A Cowboy in the Kitchen (18 page)

“That's a pretty swanky-looking box,” Mia said.

“My father thought so when he gave them to me.” The man opened the case to reveal a set of black onyx cuff links, the initials GPM embossed in gold over each one.

“They're very nice.” Mia forced a polite smile, wondering why the man had such a wry look on his face.

“He said they're to remind me of who I am and where I came from.” GP, whose last name must begin with an
M
, took another drink of his scotch. “The irony of the gift is that my father detests cuff links. In fact, he hates the way I dress altogether.”

Mia leaned back so she could get a better look at his suit. As far as she could see, the man was dressed impeccably. Sure, maybe it was a little too tailored, a bit too metropolitan chic for Idaho standards. After all, this was Boise. Who wore such luxurious accessories in this part of the country?

Bolo ties, yes, but cuff links, no.

Maybe his father was some potato farmer who thought his son had gotten a little too fancy for his britches. Her own mother was the exact opposite. Every time she saw Mia, she chastised her for wearing her workout clothes around town and told her she had the potential of landing the coveted position of trophy wife, if only she'd put in some effort with her appearance.

“I take it your father isn't a suit man?”

“You could say that. Dad likes to describe himself as anti-establishment. He's what you'd call a free spirit and prefers to dress like he's just been eighty-sixed from a Beach Boys concert. Which never made sense to me, considering his education and what he does for a living. He calls me his rebel child.”

“You don't look like much of a rebel,” she said. He looked like an international businessman about to close a multibillion-dollar deal.

“I'll tell him you said so next time he calls.” He gave the jewelry case a slight tap and it slid down the smooth bar a couple of inches. “So two and a half minutes, huh?”

He took another sip of the single malt scotch that was the exact shade of his eyes. Sheesh. Why did she have to look at those eyes of his again?

“Yep. I've got it down to a science. Anything less and they'll feel like they were short-changed and will only call back later. Anything more and it becomes the snowball effect, picking up speed and intensity and then there's no interrupting them once the full sermon gets going about all the sacrifices they made for you and how you're throwing away opportunities.”

“I feel like I should be taking notes. Please, let me buy you a drink. You can tell me the top five best excuses for getting out of Thanksgiving family dinners.”

She should've politely refused, grabbed her jacket and purse, and walked as quickly to the elevator bank as she could. But she thought of her own prospects for the holiday that was only a couple of months around the corner, and the hard, familiar lump of loneliness wedged in her throat. When was the last time she'd talked with a man who wasn't a well-known neighbor or hadn't been vetted by her two closest friends?

He must have sensed her vacillating because he shot her that boyish smile. “What are you having?”

Her nerve endings fizzled again and, before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Champagne.”

He looked doubtfully at the glass sitting in front of her—the one containing clear liquid and the remnants of a lime—and then raised his perfectly arched brown brows at her before asking the bartender to bring a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

A whole bottle? What had she been thinking?

Maxine and Kylie would've told her she'd been thinking with her lady parts. Then they'd have high-fived her for double downing on their dare and told her it was about time she tested the waters of the romance pond. It had been so long, it wouldn't hurt to just dip her toe in.

Hopefully, she wasn't already in way over her head.

* * *

Garrett McCormick had been having the most frustrating evening of his life when he'd aimlessly wandered into the deserted lounge at the upper-class hotel. And that was saying something considering he'd been a battlefield surgeon in some of the hottest combat zones in the world. When he'd stormed out of the five-star restaurant down the street, leaving his argumentative and overbearing father at the table, he'd wanted a stiff drink and the kind of solitude he knew he couldn't get from the downtown college bar scene or from the officer's club near the Shadowview Military Hospital, where he was on staff.

He'd been so angry and so intent on downing something that would steady his nerves, he hadn't even noticed the petite raven-haired beauty sitting at the bar. If he had, his internal warning bells would've gone off and he'd have found another place to sit.

When his cell phone rang, he'd been startled and his embarrassment had forced him to take in his surroundings. What he'd told her was true—he hated people who were so self-important they answered their phones in public places, forcing strangers to have to listen to their private calls.

Yet, he wasn't sorry if his obnoxious telephone etiquette was the reason he now sat talking with her. She was wearing a strapless sequined top, and a black satin jacket hung off the back of her high leather chair. The shiny material matched her form-fitting black pants, making him think she was wearing some sort of feminine tuxedo. But softer. Sexier.

Considering it was almost eleven o'clock on a weeknight, she must've been at some fancy party before stopping into the hotel lounge for a nightcap. Either that or she was just all dressed up and on the hunt for some lonely traveling businessman.

He knew the types well. The gold diggers, the celebrity seekers, even the bored soccer moms who got their kicks by meeting random strangers at bars for one-night stands. But there was something about her shimmering blue eyes that made her look more like a scared rabbit than a prowling sex kitten. Besides, she was beautiful, but not in that surgically enhanced “tries too hard” way.

That was the first thing he shied away from when it came to women. His father was a plastic surgeon turned television producer who specialized in shows about surgical enhancements and makeovers. If there was one thing Garrett knew, it was artificial beauty. And he'd spent the past fifteen or so years of his life trying to get away from Med TV and the people who perpetuated that false and pretentious ideal.

He swallowed back his scotch just as the ice bucket and champagne showed up. The bartender set two glasses in front of them and, while Garrett had been intent on keeping company with only a bottle of Glenlivet Eighteen, his plans for tonight had suddenly taken a different turn.

“Here's to parents who don't know when to let go,” he said as he tipped his champagne flute toward hers.

“Here's to a lot of people who don't know when to let go.”

Garrett didn't know if her added comment was in reference to someone else she knew or if it was a premonition that they were both too uptight and needed to cut loose. He chose to focus on the latter because, after all, once he was discharged from the navy next week, he would be letting go of everything and starting his life all over again.

