MG gave her a lopsided grin. “Yeah, I know. Too old. Too fat. Too weird.”
“Too fat?” Darcy looked like she’d sucked on something sour.
“Hey, have you seen Taylor Swift? She’s like some water sprite or something.”
Darcy shook her head. “So that’s why you left?”
“No, I left because my grandpa needed me. But I’d pretty much stopped singing by then anyway.” Seeing as how nobody much wanted to hear her, she hadn’t had a whole lot of choice about that.
“Okay, so you’ll start again now.” Darcy shrugged. “Lots of singers around here. Lots of places they can sing. And like I say, you’re good. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
MG licked her lips. That, of course, assumed she could actually get up on a stage and sing again. Toward the end of her Nashville career, that hadn’t been a sure thing. “Hope so anyway.” She managed a few more chords.
Darcy took another swallow of her beer. “So are you sleeping with Joe?”
MG gritted her teeth. “Jesus, Darcy.”
“Are you?”
She blew out a breath, feeling her cheeks heat up to flame level. “No. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Okay, so you’re not sleeping with Joe yet.” Darcy gave her a sly grin. “No bets on the future.”
MG closed her eyes for a moment. “So does everybody in the kitchen know?”
“About you and Joe?” Darcy shrugged. “I don’t know. Leo saw you guys out together last night. But I don’t know if he’s told anybody besides me.”
“Is that how you found out?”
Darcy’s smile was back. “I saw Joe take off after you the night your car died. It didn’t take any brains to figure out what was on his mind.”
“Does anybody care?” MG rubbed her eyes, telling herself she wasn’t really getting a headache.
Darcy frowned. “Hard to say. The Beav might if he gets wind of it, seeing as how he’s decided he wants you out for some reason. But nobody else would give a damn. People sleep around in kitchens all the time.”
“Terrific.” MG played another couple of chords, then launched into “Something To Talk About.”
Joe was not in the best of moods. He’d planned on taking MG’s check to her personally, then seeing if he could somehow talk his way into the house. And once there, maybe, just maybe, things would take a more interesting turn.
But of course it hadn’t worked out that way.
When he got to the kitchen, he found Fairley doing inventory in the pantry, even though it was his day off. While Joe was all for industry, he was less delighted when Fairley cornered him to talk about the contest, particularly since he was suffering from an attack of guilty conscience after talking to Clem the night before. If they were going to be part of the damn thing, they needed to spend some time thinking about what they’d serve.
Fairley had some ideas. Actually, Fairley had lots of ideas, most of them involving complicated French or Italian dishes that would be hell on wheels to cook in the makeshift kitchen the contest arena would provide.
“This isn’t
Iron Chef
,” Joe said as politely as he could. “We don’t get points for attempting the impossible.”
Fairley got that mulish look Joe was beginning to recognize, the one that indicated he thought his talents were being ignored. “Sorry. I thought you wanted a menu that would show off what the Rose can do. Making fresh pasta with turnip green pesto would do that.”
“It would do that if we had a fully equipped kitchen at our disposal. We won’t have that. We need something we can cook under tough conditions that will still show well.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Fairley said stiffly.
Joe gritted his teeth and spent twenty minutes going over the appetizer choices he’d already considered, getting Fairley’s feedback. He seemed somewhat mollified.
Darcy had come in to pick up her check about halfway through the discussion. When she caught sight of MG’s check in the pile, she gave him an innocent smile that didn’t really fool him. Apparently, the news about him and MG had made the rounds already. “I can drop off Carmody’s check. I’m going right by her place.”
For a minute he thought about saying no, saying he’d take it by himself. If Fairley hadn’t been standing there looking like the wrath of god, he might have done it. Instead, he handed the check to Darcy, sighing. There went his chance for a halfway decent afternoon.
At least Fairley seemed satisfied by the time they’d finished talking. Joe was still trying to decide if his skills in the kitchen made up for his being a prime asshole. The guy was a great expediter. The kitchen was running like a well-oiled clock for a change. The plates went out in excellent shape, and the customers seemed delighted with what they got. Fairley got along fine with Jorge and Leo, so far as Joe could tell, and he was at least tolerated by Darcy, although he knew that tolerance had limits.
In other words, the guy was doing the job he’d been hired to do. Just because he was trying Joe’s patience to the limit, that was clearly no reason to fire him.
Although the fact that firing Fairley drifted through his mind every couple of days was not a good sign. And the fact that his whining had kept Joe from going to MG’s place as soon as he’d wanted to was likely to make those thoughts drift through a lot more quickly.
Chapter Ten
MG heard a car in the drive soon after Darcy had finally gone. She’d just come in from feeding the chickens, and she was already thinking about supper. She had food for once since she’d gone to the grocery store in the morning. On the other hand, nothing she cooked would be as good as the food she got at the Rose. She really hoped working there wouldn’t turn her into a foodie. She couldn’t exactly afford it.
When she opened the door, Joe LeBlanc stood on her front step.
She swallowed hard. “Oh. Hi.” Obviously, something about LeBlanc miraculously transformed her into a dork.
He gave her one of those lazy smiles that made her toes curl. “Hi yourself, darlin’. Can I come in?”
“Sorry. I mean, sure. Come on in. Please.” She stepped back, wishing she didn’t sound so much like a moron. When had inviting him into her house become so hard? It wasn’t like he was a vampire or something.
Joe followed her into the living room, glancing around at her few battered pieces of furniture. “I take it this was all part of your grandpa’s legacy.”
MG sighed. “This is what was left. Grandpa sold off a lot of the family antiques when my grandma got sick. Their insurance wouldn’t cover her treatment. And Aunt Nedda took some of it when Grandpa was in the hospital. Or anyway, that’s what he said when he got home.”
