The Maverick's Thanksgiving Baby

“To new friendships,” she agreed. “And first dates.”

“Is this a date?”

“Of course. Otherwise, I would have lied to Jared.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” he teased.

She added the tomatoes to the frying pan, sprinkled in some of this and that, gave it a stir. Her movements were smooth and effortless, confirming her claim that she enjoyed cooking. Which was convenient, because he enjoyed eating.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting down to a steaming plate of penne pasta with chicken and peppers.

“This is really good,” he told her.

“Better than mac and cheese from a box?”

“Much better.”

They chatted while they ate, about anything and everything. She learned that he worked at his family’s ranch, The Shooting Star, but had his own house on the property, and that he was close to his siblings but was frequently baffled and frustrated by them. She confided that she sometimes felt smothered by her brothers, who tended to be a little overprotective, and admitted that she could have gone to work at Roarke & Associates—her parents’ law firm—but wanted to establish her own reputation in the field.

She had a second glass of wine while he had a second serving of pasta, and they lingered at the table. He was easy to talk to, and he actually listened to what she was saying. As a result, she found herself telling him things she’d never told anyone else, such as her concern that she’d been so focused on her career that she hadn’t given much thought to anything else, and she was starting to wonder if she’d ever find the time to get married and have a family.

Not that she was in any hurry to do so, she hastened to explain. After all, she was only twenty-eight years old. But she was admittedly worried that if she continued on the same course, she might be so focused on her billable hours that she wouldn’t even hear her biological clock when it started ticking.

Jesse told her that he’d gone to Montana State University to study Animal Science, graduating with a four-year degree. As for dating, he confided that he hadn’t done much of that, either, claiming that most of the women in town had gone out with one or more of his brothers and he had no intention of trying to live up to their reputations.

After the meal was finished, he insisted on helping with the cleanup. While she put the dishes into the dishwasher, he washed the pans.

She’d enjoyed spending time with Jesse, and she wasn’t eager for the night to end. He was smart and interesting and definitely easy to look at, and despite the underlying hum of attraction, she felt comfortable with him—or at least she did until he turned to reach for a towel at the same moment that she straightened up to close the door of the dishwasher and the back of his hand inadvertently brushed the side of her breast.

She sucked in a breath; he snatched his hand back.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, it was my fault.”

But fault was irrelevant. What mattered was that the air was fairly crackling and sizzling with awareness now. And the way he looked at her—his gaze heated and focused—she was certain he felt it, too.

She barely knew him. But she knew she’d never felt the same immediacy and intensity of connection that she felt the minute he’d taken her hand inside the community center only a few hours earlier. But she was a Los Angeles attorney and he was a Rust Creek cowboy, and she knew that chemistry—as compelling as it might be—could not bridge the gap between them.

And Jesse had obviously come to the same conclusion, because he took a deliberate step back, breaking the threads of the seductive web that had spun around them. “I should probably be on my way.”

“Oh.” She forced a smile and tried to ignore the sense of disappointment that spread through her. “Okay.”

She followed him to the door.

He paused against the open portal. “Thanks again for dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And if you ever need a fictional girlfriend to get you out of a tight spot, feel free to give me a call.”

He lifted a hand and touched her cheek, the stroke of his fingertips over her skin making her shiver. “I don’t want a fictional girlfriend, but I do want to kiss you for real.”

She wasn’t sure if he was stating a fact or asking permission, but before she could respond, he’d lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

She might have caught him off guard when she’d pressed her lips to his outside of the community center, but it hadn’t taken him long to respond, to take control of the kiss. This time, he was in control right from the beginning—she didn’t have a chance to think about what he was doing or brace herself against the wave of emotions that washed over her.

For a man who claimed he didn’t do a lot of dating, he sure knew how to kiss. His mouth was warm and firm as it moved over hers, masterfully persuasive and seductive. Never before had she been kissed with such patient thoroughness. His hands were big and strong, but infinitely gentle as they slid up her back, burning her skin through the silky fabric of her blouse as he urged her closer. Her breasts were crushed against the solid wall of his chest, and her nipples immediately responded to the contact, tightening into rigid peaks.

She wanted him to touch her—she wanted those callused hands on her bare skin, and the fierceness of the want was shocking. Equally strong was the desire to touch him—to let her hands roam over his rock-hard body, exploring and savoring every inch of him. He was so completely and undeniably male, and he made everything that was female inside of her quiver with excitement.

Eventually, reluctantly, he eased his mouth from hers. But he kept his arms around her, as if he couldn’t bear to let her go. “I should probably be on my way before the sheriff gets home.”

“He won’t be home tonight,” she admitted. “He and Lissa went to Bozeman for the weekend.”

He frowned at that. “You’re going to be alone here tonight?”

She held his gaze steadily. “I hope not.”

He closed the door and turned the lock.

Chapter Two (#ulink_1044eafe-bcb7-548b-8530-c3df39f66478)

November

Jesse had tossed the last bag of broodmare supplement into the back of his truck when he saw a pair of shiny, high-heeled boots stop beside the vehicle. He wiped the back of his hand over his brow and lifted his head to find Lissa Christensen, Maggie’s cousin and also the sheriff’s wife, standing there.

He touched a hand to the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Christensen,” he said politely.

“It’s Lissa,” she told him, and offered a smile that was both warm and apologetic.

He wondered what she felt she had to apologize for. Maggie had told him that Lissa wasn’t just her cousin—she was her best friend—and he would bet that whatever Maggie’s reasons for ending their relationship before it had really even begun, she would have confided in the other woman. No doubt Lissa knew more than he wanted her to, but she didn’t need to know—he wouldn’t let her see—how hurt he’d been by Maggie’s decision.

“Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”

“Actually, I’m here to help you.”

“While I appreciate the offer, I’m already finished,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her.

She shook her head, clearly exasperated with him. “Have you talked to Maggie recently?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

“You need to talk to her,” Lissa insisted. “Sooner rather than later.”

And though Jesse’s heart urged him to reach out to her once again, Maggie had trampled on it once already and he wasn’t eager to give her another chance. Maybe pride was cold comfort without the warmth of the woman in his arms, but it was all he had left, and that pride wouldn’t let him continue to chase after a woman who had made it clear she wasn’t interested.

“If your cousin wants to talk, she knows where to find me,” he countered.

Lissa huffed out a breath. “If nothing else, the two of you have obstinacy in common.”