Cowboy In The Kitchen

“Yeah, that’s what the experts say, but if Hunt didn’t resemble me quite so much, I’d figure our folks had brought home the wrong kid.”

Gillian followed Cullen across the herringbone entryway and into a family room. The floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls were so tightly packed with hardbound volumes that the space resembled a library in need of organization. An oversize sofa and chairs occupied the center of the room that was strewn with newspapers. A large partner’s desk laden with a desktop computer, a laptop and many more books crowded one corner. As she took in the homey clutter, she knew this was definitely not the meticulous lifestyle of her executive chef.

Hunt emerged from behind the kitchen bar where he’d served her breakfast a few days earlier. An apron covered his clothing from the waist down, but the stark white seemed to accentuate the fit of his red polo shirt and the definition in his arms. The man was a feast for the eyes.

“I’d apologize for my brother’s cluttered home if it would make him change, but this mess is part of who he is. His quirky personality just happens to have tipped over and spilled everywhere.”

Hunt’s gaze swept the room, followed by a disbelieving shake of his head.

“While our mama was alive, she made Cullen keep the books in his bedroom. But once we lost our parents, all restraints were off. And instead of growing out of his obsession for academia, this big galoot and his size-twelve feet grew into it.”

Gillian stepped close to one shelf and stared in awe at the private collection, many of which were textbooks.

“If you must have a touch of OCD,” Gillian said, “I agree that the printed word is a great obsession to choose. And if you’ve read each of these, you must be very smart, indeed, Cullen.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Hunt said that you were sharp as a new pickax and pretty as a baby goat, but he didn’t mention you’re a good judge of character, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunt cleared his throat, making the point that the conversation had gone on long enough.

“Yes, little bro. I remember the instructions you gave me. Let the pretty woman into the house and then make myself scarce.”

Cullen glanced at Gillian and raised his gaze to the rafters overhead. “This is the thanks I get for taking in my sibling and letting him have the run of my kitchen.”

“If you expect to share in this meal, you’ll get out while the gettin’ is still good, or I’ll put you to work.”

“I sure hope you’re partial to squirrel, Miss Moore,” Cullen said with a grin before ambling down the long hallway and turning out of sight.

CHAPTER FIVE

“SQUIRREL?” GILLIAN SQUEAKED the question and Hunt smiled inwardly.

“Yep, and you’re in luck. These two tree-dwelling rodents were flying through the pines just this morning. Felix was honored to donate them for our dinner.”

He saw her swallow.

“Well, I did leave the menu up to you, and whatever it is you’re preparing smells divine,” she said.

“That’s nice to hear. Some say people eat with their eyes first, but I believe the aroma sets the mood for the meal. May I start you off this evening with a drop of the grape?”

He stooped to open a wine cabinet and pulled out two uncorked bottles. “When Cullen was working on one of his degrees, French history maybe, he became a wine aficionado. I gotta admit he keeps a pretty nice selection in the house.”

Hunt angled the bottles for her to inspect the labels. Her violet eyes widened with recognition.

“I’d love to sample the Rothschild Bordeaux, but I’m driving, and I have a lot more work to do tonight, so I hope you’ll give me a rain check. Some sparkling water will be fine, if you have it.”

“That we do.”

He returned the wine bottles to the rack and busied himself dropping ice into two chilled glasses before filling both with Perrier. He set Gillian’s glass on a cocktail napkin and motioned for her to have a seat at the tall counter tiled with a hacienda-style colorful mosaic.

“Pardon my backside, but I should see how the braising is coming along.” He lifted the lid off a deep cast-iron skillet and poked at the contents inside with a long-handled fork. “Tell me about the rest of your day.”

“You first,” she countered. “How did things go with Mr. Froehlich?”

Hunt replaced the lid on the skillet and transferred the pan to a hot oven, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not convinced your fellow from Houston is the right man for this job.”

“Now, why was that exactly what I expected to hear from you?”

“I beg your pardon.” He gave her a wide-eyed glare for a moment, then reached for the panko bread crumbs. He upended the box into a mixing bowl.

“Cut the innocent act, Hunt. Did you even review his drawings?”

“I certainly did, but Froehlich doesn’t share our vision for retaining the integrity of Pap’s original design.”

She slapped her palm on the tile countertop.

“Listen to me! There is no such thing as our vision. I can’t afford to pacify your need to maintain some emotional connection to a place that was your grandfather’s half a century ago.”

Her words stung. Not because she was right, but because she was giving Hunt credit he didn’t deserve.

If he truly felt a deep-seated yearning to bridge the family connection to Temple Territory, wouldn’t he have made it happen long before now? Wasn’t all his talk at this point more selfish than selfless?

Man, he hated moments of revelation. It was why he avoided psychotherapy like a swarm of mosquitos.

So now what? Let the boss lady continue to believe he might be altruistic, or admit he’d only been pursuing his own aspirations? He wasn’t ready to tip his hand quite yet.

“You’re right.” He reached into the fridge for the colander of zucchini, keeping his eyes averted so she couldn’t read the lie he was about to voice.

“This isn’t about me and my warped sense of family pride. My obligation is to you and to doing everything in my power to help you meet your deadlines.”

She was quiet while he busied himself slicing the dark green squash and tossing uniform discs into the bread crumbs.

“Cat got your tongue?” He glanced up from the cutting board.

“For a moment, yes.” She took a sip from her glass. “I seem to be criticizing you a lot. That’s not fair or normally my nature to be so judgmental. But I’m out of my element right now, and I’m determined to keep a laser focus on the prize.”

Hunt set a small bowl of spiced pecan halves on the ledge before Gillian. “Alma says these are good for the digestion.”

“Am I going to require digestive help after this meal?” She scooped up several pecans and popped them into her mouth.

He took one of the homemade treats as well and savored Alma’s special combination of cinnamon and cloves.

“Only if you eat too much squirrel,” he warned. “So, what is your element? You can tell mine is a kitchen. How would you describe your comfort zone?”

“That’s a question without an easy answer.” She reached for more pecans.

“And that’s a stall tactic.”

“Not this time.” As she shook her head, the blunt tips of silky blond hair brushed her shoulders. “I love everything about the boutique hotel business. The buzz of a reservation line. The hush of a linen closet. The madness of a busy front desk. The clink of silver on china in the dining room.”