Her Bucking Bronc (2 page)

The traffic in Tanger was light compared to Dallas, almost nonexistent. It took only fifteen minutes to get to the diner. The long, shiny building reminded him of one in North Carolina, a small slice of home that appealed to him. Perhaps this Texas establishment would have similar high-quality foods. He’d eaten in too many diners to count and he hoped this one had more than greasy fries and sticky menus.

As he stepped into the building, he noted every table was full. The counter had only one empty seat. He took a deep breath and smelled heaven. Somebody was cooking with fatback. With a bit more pep in his step, he claimed the open seat and reached for the menu only to bang his hand into the person next to him.

He turned to apologize and looked straight into the eyes of none other than Hannah Blackwood.

Shit.

“Mr. Bennett.” She snatched the last menu.

He narrowed his gaze. “Miss Blackwood.”

She sniffed and held the menu up. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“It’s about the only place to eat in town. I expect you’re here for the same reason.” His stomach complained. Loudly.

She glanced down at his torso before she turned her attention back to the apparently scintillating menu. He threaded his fingers together and waited for his turn. The waitress was down at the other end helping out a family with two unruly kids tussling over the last piece of cherry pie.

“What do you recommend?” He would be polite if it killed him.

“I’ve no idea. I haven’t walked in this place since the Kraskys had it placed here.” She scrunched up her nose and he was annoyed to discover she had freckles. The crazy, gun-toting female had something as innocent as freckles.

“And you chose tonight to try it.”

She shrugged. “My brother is out with his girlfriend and Mama is visiting her sister in Arizona. No one to cook for.”

“Well, there’s you. You have
you
to cook for.” He didn’t understand why the universe sent her to the one restaurant in town at the exact moment he was there.

Her gaze snapped to his. He sure as hell didn’t need to also notice she had eyes like a doe. Big brown ones with long lashes not covered with makeup. A natural beauty, damn it all.

She shook her head. “I don’t cook for just me.”

“Why not?” He didn’t understand why he continued the conversation. He should get up and walk out. “You have to eat.”

She blinked and he swore he felt the breeze from those ridiculously long lashes. “I don’t know. I’ve always cooked for everyone, at home and at the restaurant. That’s who I am.”

He shook his head. Woman had no idea how to take care of herself and it wasn’t his job to teach her. He did need to eat, though. “Well, Chef Harry, can you share the menu?”

She looked at the thing as if she hadn’t realized it was in her hand. Then, to his surprise, she handed it to him.

“I knew it was bad luck to walk in here.” She fingered something hanging on a chain between her breasts and her eyes closed.

He told himself it was none of his business. She was a client, not a friend or even a whisper of a friend. And she had already threatened to shoot him.

“Sorry, folks. It’s busy in here tonight.” The waitress smiled at him and then looked at Hannah. “You two need another minute?”

“We’re not together.” Dylan smiled and the older woman’s cheeks flushed. “I’ll take a beer and whatever your special is.”

“Meatloaf and mashed potatoes it is.” She turned to Hannah. “Hey, aren’t you—”

“Leaving.” She got up and left without another word.

“I was going to say, isn’t she Hannah Blackwood? Shame about that restaurant burning down.” The waitress, whose nametag read Peggy, leaned her elbow on the counter to chat. “Do you know if they’re gonna rebuild?”

“Yes, ma’am, they are.” He set the menu back into the clip on the counter. “Now how about that special?”

As the waitress bustled away to get his supper, Dylan told himself to forget about Hannah. Ignore the glimpse of what beat beneath the surface of the woman he would be working with for the next four months.

Chapter Two

Dylan pulled up to the building at the address he’d been given. It was a house, not an office building, but that shouldn’t surprise him. Tanger had proved to be quirky in more ways than one.

He parked in the lot nearby then jogged across the road, waving as the other cars stopped to let him pass. The folks sure were polite. Well, most of them were. One brunette didn’t speak for the entire town.

The front porch steps could have used a hammer to nail down some of the boards that were curling a bit. The carpenter in him itched to fix everything he saw. As he stepped through the large front door, he was assaulted by an acrid stench he associated with his grandmother’s Saturday’s visit to the hairdresser. Wrinkling his nose, he read the sign on the wall and he realized the house had four different businesses in it. A place called Shear Madness, which explained the hairdresser smell; a music teacher, which explained the sound of a piano; a lawyer, no explanation needed; and an architect.

Dylan wondered if this one building housed the entire professional population of the little town. He walked up the steps, marveling at the craftsmanship of the bannister. They didn’t make houses like this anymore. Intricate balustrades and crown molding that would cost a fortune nowadays to hang. Eight-inch baseboards and thick hardwood steps that creaked as they bore his weight.

He had worked industrial and commercial jobs for the last ten years, but his heart was in restoring old homes. This one had been kept beautifully by someone who cared about the elegance of the old girl.

He was smiling when he knocked on the door labeled
Lucas Redman, Architect AIA, LEED AP
. It was a grand set of French doors with frosted glass and crystal doorknobs. If Dylan wasn’t careful he might fall in love with the damn building.

“Come in,” called a man’s voice from within.

Dylan stepped inside to find two men on either side of a massive desk. Papers were in neat piles around the left side and the center was covered with blueprints. This is what he loved to do. Dylan assessed the other men as he shook their hands.

The man behind the desk, Lucas Redman presumably, had hair as black as a raven’s wing and equally dark eyes. Possibly some Native American heritage in his high cheekbones and strong jaw. He was slender but athletic, judging by his grip.

The other man, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, had thick, light brown, wavy hair and blue eyes. In contrast, this man’s shoulders and chest were wide with muscle and his hand was as callused as Dylan’s. A working man for sure.