“So how far away did you have to move to get away from your parents?” he asked, wanting to get to know her better. She took a sip and tilted her head, as if pondering how much personal information she wanted to share with him. After all, they were two random people sitting in a bar. Who opened up to a complete stranger?

“My mom lives in Florida.”

“Is that where you're from?”

“Not originally. We moved a lot when I was a kid. My mom was a bit of a flake when it came to herself, but as her only child, she was always seeking greater opportunities for me. She'd hear about some new dance troupe or a hyped-up instructor and she'd pack up all of my tights and leotards and off we'd go.”

“So you're a dancer?”

“I was,” she murmured before finishing off her glass. “What about you? Did you have to go far to get away from your parents?”

He took the hint that she didn't want to expand on what might be a personal subject and refilled her glass. “I moved away from home the day after my high school graduation, much to the chagrin of my dad and stepmothers.”

“Stepmothers plural?”

“Well, Dad has gone through his share of wives. Not at the same time, mind you,” he clarified when it looked as if she was going to choke on her champagne. “But most of them kept in touch with me, even if it was only for the length of time they received their alimony checks.”

“My mom always hoped for an alimony check. But she and my father never got married so she had to make do with lowly child support. I never got it, you know?”

“The child support? She didn't use it for you?”

“No, she did. I meant that I never got that whole depending-on-a-man-for-money mentality. I guess, sure, men should pay for their kids and stuff, but I always thought it would just be easier to make a clean break from the loser and start fresh. Support yourself.”

Wow, some guy must've really done a number on this lady. While it was refreshing to hear that there was a woman out there who wasn't looking to get rich off some unsuspecting meal ticket, Garrett couldn't help thinking of all the fake blondes back home who'd made it more than clear that they would love nothing more than to gain access to his large trust fund or the rolling cameras that constantly surrounded his family.

“I couldn't agree more,” he said, raising his glass in an acknowledging salute. After all, cutting ties was exactly what he'd done when he'd left home at eighteen. He'd had access to everything his family's money could buy. But it came with the heavy cost of bowing down to his father's will and his father's lifestyle. “In fact, that's why my dad and I were arguing tonight. He doesn't understand why I want to support myself and make my own decisions—live my own life.”

“My mother and I have had that same conversation multiple times. My girlfriend says that when I become a mom myself, I'll understand.” Garrett made a mental note of the fact that she didn't have kids. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but that didn't mean much to some women. “She said to think how sad I'd be if my mom stayed out of my life because she didn't care about me at all. But you know what? I think I could live with that kind of sadness.”

He nodded his head in earnest. “I've been told the same thing. Yet, most of the time it doesn't feel like caring. It feels like an ego trip. Like he doesn't necessarily want the best for me, he just wants my life to be a reflection of
his
accomplishments and his success.”

“Yes!” she agreed and they clinked glasses again.

Here was someone who got it—who understood what his unorthodox childhood had been like. His head was lighter and his smile was freer. He must be feeling the effects of the scotch. Or the champagne. Or maybe a combo of both. “I don't think it matters what we tell our parents, though. It never seems to sink in.”

“It probably never will,” she said. “Ten years from now, you and I could meet up in this same bar and we'll be voicing the same complaints.”

“Promise me that in ten years, we will,” he said more seriously than he intended. But here was a kindred spirit. A woman who knew exactly where he was coming from.

“Oh, I don't know. That sounds a bit pathetic.”

“Meeting up with me again?”

“No. That we'll still be so stuck in our issues that we'll need to travel back to Boise just to commiserate in our overbearing parents support group.”

She was right. They did sound a little pathetic. And that was the last thing he wanted a charming and genuine woman to think about him. “So Boise isn't home for you?”

She darted her eyes to the left before reaching for the chilled bottle and refilling their glasses. “I'm in town for a ballet performance. I'm going home tomorrow.”

That explained the fancy outfit—and allayed his fears that she was a local groupie or some suburban wife out looking for an anonymous fling.

God, she was beautiful. Her high cheekbones, her pale blue eyes, her creamy skin. She was turned facing him, her legs crossed with one of her kitten heels hooked into a lower rung of the bar stool.

“You have a gorgeous collarbone,” he finally said, unable to look away from her.

“Did you say
collarbone
?”

“Yes.” He reached out a finger, tracing the ridge between her neck and her shoulders. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but he was well and truly buzzed and unless she moved away or told him to stop, he planned to touch her smooth, velvety skin for as long as she'd let him. “I've always had a thing for clavicles.”

Yep, he was definitely on his way to being intoxicated. Any more booze and he'd be calling things by their biological Latin terms.

She held herself completely still, but her tongue darted out and licked her full lips. “Why is that?”

“I just find them incredibly sexy. And real. It's one of the few parts on a woman's body that can't be surgically enhanced.” He looked up into her eyes and saw her dilated pupils. Tonight, he didn't want to worry about his father, or the new practice he was opening next month. He just wanted to think about the incredible woman in front of him. His hand trailed down her arm and settled onto her waist, and still she didn't move away.

“I also find you incredibly sexy and real,” he said right before dipping his head and placing his mouth on hers.

She made a slight sound that could have been a moan or a protest, but she didn't pull back. He tilted his head and opened his lips, coaxing her mouth to accept more of him. When she finally opened up, she welcomed his tongue wholeheartedly and responded by wrapping her bare arms around his shoulders.

He tasted the champagne on her tongue and wanted to drink her up. He wanted to feel all of her, but these damn bar stools were making things awkward. Without breaking contact, he rose to his feet, bringing their heads to the same height. He groaned when she allowed him to deepen the kiss, and he brought his other hand up to her waist to pull her closer.