Steal Me, Cowboy (5 page)

“What do you mean Rainey turned me down?” Beck was checking in a shipment of wine that had arrived late while the restaurant bustled, getting ready for the dinner crowd.

“I told her you said you’d pay the difference, but she said no, she pays her own way.”

Beck stepped into his office and closed the door. “How short is she?” Immediately, his brain went literal on him. She was maybe five-four and if her arms were wrapped around him, the top of her head would hit him just above his heart.

“Seven hundred dollars.”

“That’s nothing.”

“To you maybe, but not to the rest of us, Beck. Besides, she’s out of work. She was trying not to show it, but I think she’s scared.” Beck’s cell buzzed, he looked down at the caller ID—Rainey. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Hey, Rainey. I’m glad you called. How’s it going?”

“Hey, Beck. I think you know how it’s going, that’s why I called, to thank you for trying to save me—again.”

He loved the sound of her voice with the drawl turned off, still southern, still sexy as hell. “I like saving you, Rainey Brown.”

“Well, you don’t have to. I have a job, temporarily. If everything goes the okay, Dillon will have my car ready by Saturday so I can head out Saturday evening. I’m going to be fine”

“You don’t sound too sure of that.”

“Everything’s fine, really. Nell’s going to let me work out of her beauty shop, just for the week. She has a wedding to do Saturday and gave me that—twelve fussy bridesmaids and the bride for one hundred and twenty dollars. I’ll work my ass off charging Nell’s prices, but I think I can do it and have enough to pay Dillon. Nell said she’d put a pickle jar out for tips. And if I have to stay a few more days to pay him, I will.”

“You always so independent?”

“Fiercely.” She wished that were true… she was too dependent on Adam Harper for things money couldn’t buy.

“Since you turned me down, will you at least let me cook dinner for you tomorrow?” She didn’t say anything for a while, and the silence wasn’t as comfortable as it was last night when he’d called her. “Rainey?”

“If it’s not a date, yes.”

“Okay, what time do you get off work?”

“Nell’s closes at five.”

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

“That’s a little early for dinner isn’t it?”

“Maybe if it were a date. But it’s not. I’ll see you then.”

CHAPTER SIX

WEDNESDAY

I was at work early the next morning, praying for walk-ins, not the silver-headed kind who expected to pay the sixties prices. I’d told Antwan about my setup with Nell… he loved retro and begged me to take pictures of the salon. I snapped about a dozen of them, sent them to him, and then silenced my phone since I was at work.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t check it every five seconds. Still no word from Adam. I knew he was pouting, and that was fine. He’d get over it, just like I always did the minute I laid eyes on him.

Nell gave me her only two appointments of the day and sat in Earline’s chair barking out directions while I washed and set her people. They didn’t looked too thrilled to have me fixing their hair, but they could see as well as I could that the business was wearing on Nell.

By lunchtime, I’d made twenty-two dollars and a dollar seventy-five in tips. I sat down at Nell’s station, knowing this wasn’t the kind of place that had folks walking in off the street like the trendier salons I’d seen in town that cater to the tourists. I had to do something.

I found a sandwich sign chalkboard in the supply closet and went to the little drug store on the corner for chalk. WALK-INS WELCOME. IMPORTED STYLIST. The imported stylist part was Nell’s idea, she said it would sound classier than NEW or SOUTH CAROLINA STYLIST. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I put the sign out front on the sidewalk.

A tourist from California came in to get her bangs trimmed up. I put the cape on her and started chatting her up about her hair and her life, which when you get right down to it are oftentimes the same. Apparently, she’d been thinking about a change for some time, and she let me layer her long locks a bit. She liked it so much she honored me with the question that often comes from winning a client’s trust.

“So, what else do you think I should do?”

I picked her hair up and let it fall, analyzing how the light played on it. “Your hair is a little bleached out from the sun, but it’s a gorgeous color. How about some subtle low lights to really make it pop?” Her family was on a rafting trip for the day, so she was free and jumped all over that.