“Dylan Bennett.” He gestured to the empty wooden chair. “May I?”

“Yes, of course. I’m Lucas Redman and this is Dax Blackwood.” The architect put his hands palm down on the blueprints and looked at Dax. “We can’t start looking at these without her.”

Dax glanced at his watch. “She should be back any minute.”

She? Before Dylan could ask who “she” was, the door behind him burst open and banged into his shoulder. He fell forward, stopping his complete humiliation by slamming his hands onto the architect’s desk.

“Oh shit.” A female voice broke the silence. A very familiar voice. “I guess that’s why you asked me to get four coffees.”

Lucas offered him a hand, but Dylan waved it off and pushed himself to a standing position. His shoulder hurt along with his dignity. Hannah Blackwood stood there with a tray with four cups and a frown.

“Good morning, Harry.” He plucked a coffee from the tray. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome, Broadway.” She set the tray down and pulled a chair from the corner. “Dax, you and me need to talk about hiring people for
my
restaurant rebuild.”

Her brother took one of the coffees. “You didn’t seem interested in doing anything but making macaroni and cheese and brooding.”

Her cheeks colored, surprising Dylan. She seemed like a hard-ass woman, not one to blush. “Shut up.” She sipped at her coffee and gestured toward the desk. “Let’s get on with it then.”

After everyone had their coffees in hand, the four of them reviewed the blueprints. Dylan was glad to be on the opposite side of the desk from her. As they walked through it, she had salient points and logical ideas. He argued with her a few times about the placement of the prep station, but he was impressed with her ideas for a separate bakery area and counter.

Within two hours, the coffee was long gone and they had marked up the blueprints with red ink and notes. Lucas was open to suggestions and took the Blackwoods’ bickering in stride. Seemed like this town was the kind that everybody knew everybody’s business. He’d grown up in such a place and had escaped at the age of eighteen.

Being back in a similar town was both nostalgic and bittersweet. He had respect for people who could and chose to stay in the same place their whole lives. He just wasn’t that type of person.

He would, however, be working with and living around them for the next four months. As he met Hannah’s gaze, he wondered if that was such a great idea.

“Are you still going to call it Cindy’s?” His innocent question was met with utter silence.

Lucas fiddled with a pen. Dax appeared to be very interested in his shoelace.

Hannah shook her head. “Cindy Cooley was a survivor, a strong woman whose grandfather loved her so much he named the restaurant after her. He died trying to rescue her with our great-great-great-great grandfather. How can you even think of changing it?”

Dylan held up his hands palms out. “Forget I asked. I was thinking you might want a fresh start for the restaurant.”

Her perfectly plump lips twisted as she contemplated his statement. She didn’t have to wear makeup—that mouth was a natural raspberry color. Something inside him stirred to life.

Oh hell.

The last thing he needed was to be attracted to this tall, curvaceous and outspoken woman. She was far too aggressive, not to mention a little crazy, for his tastes. He liked more relaxed and easygoing women. Dylan knew he was intense and could be called high maintenance—he couldn’t have the same in a woman. The fireworks would level the town.

“Actually, I was thinking the bakery area would have its own handle.” She glanced at her brother. “Devils’ Corner.”

For some reason that make Dax laugh. “I like it.”

Dylan must’ve looked sufficiently puzzled to warrant an explanation from Dax. “Our ancestor, whose name was Gideon Blackwood, was part of a group of Civil War soldiers who were called Devils on Horseback.”

“Ah, Devils’ Corner. I like it.” Dylan could believe Hannah had devils in her blood.

She tossed her empty coffee cup into the trashcan near his feet. Her aim was spot on but the leftover cold liquid splashed up on his jeans. He frowned at her and the woman at least looked sheepish.

“Sorry. I thought it was empty.” She turned her face away, her cheeks pink.

“I’ll get started on these interior changes, but I think we can get the building permit started for the foundation.” Lucas handed a stack of paperwork to Dylan.

“I can do that. I’ll need a check for the permit fee. Do you have a company account?” he asked Dax, but it was Hannah who answered.

“Yes we do, and only the two of us can write checks.” She sat up straighter. “This restaurant is mine, not his. I have nursed it, owned it, run it, loved it from the moment I could walk. If you have a question, you ask
me
.”

Dax’s eyebrows shot up. “Hannah, you’re, ah, acting different.”

“I’m acting like a restaurant owner.” She got to her feet. “We can go to the permit office now and get started.”

To Dylan’s astonishment, she picked up the cavernous purse she’d had stashed in the corner and opened the door. She turned back and looked at him.

“Are you coming, Broadway, or are you gonna sit here at the coffee klatch all day?” She disappeared from view and Dylan turned to look at Dax and Lucas.

“Is she always like that?”

Dax shook his head. “No, not for a few years. That was almost, uh, normal.” Then he smiled.

Normal?

Dylan got to his feet. “Shit.”

Hannah waited outside for only a few moments before Dylan clomped down the stairs. He had a folder in his hand and a frown on his face. That didn’t detract from the sheer masculinity of the man. He was built like a brick house, which appeared to have been earned through honest work, not at a gym. A man’s man. Exactly the type of guy she didn’t like.

Then why were tingles currently radiating out from her gut to all of her girlie parts? She didn’t want to be attracted to him. She refused to be.

“Do you ever smile?” she groused.

He pointed at her. “Did you ever hear the one about catching more bees with honey than vinegar?”

That hurt. She narrowed her gaze. “Did you ever hear of being a gentleman?” Oh, that was lame. Where was her quick wit when she needed it?

“I’m always a gentleman.” He opened the passenger door on an enormous black pickup.