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“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.
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 in Gillian’s works if he was willing to cooperate.
“Yep.” Karl seemed pleased. “Imagine my surprise when Miss Moore called the office this morning and asked us to take a gander at what she wants to do over here. Dad sure is tickled to bid on the job. Updating the woodwork in this big old house will put some extra guys on the payroll. And right here before the holidays, they really could use the work.”
“Gillian, do you want me to take it from here?” Hunt offered.
“No, thanks. Mr. Gates and I spent the past couple of hours walking the rooms for the first phase of restoration, and he understands what I have in mind.”
Karl lifted a yellow legal pad from the gaping, scarred ledge that had held a deep porcelain sink decades ago. He tucked his notes under his arm, clicked his pen, slipped it into his shirt pocket and then covered his cowlicks with a straw Stetson. Gillian took the hand he offered, and the warm smile they exchanged made Hunt the odd man out.
“Miss Moore, I’ll have drawings and samples to you by the end of the week.”
“Perfect. I’ll make a decision as soon as all the bids are in. I’d love to award the work to a local carpenter, but the financials have to be right.”
“We won’t disappoint you, ma’am.”
Gillian’s infernal cell phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, then asked, “Hunt, would you mind showing Mr. Gates to the parking lot? I should speak with my father right now.” She faced the other direction so her daddy would get her full attention, which was more courtesy than she’d given Hunt’s calls that morning.
He waited until they were clear of the house before he ventured past general pleasantries with Karl. “So let’s hear all about your meeting with the boss lady.”
“That’s a woman determined to get what she wants, if you know what I mean.”
“And you agree with her ideas?”
“Not entirely, but my job is to please the client.”
“Well, mine is to keep her from destroying the history of this place, and I intend to do it. I want to review what you draw up before you present it to Gillian.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that, Temple.” Karl tugged off his Stetson and slapped the brim against his thigh. “This is business, and I can’t afford to screw it up. I can add up the number of mansions being converted into hotels around here on one hand. One finger, actually. This town ain’t anything like the places you come from.”
“I come from Kilgore, same as you,” Hunt reminded his old friend. “And how do you expect she heard about you? I got your foot in the door, didn’t I? You can count on my vote when the bids are all on the table. I don’t want a crew from Houston up here any more than you do, so work with me, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Karl climbed in the cab of his pickup, slammed the door and propped his elbow on the open window sill. “How come you’re home again? I thought you wanted to get out of Dodge and lose the town gossip about your family for good. You’re the Cowboy Chef now.” Karl mocked the title. “What do you want with us?”
“Hey, can’t a guy come see his brothers without everybody being suspicious?”
“I guess so.”
“And it seems I got here in the nick of time. I’ve gotta keep this place from becoming a No-Tell Motel. And you’re going to help me, my friend.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Karl put the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. “So what’s up between you and Ms. Moore? Are you just letting her foot the bill to accomplish what you always said you wanted for this old place, or is there something personal going on?”
“What makes you ask either question?” Hunt kept his voice light. “I only met the lady a few weeks ago and you make it sound as if I’m taking advantage of her.”
“Well, you ought to at least get to know her better, and fast. That woman’s a looker. And when word gets around the Piney Woods that there’s a rich, single woman in Kilgore, she’s gonna have to fight men off with a stick, if you know what I mean.” He winked and headed his truck toward the exit.
