Cowboy In The Kitchen - Mae Nunn

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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.

      It seemed her earlier fears about trusting the man were well-founded.

      CHAPTER SIX

      ON THE DRIVE to Temple Territory the next day, Hunt prepared himself to be in the doghouse with Gillian. He’d called twice that morning, and it’d gone to voice mail both times. Yep, he was on her bad side, he just wasn’t certain why. She’d enjoyed the meal, cleaned her plate and even agreed the fricassee was a dish worthy of his menu.

      Correction. Her menu.

      “I gotta stop acting as if I’m running this show,” he muttered to himself. “That’s probably why she took off before I got a chance to serve the crème brûlée.”

      In fairness, she had come in the door last night making noise about having to work later that evening. But it was just as likely the hotel heiress had to report to her daddy as to how she was spending his money. Hunt could just imagine her observations—the East Texas locals were slow as molasses in Minnesota, and as easy as shootin’ fish in a barrel. Flash some cash and these folks will go along with anything.

      In Gillian’s mind, setting up shop in this quiet little town would be a sure thing.

      Hunt snapped his fingers.

      A sure thing. That’s the boss lady’s Achilles’s heel!

      She thought her money was the silver bullet, the solution to every problem. Well, it wouldn’t buy loyalty or respect. And it wouldn’t buy the one thing she needed to succeed in these parts: the hearts of the local folks.

      By the time the Jeep’s wheels crunched on the asphalt of the private drive, Hunt’s mind was humming with a question. Did he dare exploit Gillian’s weak spot in hopes of getting her to give up on her plan?

      And if he was successful? Then what? He’d put together a group of investors. That’s what.

      He pulled alongside a new Silverado with local plates, then poked the keys underneath the cracked seat of the old Wrangler and headed toward the stucco mansion. Voices drifted from the kitchen into the high-ceilinged vestibule where Gillian said she planned to install her guest registration desk. A low voice rumbled, punctuated by female laughter. Hunt quickened his steps to investigate.

      “So we’re in agreement, ma’am?”

      “I believe we are,” Gillian responded to a tall guy in jeans and cowboy boots. The square shoulders beneath the chambray shirt were familiar, but it was the double cowlick on the crown of the auburn head that gave the visitor’s identity away.

      “Karl Gates, you redheaded stepchild, is that you?”

      The man spun around with a wide smile and stepped into Hunt’s bear hug. They held on in friendship, slapping one another on the ribs harder than necessary to see who’d release the embrace first.

      “One of you is going to break a bone if you don’t knock it off,” Gillian intervened.

      “What are you doing here, man?” Hunt held his best high school buddy at arm’s length.

      “I could ask you the same thing, Temple. Thought you dumped us to live in some country where they eat slugs and fish eggs and call it fine quee-zeen.”

      The common sentiment, that he’d dumped his old friends to be a celebrity, stung. But that was why he had come home. To put things right.

      “Believe it or not, people eat that stuff just up the road in Dallas.”

      “That’s exactly why Cathy Ann and I don’t go any farther than Longview for a night on the town.”

      “There are some adventurous eateries in Longview, my friend.”

      “Well, the most adventure I want on my plate is a porterhouse from Bubba’s House O’ Beef, if you know what I mean.”

      Hunt faked a shudder of disgust, then moved his attention to Gillian. “Should we post a guard at the street to keep riffraff off the property?”

      “Mr. Gates is here at my invitation.”

      “Is that a fact?” Hunt wondered how this turn of events might figure into his new plan. Karl could be helpful throwing a wrench

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