Cowboy In The Kitchen

“The cha-ching of the cash register,” he interjected.

“That, too,” she laughed.

He enjoyed the sound of her laughter, so relaxed and different from the way she barked orders.

“The point is that I’m more at home in a hotel than I’ve ever been in our family’s house. Now I’ll have both under one roof.”

“So you plan to live there?” He hadn’t considered the possibility.

“Oh, certainly. I can just imagine the luxury of coffee on that back terrace every morning.”

He raised his brows. “Can you now?”

She dipped her chin in apology.

His guest seemed to keep forgetting he’d had many years to consider what life at the landmark mansion had to offer.

He tossed the mixing bowl to coat each slice of zucchini with bread crumbs and then eased the silver-dollar-sized pieces into hot canola oil where they would fry up crispy and light.

“Can I do anything to help?” she offered.

“You can set the table, if you don’t mind. Cullen keeps his dishes and flatware in that hutch against the wall.” He motioned with a slotted metal spoon, and then stooped to check the flame beneath his frying pan. “I hope it won’t offend you to eat in the kitchen. There’s a perfectly good dining room across the hall, but my doofus brother uses it to store his research files instead of for the purpose God intended.”

Cullen appeared, relaxed and lazy, as always. How he’d managed to get four degrees without breaking a sweat was a mystery to Hunt, who stressed over every element on a plate.

“Are you talkin’ about me again, little bro?”

“Guilty as charged. How about giving Gillian a hand? And if you own a cloth napkin, could you show her where you hide them?”

Cullen reached over Gillian’s head to retrieve colorful Fiestaware plates from the top shelf. “I only own a couple, and they’re in the hall bathroom.”

Gillian’s eyes gleamed with humor as they met Hunt’s.

“Is there any point in asking why?”

“I should do laundry soon. All the company hand towels are in the hamper, and the napkins fit that little short bar in there.”

“Il n’est pas juste,” Hunt muttered.

“I could write a book on Louis XIV, but I don’t speak a word of French, and Hunt knows it,” Cullen complained to Gillian.

“He said you’re not right.”

“Oh, he says that regularly.” Cullen waived away his twin’s comment and carried the dishes to the pedestal table that had come from their childhood kitchen. “Hey, where’d you find this?” Cullen ran his fingers over the white cloth that was draped across the scarred family heirloom.

“In one of Mama’s trunks.” Rummaging through the linens Alma had saved for him was always bittersweet. It was still surprising that he missed his folks so much after all these years. “Thanks for letting me store her things here until I have a permanent place of my own.”

“Hey, what are big brothers for?”

“That’s a question I ask myself frequently.”

* * *

GILLIAN LISTENED TO the banter between the men and wondered what it must have been like with a house full of siblings. Being an only child was lonely. Probably another reason she enjoyed the hotel business so much. There was always someone to talk with, someone to learn from, someone to help out.

This good-natured rivalry was so different. Nice. Evidence that Hunt had been reared by people who loved him and in a town where he felt at home. No wonder he’d found it hard to settle down in another city, much less another country.

“Gillian, would you please do the honors?” Hunt handed her the open bottle of Perrier and gestured toward the fresh stemware on the table Cullen was clumsily preparing. As she moved to each place setting to fill the goblet, she rearranged the cutlery and positioned the plates just so.

Hunt rewarded her surreptitious efforts with a smile that showed even white teeth. His appeal struck her with a fresh punch each time he caught her eye. No wonder he’d been such a hit on reality TV.

The heat of attraction crept up her neck. To cover her discomfort, Gillian dropped into a chair and took a sip from the glass she’d just poured.

“Hunt, our guest has claimed her spot at the table, so can we sit down and eat now?”

“By all means.” Hunt motioned for Cullen to take a seat, and then put serving bowls and a woven basket on the table. With care he placed a thick trivet in the center to protect his mother’s cloth, and then transferred the heavy iron skillet from the oven to the table. He whisked away the lid to reveal the steaming, mouthwatering contents.

“What do you think, Gilly? Do you mind if I call you Gilly?” Cullen asked what seemed to be a rhetorical question. “That’s a Texas-sized squirrel if I’ve ever encountered one.”

She leaned toward the skillet and peered at the bubbling cream sauce and mystery meat that was not so mysterious after all.

“That’s not a squirrel.” She cast an accusing glare at Hunt.

“Most folks say squirrel tastes like chicken anyway, so I figured I might as well fix the real thing.”

“Chicken fricassee!” Cullen exclaimed. “Now that’s some French I understand.” Cullen grabbed a long-handled spoon, served Gillian a hearty portion, then did the same for himself. Hunt suppressed a grin as he took the bread basket, unfolded one corner of the warming towel and offered her the basket.

“Hot biscuit, Gilly?” Hunt mimicked his brother.

“Ms. Moore or Gillian on the grounds of Moore House, please.”

She waited until he nodded agreement and then gave her attention to the meal before her. He was right. The tempting aroma won her over before a morsel had even passed her lips.

“Oh, Chef,” she mumbled with her mouth full. “This sauce is incredibly silky.”

“I thicken the sour cream sauce by whisking in an egg yolk.”

“It’s decadently rich.” She closed her eyes, savoring the flavors.

“Believe it or not, this is my light version—no heavy cream.”

“Well, I’m sold.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say. I’ll make it a featured item on my menu.” Hunt smiled and winked at his brother, a signal between the two.

Gillian paused in her feeding frenzy to consider what had just occurred. She rested against the chair to settle a heart that thumped hard in her chest. She’d unwittingly fallen for an impromptu tasting and been drawn in completely by her talented and wily chef.

She’d expected to discuss the menu with Hunt and, when absolutely necessary, to defer to his experience. But Gillian hadn’t intended to fall under his culinary spell so quickly or in the name of chicken fricassee.