Anything But Sweet (7 page)

After grabbing Bear’s bowl and filling it with dog crunchies, he swiped a cold longneck
from the refrigerator, popped the cap, and went out the back door. The veranda was
dark, and he was greeted by the sound of crickets from the nearby bushes.

“Bear,” he called. “Dinner.” After a few moments of the dog being a no-show, he called
again. It wasn’t unusual for his dog to be out running the meadow. Looking after the
cattle was his canine job. But after another few moments, a streak of worry sped up
Reno’s spine. He whistled.

“I think he’s asleep.”

The soft, feminine voice startled him. Across the veranda, Charli Brooks lounged in
one of his Adirondacks. With her feet tucked up beneath a yellow cotton sundress and
a glass of white wine in her hand, she looked far too relaxed and, oddly, right at
home.

“What are you doing here?” It seemed like he asked that question of her a lot.

“Your mother came by to pick some zucchini.”

With, he was sure, a mess of Southern hospitality burning on her lips. “That hardly
answers my question.”

“She told me I could make myself at home.”

“Of course she did.”

“Earlier, I stopped by the store,” she said. “Bought some groceries and a nice bottle
of zinfandel. There appeared to be no place nicer to enjoy a glass of wine than on
your veranda.” She lifted her glass. “So here I am.”

“Yep. Here you are.” The snark in his tone didn’t stop her luscious lips from tilting
into a smile.

“Sit down and drink your beer, Mr. Wilder. It’s been a long day.” Her chin lifted
slightly. “And I promise not to bite.”

It wasn’t her teeth he was worried about.

“Just for the record,” she said in a soft, slightly humored voice. “I’m not easily
intimidated. So save the scowls for someone else.”

In total exhaustion and defeat, he dropped down to the vacant Adirondack.

“Who’s this singing on the radio?” she asked.

The beer halted halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

“I work all the time and don’t get to listen to the radio that much. In fact, I’m
not even sure Los Angeles has a country station. But I really like this. So if you
don’t mind?”

“George Strait.”

“Pretty music.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

She pursed those full lips, sipped her wine, then closed her eyes and listened to
the end of the song. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her mouth. Or her face. She looked
so damned . . . relaxed.
How the hell can
she look
so damned relaxed when I’m
wound tighter than a coil of barbed wire?

When Dierks Bentley came on the radio going “Sideways,” everything in Reno’s brain
scrambled.

She opened her eyes and blinked. When she leaned forward, a whiff of sweet perfume
tickled his nose.

“I should probably warn you that I was brought up by a military father,” she said.
“And I have a brother following in his footsteps. So unless you have a military assault
rifle tucked in your pocket, how about we call a truce for the five and a half weeks
I’m here.”

“In our family we fight until someone cries uncle.”

“I’m not much of a fighter.”

Yeah. He got that. Soft eyes. Soft skin. Rhinestones on her sandals. Fancy Pants was
a total girly girl. Probably more the kiss-and-make-up type.

He exhaled a long hard breath.

And the problem with that?

Nothing.

Kissing and making up had always been one of his favorite pastimes.

“Tell you what. I’ll keep my weapon in my pocket”—he gave her low-cut sundress a
long once-over—“if you put away your tools.”

She laughed. “Mr. Wilder, you do have the funniest way of turning a phrase.”

Funny?

Him?

Now there was something he’d never been called.

She stood, reached down, and lifted Bear’s food bowl with a little shake. Reno wondered
if she knew he could see straight down the top of her little sundress.

Not that he minded.

He’d already seen the woman in a tight skirt and blouse, and tight shorts and T-shirt.
He knew how she was built. And as much as she irritated the hell out of him, she was
damn fine to look at.

“Here, Bear,” she sang out. “Dinnertime.”

Reno watched in surprise as his dog came trotting up onto the veranda, with the poodle
in tow. “So that’s where he’s been. Your dog is a bad influence.”

She laughed and gave both dogs a pat on the head while they both ate from the bowl.
“Isn’t that nice that he’s sharing with her?”

“She’s pushy,” Reno grumbled. “And he’s too polite to push aside those silly pom-poms.”