Then Nell pulled me aside. “I don’t have foils, never had any call for them.”

How do you exist without foils? “I have some but they’re at the motel. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’s going to sit around and wait for me to go get them, but I don’t want to lose the sale.”

“Tell her to come back tomorrow,” Nell whispered.

The woman was so sick of all the touristy stuff her husband always made her and the kids do, she was eager to come back. “I don’t see foils on your price sheet.” Thank God. “How much do you charge?”

With her thick head of hair, normally a hundred and fifty dollars or more, but I was afraid she’d walk. I held my breath. “Eighty? Five? Dollars.”

“Wow. That’s cheap.”

I made her an appointment for three o’clock the next day and the minute the door closed behind her, Nell said, “Make good and damned sure she sees that pickle jar.” I laughed and counted my take for the day—only $661.21 to go.

Tonight was an expensive non-date. Beck had canceled all the reservations, closed the restaurant, and had paid the crew to take the night off. Some of them looked glad, some seemed a little worried. He assured them everything was fine, but that was all the explaining he intended to do. He didn’t want the buzz of the place or the occasional tourist wandering around back to see his view to distract him tonight.

He wasn’t sure what to wear, since it wasn’t supposed to be a date. But it was a date. He put on his favorite pair of jeans and looked through his closet for the shirt he’d most like to see Rainey in tomorrow morning. Not that he thought that might happen, but hell, he was an optimistic son of a bitch. He chose a turquoise colored butter-soft cotton one and rolled up the sleeves.

Not only was he optimistic, but he was also nervous, which wasn’t like him at all. Beck had had plenty of women. They’d always seemed to be a whole lot more interested in him than he was in them, but Rainey was different. That sassy southern mouth, that face, that perfect body, the gleam in her eyes that screamed
catch me if you can.
Or hell, maybe he had it all wrong, but that’s sure the way it looked like to Beck.

He should probably feel a little guilty for even thinking about seducing her,
but not because of her idiot boyfriend. No, if that guy was stupid enough not to return her phone calls, then he deserved whatever came from that. But it was obvious the woman had a weakness for good food.

Most of the women he’d hooked up with since he moved back to Marietta were just passing through. And Rainey was no different. Except she was different. He didn’t want her to leave when Saturday rolled around, and he hoped tonight, she’d admit there was something between them that was worth exploring. Basically, the plan was to distract her with everything he had in hopes that she’d forget about her self-imposed deadline, and forget about the asshole in Missoula.

She looked surprised when he rolled up in front of her motel room. “My car’s broken and you have two? What? Is this your date car?”

Three actually—the truck, the Beemer sedan
, and the SUV. He grinned at her. “Get in, smartass. This isn’t a date.”

But it sure felt like one. God he looked good. The whole time I ogled him, I prayed my shades were as dark as I thought they were. He was delicious from the bottom of his expensive-looking driving shoes to the top of his head, where I could not stop looking at his hair. Instinctively, without thinking of what I was doing, I touched his hair, then picked the weight of it up and let it fall in the back and on the side.

“What’s that for?” he asked, sounding like he liked what I was doing, like maybe this might be hairstylist foreplay.

I needed to behave myself, but even the most committed stylist girlfriend could get lost in hair like that. I blushed a little and uncrossed my legs.
Feet on floor, Rainey. Hands in lap.
“I just wanted to see the way your hair lays. When’s the last time you had it cut?”

“Once a year, usually December.”

“As a professional,” although there was nothing professional about the way I was looking at his hair, “I have to ask. Do you just like it long and why December?

“I usually take December off and go somewhere warm, I buzz it all off, then it grows back. And yeah, I like it long.”

Ooh, me too.
“Why didn’t you cut it this year?” He looked at me long enough to make me nervous. “Hey, eyes on the road, mister. I can tell you didn’t cut it because it’s close to nine inches long, most people’s hair only grows a half inch every month.”

“My dad died. I spent December with my mom.”

