His Secret Agenda

She preferred dark-haired guys who dressed more conservatively than jeans and a striped, button-down shirt.

He picked at the top layer of the remaining quesadilla on the plate. “What’s in this, anyway?”

She turned her grill pan off. “Hot sauce—”

“Obviously.”

“Tomatoes, some lime juice, onion, scallions…” She ticked each item off on her fingers as she spoke. “Cheddar cheese, cream cheese and lobster.”

He jerked his hand back. “Lobster?”

She stirred the big pot of tomato sauce simmering on the back burner. “Sure. Why not?”

He scratched his cheek. “I’ve never heard of a lobster quesadilla before, that’s all.”

“That’s why I made it. I wanted something different.”

“It’s different all right,” he murmured in his sexy drawl.

She tapped the spoon twice on the edge of the saucepan. It didn’t matter what this…cowboy thought about her menu. The Summit belonged to her and if she wanted to liven things up with fancier fare, then she would.

Besides, if she had to cook one more boring cheese-chicken-and-mushroom quesadilla for the next Tex-Mex Monday, she’d stick a fork in her eye.

She slid the band off her heavy ponytail and combed her fingers through her hair. “Well, let’s get on with your interview. Why don’t we sit down?”

He pulled a chair out for her at the small table. She thanked him and took her seat. Studied him as he sat opposite. Okay, so he was polite. She couldn’t help it if she had a weak spot for courteous manners.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder again as she picked up the file containing Dean Garret’s rеsumе, as well as the job application he’d sent in.

“So, I guess we’ll get right to the basics,” she said. “I need someone to tend bar in the evenings from seven to three Tuesday through Saturday. We’re closed Sundays…except during football season.”

“Football’s big here?”

“We have our fair share of fans. Although if I had to guess, I’d say we’re packed Sunday afternoons because people go a little stir-crazy around here in the winter. They need to get out, and since social opportunities are limited to church functions or skiing, they wind up here.”

He leaned forward. “Please tell me there are other things to do in this town beside church dinners and going a hundred twenty miles per hour down a hill on a pair of toothpicks.”

“I take it you’re not into religion or winter sports?”

He glanced around as if checking to make sure they were alone in the room. “If my mama happens to ask, I attend church every Sunday.”

He was afraid of his mama. God, that was sweet. “So it’s just skiing you have a problem with?”

“I prefer warmer activities.”

Her mouth went dry.

Oh, this wasn’t good.

She got to her feet. And about fell back to her seat when he stood, as well. Yeah, those manners were mighty impressive. She went to the refrigerator. “Most guys avoid the ice rink—except for the Tuesday and Thursday night hockey league. And since we’re on Main Street, we don’t get any snowmobilers coming in, either. They all stop at The Pineview on the edge of town.” She opened the fridge door and pulled out a diet soda. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” He glanced out the window at the falling snow—and she could’ve sworn she saw him shudder. “Is there anything to do here that doesn’t involve the threat of hypothermia?”

She couldn’t help but grin. “Not too much. At least, not between the months of November and February.” She pursed her lips as she opened the can. “And sometimes March.” He winced, but covered it quickly. She sat back down and he did, too. “Since you’re not a fan of cold weather, I have to ask—are you staying in Serenity Springs long?”

He leaned back, the picture of relaxed, confident male. “I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

Talk about a nonanswer. “I need someone I can rely on. I’ve been through too many bartenders to count.” He just nodded—in agreement? Pity? Who knew? “To be honest,” she continued, “it’s getting really annoying to hire someone, only to have them walk away a few weeks—or in one case hours—later. I need someone dependable who’s not going to leave me in the lurch.”

She sipped her soda and waited, but he didn’t say anything. And the intense way he studied her made her squirm.

She cleared her throat. “Now, that’s not to say if I hire you I expect you to stay forever….” The idea of staying at The Summit forever caused a chill to run up her spine. “But,” she continued, shoving aside the uneasiness she always felt when she thought of her future, “I would appreciate at least two weeks’ notice, not to mention a few months worth of work first.”

He remained silent.

She sighed. Why were good-looking men always such a trial? “I’m not sure if you understand how a conversation works, but that would be your cue to speak.”

He hesitated. Her experience as a defense attorney told her he was readying a lie. But when she searched his expression, she saw no hint of deception.

Which just went to show she’d made the right decision to quit practicing law. She obviously wasn’t as good at reading people as she’d thought.

“I’ll be in Serenity Springs for a while,” he said. “But I can’t guarantee how long.”

“If I hire you, I need to know you won’t leave me in a bind.”

Still no response. He didn’t try to persuade her he was best for the job, didn’t promise he’d stick it out as long as possible. He sure didn’t seem all that desperate for work. So why was he here?

She glanced over his rеsumе again. After graduating from Athens high school in Texas, Dean had worked at a Dallas establishment called Benedict’s Bar and Grill for three years before joining the Marine Corps, after which he’d served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. “I see you tended bar before you went into the military, but your recent work record has quite a few gaps. Care to explain those?”

“I was trying to find something that suited.”

“Since you’re here, I take it you didn’t find what you were looking for?”

“No, ma’am.”

She picked up a pen and tapped it against the table. “See, this is where we get back to me being able to rely on you to stick around. And from what I can tell of your work history—or at least, your work history over the last two years—you don’t stay in one place long.”

He clasped his hands together on the table. “After my discharge I did some traveling. For personal reasons.”

“Hmm…” He was hiding something. She could feel it. “So you had a difficult time adjusting back to…what would you call it…civilian life?”

“No more than anyone else who served.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and studied him. Maybe he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. She was far from an expert on PTSD, but knew that a person affected by it could have trouble keeping a job. Or it could be something else. Wanderlust. The inability to get along with his employers or fellow employees.

And then it hit her why he was so secretive. Why he gave such vague answers. Why there were periods of up to three months unaccounted for in his work history.

“Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offense?”