“Pumpkin’s not pushy. She’s a free spirit.”

Reno took a pull of beer—licked a lingering drop from his lip. Her eyes tracked his
every move. “Like you?”

That got him a laugh. “Hardly. The general would never have allowed something so . . .
frivolous.”

“The
general
?” He lifted the beer for another drink. “Literally? Or is that a nickname?”

“Literally.”

“What branch?”

From the table between them, she picked up a matchbook and lit the candle in the center.
The flame flickered behind the red glass, and shadows danced. “Marines.”

“Jesus.” His bottle banged on the arm of the chair. “Don’t tell me your father is
Lieutenant General Thomas Brooks.”

“The one and only.”

“No shit?” He leaned forward. “How’d you survive that growing up?”

She shrugged a slender shoulder. “He wasn’t home much. The military is his life.”

“And that left you out in the cold?”

“My brother and I. Maybe you know him too. Lt. Nicholas Brooks? Second Battalion,
Alpha Company?”

“
Quick Nick?
” Reno chuckled. “I know him well. He’s a good man.”

Charli smiled. “He’s a great brother.”

“I take it he’s still in?”

“Pretty sure he’s a lifer.” An expression of concern shrouded her pretty face. “I
worry about him every day. I’m the big sister. It’s always been my job to look after
him, especially after our mother died.”

A pang of familiarity jabbed his heart. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She gave him a direct look. “As I am yours.”

Ah, so his mother was talking to strangers again. He wondered if Charli meant the
loss of his father, his brother, or the love of his life. Then again, it didn’t really
matter. All three were devastating. And none were open for discussion. “Thank you.”

He leaned back in the chair, drained the bottle of beer, and gave her comment and
concern careful consideration. “Your brother will make it home,” he said, confident
the statement was true.

“Safe and in one piece, I hope.”

“I’d count on that if I were you. I’ve seen him in action. He’s smart. He’s strong.
And he’s fast. Not to mention he can tell a hell of a good story.”

“I know. I always thought he’d go into journalism or write fiction. He had such an
imagination when he was a kid.” Her face lit up, and she gave a little laugh. “Which
kept him out of trouble more times than not. He could wrap our nannies around his
little finger so fast, they wouldn’t even know what hit them.”

She’d been raised by nannies. That must have sucked.

As if she didn’t have a care in the world, she curled her hand around the wood post,
leaned out toward the lawn, and glanced up at the stars. A dreamy look came over her
face, and he wondered what put it there. But as soon as his own imagination began
to wander, he reined it back in.

What this woman thought, wanted, dreamed about, disliked . . . whatever . . . it wasn’t
any of his business. He needed to remain on guard. Because the one thing that
was
his business was how hell-bent she seemed on changing everything.

That she was so damned attractive made his resolve an even bigger challenge. Any other
woman, any other night, and he’d take advantage of the warm evening, the candlelight,
and the floral scent floating on the air.

Charlotte Brooks was off-limits.

With a sigh, she came back to the table, lifted her nearly empty glass, and finished
off the wine. He noticed the soft curves to her arm, her long, feminine fingers—the
complete womanly package that stood before him.

Everything inside him responded.

“Well, I guess I should let you get to whatever it is you were about to do,” she said
with a tilt of the empty glass and a smile. “Thank you for not kicking me out.”

Reno didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. But as she walked past
him, he caught another whiff of her perfume. He closed his eyes against the images
that leaped into his mind—of her naked on his cool white sheets. Of her arms reaching
up to him. Of him following her down onto a big, soft bed.

He pushed out a breath and opened his eyes.

When she reached the end of the veranda, she stopped and turned.

“Oh. I almost forgot.”

God, the woman was like Columbo—almost out of his space, then she’s right back again,
asking more questions and torturing the hell out of him.

“The mural in the little girl’s room in the apartment is beautiful.”

“That’s Izzy’s room.”

She tilted her head, and a cascade of deep brown hair fell over her bare shoulder.
“Izzy?”

“Isabella. Jackson’s little girl. She’s two.”

“Well, she’s a lucky little girl.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who’s the artist? I’d love to have them paint a mural in the senior center.”

