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A Taste of Texas
Liz Talley
Returning to Oak Stand, Texas, doesn't mean things haven't panned out for Rayne Rose. In fact, she's a celebrity chef so successful she desperately needs her equilibrium! Fixing up her aunt's B and B is the perfect step back. But how's Rayne supposed to get perspective with Brent Hamilton–the best friend who broke her heart–next door?Beauty in motion. That was Brent then–and now. The boy Rayne adored has become a good-time guy…and all wrong for this widowed single mom. Still, she can't resist the different version of Brent she glimpses beneath the surface. And that taste tempts her to dig a little deeper. Because maybe what they once had could still be.
Her gaze hit his, then dipped lower to his bare chest
Rayne swallowed and redirected her gaze, but not before Brent caught the interest that flared in the warm depths of her eyes. “Hey.”
A frisson of awareness skipped up his spine. She’d looked at him as though he was the last scoop of ice cream in the tub of Rocky Road. It made his body tighten with anticipation even though he knew it wasn’t a good idea. It wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Well, it would get him something he wanted, but he wanted more than sweaty sheets and sexual satisfaction.
He wanted a piece of what he’d once had with her…and that had nothing to do with lust.
Dear Reader,
From the first time I wrote the character of Brent Hamilton, the man intrigued me. He was handsome, slightly egotistical and a bit slimy. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Wondering about guys like him and why they don’t fall in love. Then it came to me. What if Brent had missed his chance at love? What if he hated who he was? And what if he had a secret?
So A Taste of Texas was born.
This book is basically Brent’s story of redemption, but it also touches on something many successful woman, like the heroine, Rayne, deal with—balancing career and family, and wondering how we’ll ever get it right.
For those who have been following my stories, Bubba Malone shows up and runs into a feisty feminist. And a few characters from previous books pop by, plus Oak Stand faces off against Mother Nature.
But most important, soul mates find each other…for a second time around.
I love hearing from my readers. Drop me a line or two at www.liztalleybooks.com or snail mail me at P.O. Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171.
Happy reading,
Liz Talley
A Taste of Texas
Liz Talley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From devouring the Harlequin Superromance books on the shelves of her aunt’s used bookstore to swiping her grandmother’s medical romances, Liz Talley has always loved a good romance novel. So it was no surprise to anyone when she started writing a book one day while her infant napped. She soon found writing more exciting than scrubbing hardened cereal off the love seat. Underneath her baby-food-stained clothes a dream stirred. Liz followed that dream and, after a foray into historical romance and a Golden Heart final, she started her first contemporary romance on the same day she met her editor. Coincidence? She prefers to call it fate.
Currently Liz lives in north Louisiana with her high school sweetheart, two beautiful children and a menagerie of animals. Liz loves strawberries, fishing and retail therapy, and is always game for a spa day. When not writing contemporary romances for Harlequin Superromance, she can be found working in the flower bed, doing laundry or driving car pool.
To the boy who once twisted my hair
around his finger, and sang me Elvis songs,
who gave me my first kiss, two beautiful children
and the life you promised me in all those notes
we passed in the halls of Webster Junior High.
I believe in soul mates.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
BRENT HAMILTON HATED HIMSELF.
That was the only thought in his head as he sprawled on his parents’ back porch steps watching a titmouse hopping from branch to branch in the scarred redbud tree.
The birdhouse he’d made last week already showed signs of inhabitancy, if the scruffy mat of pine straw peeking from the opening was any indication. At least that had worked.
Because nothing else in his life had.
In fact, it was one big royal suck.
He didn’t hear the footsteps, only felt the long fingernails scraping his scalp as Tamara Beach tousled his hair.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning.” He cradled his coffee mug between his calloused hands.
She squatted next to him and eased herself onto the step. She set her strappy-heeled sandals next to her.
“You want some coffee?” he asked, staring at the tufts of hair on his bare feet. He hadn’t bothered with pants. Just wore the boxers he’d pulled on that morning when he’d rolled from his bed in the carriage house and padded across the backyard toward his parents’ home to let the dog out.
Tamara’s bright red toenails waggled as she stretched. “Nah.”
Awkward silence reigned.
Apple, his parents’ overweight Boston terrier, sniffed through a patch of Aztec grass.
Finally Tamara nudged him with her shoulder. “Hey.”
He didn’t say anything.
“It’s no big deal. I mean, it happens to all guys.”
Brent rubbed a hand over his face. It had never happened to him. Ever. He couldn’t blame it on the liquor or the fact he hadn’t really wanted to sleep with Tamara. Hell, before last night, he’d been able to get it up if the wind blew right. The cause of his failure to rise to the occasion was the damn dissatisfaction that had made a home in his gut.
It had settled in, unpacked its clothes and planted flowers out front. It wasn’t going away. No matter how many chicks he picked up. No matter how many bars he stomped through, buying drinks and clacking pool balls. No matter how much he grinned and faked it.
Brent hated who he was.
