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.
Karl was right. Gillian was beautiful in a fresh way, but she was all business. Hunt doubted the men of Rusk County had much of a chance against the stick she carried. It doubled as a whip.
* * *
GILLIAN WAS JUMPY, as if somebody had slipped a double shot of espresso into her cup of decaf. She was well aware of the source of her case of nerves, and it was chemical, all right, but it wasn’t her body’s reaction to caffeine.
It was that blasted Hunt Temple.
The man was getting under her skin, and she was pretty sure it was by design. The question she’d wrestled with all night was whether or not to do something about the attraction she had to him. The timing was completely wrong, but when would it ever be right? They were both in the hospitality business, a world that required around-the-clock availability. When and where would she ever find a more compatible or attractive man who just might understand the demands of her life?
And if she won him over, he’d become an ally instead of the snake in the grass she was fairly sure he was being when she was otherwise occupied. Staying one step ahead of him with so much on her plate was wearing Gillian out, and the project was only just getting started. The months ahead would be rewarding. She was building her dream. But they would also be the most critical of her life.
If she wasn’t so dependent on him to get Moore House off to a great start, she’d save herself a lot of trouble and just fire him on the spot.
“So, are you thinking of firing me?” Hunt asked as he reentered the room.
“You’re not only an excellent chef, you’re a mind reader.”
“I beg your pardon.” His head snapped back as if she’d popped him on the chin. “You’re firing me?”
“No, just considering it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, why did you ask?”
“You went around me and called the friend I told you about. Does that mean you don’t want my help?”
“Hunt, what is it going to take to get through to you on this subject? I own this property. Temple Territory is going to become Moore House. You can roll with the punches or punch out. I will meet my opening deadline, with or without you. So which will it be?”
Hunt folded his arms, turned about-face and seemed to study something outside the window. His white knit shirt stretched tight across solid shoulders, revealing the body of a man who could have played professional baseball, if everybody who ever mentioned him to her was to be believed. Those powerful arms could definitely swing a bat.
Or hold a woman close.
Maybe she’d been hasty. What if he walked away? She’d be out more than an executive chef.
Oh, knock it off. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of your plans.
“Well, what’s it going to be?” She stood her ground, silently praying he’d stay the course while her nails dug little half-moons into her clenched fists.
“I might ask you the same thing. What’s it gonna take to get through to you that I start what I finish?”
“You must admit you’ve left more than one attractive position.”
“But I never left an employer high and dry. I always gave notice and worked at one hundred percent of my ability until the last meal was served. I’ll do the same for you.”
“That’s admirable, and I appreciate you being straightforward with me.” The tension in her fists eased. “So, other than putting out exceptional food, what are you hoping to accomplish for the duration of your contract?”
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