“And you haven’t tried to get it back from her?” One of Joe’s eyebrows arched.
“You don’t know my Great-Aunt Nedda. Getting it back would require some kind of persuasive support, possibly from the Seventh Cavalry.”
Joe grinned. “I got a few relatives like that myself.” He turned toward the kitchen. “What’s the rest of the house like?”
“Sort of the same.” She led him toward the back of the house. At least Nedda hadn’t managed to drag off the pumpkin pine kitchen table. On the other hand, given its age and condition, she might have decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
He smiled. “I like that table. Your great-aunt missed a bet not taking that.”
“She probably couldn’t get it through the door. Would you like a beer?” She tried to remember how many she had left after Darcy’s visit. Probably not enough.
“Tell you the truth, I came here to ask you out to dinner.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Want to go try a new place in Marble Falls? Chef’s from Houston.”
“Oh.” She considered the probable dishes at a new Hill Country restaurant—goat cheese, arugula, possibly flatbread, undoubtedly pork belly. “I’d really rather feed you here. I can probably find something edible in the refrigerator. I shopped today.”
Joe’s slow grin was back. “Sounds interesting. Is the beer offer still open?”
“Sure.” She checked the shelf in the refrigerator. Three bottles. Close enough. “All I’ve got is Corona. Is that okay?” The problem, of course, with buying whatever was on special at the grocery this week.
“Sure.”
She handed him a bottle, then headed for the back door. “We can watch the sunset if you don’t mind the chickens.”
“MG?”
She turned. He stood in the middle of her kitchen floor, watching her, the unopened bottle dangling from his fingers. “On second thought, I don’t really want a beer.”
She blinked. “Okay, well, there’s some iced tea.”
“I don’t want tea right now either. Or the chickens. Or the sunset, nice though it probably is.” He paused, watching her. “I mean, I came here to take you out to dinner, but on second thought, I don’t think I can wait that long after all.”
Her shoulders suddenly felt tight and there was an twinge in her belly. “Wait that long for what?”
“You.” The word seemed to drop into the silence of her kitchen. He put the beer bottle back on the kitchen table, dropping his hands to his sides.
Her shoulders ached. She took a step toward him, then stopped.
What the crap do I do now?
“Oh.”
He frowned slightly. “Of course, you can say no if you want to. If I misread whatever this is between us, I’ll head off home. No harm, no foul.” He watched her again, blue eyes dark in the late afternoon sunshine.
“No,” she said slowly. “You don’t need to do that.” She took a few more steps back across the suddenly broad expanse of her kitchen. She was almost next to him now. Would it look too eager if she took the last few steps at a trot?
He grinned again, his lips spreading slowly. “Glad to hear that. I didn’t want to leave.”
MG’s brain seemed to have gone on vacation.
Have I ever made love with a man who had a beard before?
Right off hand, she couldn’t think of anybody. And the list wasn’t all that long to begin with. She stood looking up at him, then placed a tentative hand on his chest. “You realize I’ve got a really crappy bed. It’s one Great-Aunt Nedda left behind.”
His grin delved a dimple in one cheek. “Trust me, your Great-Aunt Nedda is the last thing I’m going to be thinking about.”
“Good,” she murmured, licking her lips. “Me too.” She clasped her hands behind his neck, pulling him down toward her.
He cupped her face in his hands, brushing his lips across hers slowly, then running the tip of his tongue along the seam until she opened for him. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her palms suddenly moist with nerves.
What if this doesn’t work? What if I screw it up? What if?
“Darlin’,” Joe’s voice rumbled against her ear. “I’d love to carry you to the bedroom, but you’re going to have to point me in the right direction. I’m a stranger here myself.”
MG stifled a totally inappropriate giggle and pointed over his shoulder. “First door on the left.”
His grin flashed in the dimness of the kitchen. Then he bent down, sliding one arm behind her knees and gathering her up into his arms.
She looped her arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of him, spice and citrus and a hint of something else that made her want to bite his shoulder.
Oh my god—did I put the guitar away?
And then they were through the door and into the bedroom. Her bedroom. Her bed. Without guitar. With Joe LeBlanc.
MG’s bed looked about as bad as she’d said it did—a double with a battered headboard, circa 1949. Joe wasn’t sure he’d fit in a double bed. He was sure as hell going to try it, though. He lowered her gently to the mattress, then stood to unbutton his shirt.
MG bounced to her feet, her hands sliding beneath his. “Let me.” The afternoon sun made her hair shine red gold again, set her malachite eyes gleaming. Her hands felt cool upon his chest—helpful since other parts of his body were suddenly flaming.
He slipped his hands beneath the back of her T-shirt, rubbing his palms across the smooth silk of her skin, then shifted to the front, lifting the shirt so that he could run his tongue along the edge of her collarbone. He tasted the warm saltiness of her skin, still heated from the sun. “Delicious,” he whispered.
He heard her giggle, a slight explosion of sound that became a sigh the next moment when his mouth dipped lower, his tongue touching the indentation at the base of her throat.
She grasped the sides of his shirt, pulling it wide, forcing him to release one hand and then the other as she jerked it free then dropped it to the floor. Her hands seared across his skin, her palms brushing against hair and muscle, finally reaching his nipples. She rubbed across them with her thumbs, sending another jolt of heat down his abdomen to his groin.
He groaned. “Easy, darlin’, I’m only flesh and blood here.”
She either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. Her lips fastened on his nipple as her tongue laved the tip. And then she was moving down his chest, a line of feathering kisses, light as dry wings, a thread of pure heat down his body.
Clearly, if he didn’t take control of the situation soon, there’d be nothing left to control. He grasped her arms, pulling her up, then yanking the T-shirt over her head. Her bra clasped at the front—a point for his side at least. He pulled the catch open, then tossed the bra on the floor somewhere.