“I don’t think he’d be interested.”

She folded her arms. The movement pushed her breasts higher.

Yeah. He noticed.

“Why not?” she asked.

Reno hadn’t felt like a fifteen-year-old boy since he’d been a fifteen-year-old
boy. But all those adolescent hormones came rushing back to him now. Times a hundred.
“You are the most inquisitive damned woman I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you. So why wouldn’t the artist be interested?”

“That wasn’t a compliment.” Because he didn’t consider himself an artist. “
And
he’s busy.”

Realization dawned. Her arms dropped to her sides. “Oh my God.
You
painted that mural?”

“No.”

“You did too. I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

“You hardly know me well enough to
read
my expression.”

“You’re not that cagey, Mr. Wilder. You’re probably the most forthright person I’ve
ever met.”

“I’ll take
that
as a compliment.”

“Honesty is a virtue. But too much isn’t necessarily polite.” She took a few steps
closer. “You painted that mural, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he modestly admitted.

“Wow.” She looked at him in such a direct way he wanted to squirm. “I am speechless.”

“Thank God.”

For some reason, she took that as an invitation and returned to sit beside him. “Who
knew you had a fairy-tale castle and a knight in shining armor inside you. How long
did it take to paint?”

He shrugged. “A few days.”

“A few days?” One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Hmmm.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re stubborn.” She leaned toward him and studied his face.

He leaned away. “What the hell are you looking at?”

“I’m trying to figure out what other hidden talents you might have beneath that persistent
scowl.”

Her intensity made him uncomfortable. He stood and moved away. “Don’t look too deep,
Fancy Pants. You’ll only be disappointed.”

“I doubt that.” She followed him to the edge of the veranda. Came so close he could
feel the heat radiating from her body. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wilder.”

To his relief, she gave him a quick smile and walked toward the end of the veranda.
But she stopped. Again.

Damn.

“Oh. And make sure you bring your paint and brushes.”

“I’m not painting a mural.”

“Uh-huh.” She gave him a little finger wave. “Nighty-night.”

Sass.

The woman had too much for her own good.

Reno watched her walk away, hips swaying gently beneath that little yellow sundress.
Her silly poodle trotted happily behind her. Much to his surprise, he realized he
liked sass in a woman.

He looked down at Bear, who lay stretched out on the grass watching the she-dog’s
twitching pom-pom tail. His dog gave a little whine, then looked up as if to say
he’d been sucked in by poodle power.

“Yeah.” Reno shoved his hands into his pockets and watched Charli’s little yellow
dress disappear within the darkness of the barn. “We are so screwed.”

Chapter 6

A
nyone would agree that a cast-iron skillet was primarily used for cooking. And even
though Reno was currently stirring a pan full of scrambled eggs, he considered using
the appliance for other purposes. Like whacking his brothers over their meddlesome
heads.

“What crawled up your pant leg last night?” Jackson asked while grabbing a jug of
milk and tub of butter from Reno’s refrigerator. “You took off awful fast.”

“Yeah.” Jesse popped some bread into the toaster and turned with arms folded across
his chest.

“Brilliant addition to the conversation, Jess.” Reno flipped the eggs and added a
handful of shredded cheese. “One would hardly know you’re an educated man.”

“I beat you at chess last week.”

“Not everything’s a competition.”

“Come to think of it . . .” Jackson grabbed the glasses from the cupboard. “You took
off about the time I brought up asking Ms. Brooks out on a date.”

Reno shoveled equal portions of eggs onto three plates, then set them on the table.
“I took off about the time you started asking stupid questions.”

He sat down at the table as Jesse popped nicely browned toast on each of their plates
while Jackson poured three glasses of milk. Within seconds, they were all seated and
getting some nourishment before they each began the first of their many jobs.

“You boys ought to know better than to draw me into a conversation that involves
her.
”

Jackson looked up with a smile and a mouthful of toast. “Can’t even say her name?”

“Don’t need to,” Reno said. “She seems to be the hot topic of conversation these days.”

“Hot. There’s that fitting description again,” Jesse said, receiving a glare for his
lame efforts.

“Have we honestly resorted to middle-school infatuation?”

