Читать книгу Cowboy In The Kitchen - Mae Nunn - Страница 12

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.”

“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.

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