashed a monster, one Rayne would have to deal with.

  “Can I be on the team? I’m good. I promise. When I played with the Bengals, I hit it over the fence two times.” Henry parked himself at Brent’s boots and looked at him expectantly.

  Shoot.

  “Henry, Mr. Hamilton already has a team. We talked about this,” Rayne said, brushing her hands on her apron and preparing for battle. Meg wisely started flipping through whatever catalogs she’d lugged in. She knew the power of Henry’s will.

  “Henry can still play. Hunter Todd broke his arm doing cartwheels on the bleachers, so now we’re a player short. We have practice tonight at six if he wants to come along,” Brent said as he slid closer to the muffins. Rayne had sprinkled them with homemade granola so they looked even more tempting than the average oat muffin.

  But she didn’t have time to offer him a sample of her testing ground muffins. Her son had taken to whooping, “Yes!” over and over again.

  Rayne jabbed Brent in the arm. “You gotta fix this. He can’t play ball this year.”

  Brent finally ripped his attention from the food. “Fix what? Why not?”

  Henry whooped once more, performing several fist pumps, before tearing out of the kitchen and pounding up the stairs. Rayne knew where he was heading. He’d dig his glove from the drawer she’d relegated it to yesterday. Then he’d pull all his shorts from the bottom drawer to look for his baseball pants. Then he’d bring her the cleats to untie because they were double-knotted and he couldn’t pull them loose with the stubby nails he habitually bit to the quick. Hurricane Henry had set his path, but he’d forgotten that landfall wouldn’t happen without her permission.

  And she wasn’t giving it.

  Rayne glared at the daft man before her. She tried not to notice how damn good he looked in his tight jeans and the T-shirt he’d finally pulled on. How his shaggy hair looked salon-tousled. How he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning which gave him a bed-rumpled, lazy movie star look. Hell, no. She wasn’t noticing because he’d created a big problem and he had no clue.

  “Henry can’t play ball. He’s behind in his reading at school. He’s not up to grade level and struggling to acclimate in the classroom.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I knew he loved sports. I’ve tripped over four balls today already. I figured being on the team would help him make friends and feel a part of the community.”

  Rayne blinked. She’d never thought of it from that perspective. She knew Henry was lonely. She knew he’d had a hard time the past few days adapting to school. The classes were small and the kids all knew one another. He felt like the odd man out. And if anyone knew that feeling, she did. But she couldn’t allow him to neglect something as important as school. It was already such a chore to get him to sit still and focus on the homework he’d been assigned that afternoon. “That’s true, but he can’t play.”

  Henry roared into the kitchen, cleats dangling in his hand. “Hey, Mr. Hamilton, where’s practice?”

  The boy hopped onto the stool and started trying to untie the cleats. He ignored the bits of red clay that fell from the bottoms of the shoes and confettied the floor beneath him.

  “Um, sport, I can’t really add you to the team without your mom’s permission.” Brent slapped her son on the back and cast a furtive look at Meg. Like he thought she would help him.

  “Let’s leave Rayne and Henry to sort this out,” Meg said, jerking her head toward the dining room. Rayne wanted to kick her for helping the enemy. But was Brent really her enemy? Or was being a mom simply too tough sometimes? Either way, she wanted to blame someone for the heart she was about to break. Henry hated school and hated reading.
Not a good combination for a kid in second grade. He still had a long row to hoe where academics were concerned even if he were passing at grade level.

  Brent moved faster than Meg. He beat her out the door by a good yard.

  Henry turned sweet brown eyes on her. “I can’t play?”

  Rayne sighed before slipping onto the stool next to her son. His cowlick stuck straight up and she wanted to kiss the freckles that sprinkled his little upturned nose, but she didn’t. She caught his hands, stilling them. “Honey, we’ve already talked about sports. School comes first, and you’re a little behind the kids in your class. Once you show me you’re doing better then you can play baseball or football.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.”

  “But—”

  “Henry!” Rayne crossed her arms and prepared for battle. “I said no.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “You’re so mean. You don’t care about me. You took me off my team and brought me here. I thought it would be okay, but I don’t like the stupid school here, either. School sucks.”

  “All right, where did you hear that language?”

  His lips pressed together and he glared at her even as big tears spilled down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes but said nothing.

  “Henry? I asked you a question.”

  “Nowhere,” he muttered, propping his arms on the granite counter. His elbows had dirt on them and his shirt had barbecue stains from the sloppy joe he’d had for lunch. Rayne would have to start packing his lunch. No telling what had been in that meat in the school cafeteria.

  Rayne set her elbows on the counter next to her son’s and settled her chin onto her hands. She blew out her breath. “I don’t want you using that language again. It doesn’t sound nice.”

  Henry rubbed at his eyes again. “Please, Mom. Please say I can play. Let me at least go to practice with them. I’ll read that book. I promise. And I’ll make good grades, too. You’ll see. I can do it.”

  Her heart squeezed in her chest. She wanted to say yes. She wanted nothing more than for her baby to be happy. He’d gone through so much. He’d lost his father, had to move and suffered from separation anxiety and nightmares so severe that she cried herself to sleep for him. She wanted to watch him hit that ball and run those bases, but that was not what he needed. Sometimes it sucked being a mom. “I’ll make you a deal. You bring home signed papers that show me you are improving, and I’ll consider letting you play.”