Yet, to date he’d always lived with it. So what was different? The fact he hadn’t been able to perform? The comments overheard at his former girlfriend Katie Newman’s wedding last night? The idea that someone he’d thought so similar to him had fallen in love and tied the knot?
“Whatever,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Tamara shrugged. “No biggie. I like being with you no matter what. You don’t snore like most guys.”
He managed a smile. “Good to know.”
“I won’t say anything to anyone. I’m not that girl, you know?” He looked at her as she tilted her face to the sun. Tamara was naturally hot. Her blond locks brushed tanned shoulders and her blue eyes were a clear color that blinked innocently right before they flashed with mischief. She was lean, tight and had a rack that, though store-bought, made men lick their lips. Oak Stand’s very own Playboy bunny. And she was a nice person.
“I know you won’t.” He patted her thigh beneath the ruffled sundress she’d squirmed into. It was wrinkled from lying on the floor, but still looked great on her.
“Well, I’d better leave while everyone else is in church. If my grandmother sees me, I’ll get lectured in front of the whole family again. Roast beef just doesn’t taste right with a side accusation of whore.”
He frowned. “You’re not a whore.”
“Tell that to the Reverend Beach.” She rose and slid the sandals onto her feet. The small birds in the tree beside her flew away. She smiled and tilted her face again to the morning sun. “Have a good one, Brent.”
She waved as she slipped out the wooden gate that led to a side drive, leaving Brent to his heavy thoughts.
As the gate banged shut, the phone resting beside him on the step rang.
He didn’t want to answer it. He knew who it was and what she wanted. But he picked it up anyway. Ever the dutiful son.
“Happy birthday, Brent!” The greeting launched an enthusiastic round of “Happy Birthday.”
“Hey, Mom,” he said into the receiver.
“Happy birthday, my handsome boy. How’s everything at the house? Are you feeding Apple her sensitive stomach food?” His mother’s tone sounded too cheerful for a person up at such a godforsaken hour. It was 5:30 in the morning in California.
“Let me talk to him,” he heard his dad say.
His dad’s voice barked in his ear. “Talked to a guy last night. Name’s Russell Bates. His brother works in management for the Chargers organization. He said he saw you play your freshman year and might have a spot for you here in San Diego.”
“Doing what? Selling hot chocolate?” Brent closed his eyes and pretended they weren’t having this conversation again. His dad just wouldn’t give up. Would never give up. Playing football was a memory for Brent. And would stay that way. “This ain’t going to happen. You know that.”
“Horseshit.”
“Today I’m thirty-two. Thirty-two-year-olds don’t start a football career in the NFL. I’m not Brett Favre. I’m done with football.”
“Brett Favre is ten years older than you and still in the league. Besides, Hamiltons don’t give up,” his father said. His old man might as well have said, “Denny didn’t give up.” Because that’s what Brent heard when his dad talked about Hamiltons. Always Denny. Competing with the memory of a dead brother was part of what had brought Brent to this very moment. He would never win that battle.
“Okay, fine. Give me the number.”
“Ready?” his father said.
Brent closed his eyes. “Hold on. Let me grab a pencil. Okay, go ahead.”
He didn’t move from the step. Simply listened as his father rattled off a landline and cell number. Brent wouldn’t call. The hint of interest was just a friend of a friend humoring an old man with dreams too big for his son. Brent could only imagine the conversation that had taken place when his father had learned of the tenuous connection to the Chargers organization. His father was a bulldog, pushing until people rolled over and surrendered. Brent had rolled over quite a bit in his life. Another reason for his self-loathing.
“Call him tomorrow morning. His name is Bill. Bye.”
“Bye,” Brent murmured into the phone. He pressed the end button. No happy birthday from his dad. Only more direction toward a future that did not exist.
He sighed and drank the rest of his lukewarm coffee. The sun already grew warm despite the cool April breeze filtering through the trees. It was a perfect day to putter in his parents’ backyard, whittling out perches for the birdhouses he’d promised the kindergartners at Oak Stand Elementary. But, then again, he needed to complete the proposal for the next few books. His publisher wanted five more books in the lacrosse series, which was good because his job at Hamilton Construction was slow, mimicking the economy all over the nation.
During the day, he ran his father and uncle’s construction company, a local contracting business that specialized in renovations and additions rather than new construction. But most nights, he became B.J. Hamm, author of award-winning sports fiction aimed at boys. No one in Oak Stand knew the complex B.J. Hamm. They only knew the rather simple Brent Hamilton.
His secret hobby had grown into a secret career— one that not even his absent parents knew about. Writing was a juicy secret he took pleasure in keeping. He didn’t know why.
Donna and Ross Hamilton had taken a long overdue RV tour out West and suddenly retirement sounded good to his parents. For the past couple of weeks, his father had finally stopped mentioning tryouts for the Canadian Football League and started hinting that Brent should buy his half of the company. But now with the phantom San Diego Charger contact, Brent was certain his father would jump on the football bandwagon again, dreaming about Brent hoisting the Lombardi Trophy overhead.