The way he said it made me think things weren’t so good between him and his dad. “I’m sorry, Beck.” When he didn’t elaborate, I let it go. “I can’t imagine losing one of my parents. How’s your mama doing?”

“She’s good, she lives in town now. Has a lot of friends, that helps. Both my parents were born and raised here, I was too. It’s a good place to grow up.”

“But when you came back, you moved out of town. Why is that?”

“I was raised on a ranch, but my parents sold it after I left home and moved into town.”

“So, it wasn’t just the hat. You
are
a cowboy.”

“I am, but the hat comes with the gig.”

“Where’s the ranch?’

“There’s a big spread on the other side of the lake. Our place was on the other side of that. It wasn’t big, but it was beautiful.” There’s not much around these parts that isn’t beautiful. “Even though I can’t see it from my place, I still feel connected to it.”

“Sounds perfect. Why did you ever leave Marietta?”

He hesitated, like he was keeping a piece of the truth to himself. “I couldn’t learn the things I needed to learn here. There was no fine dining at the time, so I left. I spent the first six years after I got out of college working at high-end restaurants. Spent some time in California and then Europe before coming back home.

“Five years ago, I built my place. It was kind of scary, putting a fine dining establishment away from everything, kind of like the whole Field of Dreams thing.”

Great.
A baseball analogy. Thanks to Adam, I knew all the great baseball movies and all the key lines. “If you build it, they will come.”

“Yes, and they have. There’s a lot of money around the Copper Mountain area, big cattle ranches, farms, and a pretty healthy tourist industry.”

The road was familiar, we were close to Beck’s house. “So are we headed to your restaurant?”

“Nope. We’re closed tonight.”

“On a Wednesday?”

“It’s my place, I get to decide. So I closed it.”

Okay. Maybe this was a date.

I glanced at my cell phone as we pulled into the courtyard. No calls, no texts.

“You ever get tired of checking that thing?” Full on grin, teasing me.

“This is the world we live in, Beck. I’m no different than anybody else.”

He raised his eyebrows like maybe he disagreed. “I get tired of that world. Too many distractions. I can leave mine turned off for hours, even days sometimes,” he shrugged as the car came to a stop in front of his home. “But I’ve watched you with that hot pink phone… unless you’re starving, I don’t imagine that’s possible. So are you? Starving?”

I narrowed my eyes and tossed it in the cup holder, fully intent on leaving it in the car.

“I guess that answers that question. Are you’re ready for a drink?” he asked.

“I’d really like to see your restaurant.” I wanted to know what was behind that big dark leafy screen, what he’d built when he came home from his adventure. “If that’s okay.”

“I’d love to show it to you. You’re sure you’re not too tired to walk over?” He pointed to the cute four-inch wedges I was wearing the day he saved me.

“I’m a tough girl, remember?” Who has a boyfriend who is very pissed at her, but Adam is still my boyfriend. At least I hoped he was.

From the outside, the restaurant looked fancy and expensive. It was called Beck’s Place and had the same French country, log cabin thing going on like his home, only on a grander scale. It looked awfully big to be away from the tourist trade. No surprise it was successful, I’d only had Beck’s grilled cheese and I was sold. He held a key fob up to a security panel and the thick wooden double doors clicked and then opened.

The reception area was small but tasteful, the bar was off to the right with the obligatory big screen TVs on the wall and cool rustic high
-top tables made out of what looked like big logs polished to a glossy sheen.

“It’s beautiful, Beck.”

He grinned. “Thanks. It’s pretty much your average restaurant. Bar, dining area, wine cellar, kitchen.”

“I don’t believe you. I’ve had your food. You don’t do average.” Not by a long shot.

The dining room had maybe thirty tables of various sizes draped in white cloths. The brown tones of the burled wooden floors and the thick woven straps on the buckskin leather chairs were the perfect complement to the cowboy-chic setting. But the best part of the restaurant, besides the food I am sure, was the view of the mountains from the floor-to-ceiling windows framed with thick honey-colored beams.