Jackson laughed. “Hell yes. Don’t get women like that around here often.”

“Women like what?” Jesse asked, but the smirk on his face said the question was anything
but innocently asked.

“Hot,” Jack answered.

“Oh dear God.” Reno shoved a bite into his mouth and took a sip of strong black coffee
to wash it down. “Are we done here? Because there are cattle waiting to be fed.”

“Saw her jump into that big-ass Hummer this morning.” Jackson waved his fork in the
air. “She had on a pair of Daisy Dukes and some little white tennis shoes.”

Jesse’s brows jacked up his forehead. “That’s all?”

“Don’t know.” Jack shrugged. “That’s all I could see.”

Reno’s gaze ping-ponged between his brothers, and it was all he could do not to laugh.
They’d known exactly how to bait him since the day he’d appeared in their home, and
they’d been told he was their new brother. He didn’t know whether to smash their fool
heads together or join in this ridiculous conversation. Maybe if he did, they’d see
he couldn’t care less, and they’d give up.

Head-smashing did have its benefits. But he was already exhausted, and the sun had
barely come up over the hilltops.

“She likes Izzy’s mural.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. “Asked
me to paint one for the senior center.”

“That’s a great idea,” Jackson agreed.

“You going to do it?” Jesse asked.

“Hell no.”

“Why not?” was simultaneously asked.

“Because . . .” Reno paused. No matter what response he came up with, he’d come off
sounding like a jerk. And he didn’t need to give these two jackasses any more ammunition.

“Mom would say
because
is not an answer,” Jesse said.

“Because I don’t have time.”

“Bullshit.”

“We’ll gladly take over the feeding, so you can go lend a hand,” Jesse said. “You
could manage a few hours each day or in the evenings.”

“Change is a comin’, brutha.” Jackson grinned. “Ready or not. Like it or not. It’s
a comin’.”

“And how are you going to feel when the tourism peaks, and they tear down Bud’s Diner
to put up a McDonald’s. Or an Applebee’s? Or a Sonic Drive-In?” he asked.

“Why would they do that?” Jackson asked. “They’ve got plenty in San Antonio.”

“Thirty-plus miles away, little brother.” Reno sprinkled more pepper on his eggs
and took another bite.

“I’d prefer Bud’s Belgian waffles to a McMuffin any day,” Jackson admitted.

“Well, there you go,” Reno said, enjoying a sense of triumph for having brought a
little logic to the discussion.

For several moments, they ate in peace. Then Jesse looked up from slathering orange
marmalade on his toast. “So . . . you going to paint that mural for the hot chick?”

Reno took a long drink of coffee that gave him time to bite back his immediate response.

He loved those seniors as much as anybody. But there was no way in hell he would help
Fancy Pants ruin his town. Sure, a mural might be nice, but once he lent a hand, she’d
expect more. Just like how she always came up with a goddamned gazillion questions.
The woman didn’t know when to quit.

Maybe he’d paint a mural once the production crew left town. But as long as
she
was there, he would not go near that senior center. He wasn’t about to help her send
his town into a spiral from which it might never recover.

No way in hell.

M
idmorning, Charli stood inside the senior center trying to politely refuse a salted
caramel cupcake. Two things you could never put in front of her? Chocolate and caramel.
Gertie West was tempting her with both.

“Little darlin’,” Mrs. West implored, “this here cupcake will give you all the energy
you need to finish out your day.”

“Mrs. West—”

“Gertie.”

Charli smiled. “You know,
Gertie
. . .” The smile slipped from the woman’s face. Charli knew refusing her offer would
not only hurt her feelings, it would crush them. Southern hospitality deserved respect.
“I think I could actually eat
two
of those cupcakes. They look delicious.”

Gertie’s smile came back, and Charli bit into the cupcake with a long sigh. She was
going to weigh a ton by the time she left town. The cupcake was so moist and delicious,
she really didn’t care. “You have got to teach me how to make these,” she told Gertie,
whose ample chest puffed up with pride.

“Secret’s in the butter. Gotta have the real thing from cream fresh off the cow.”

Somehow, Charli couldn’t see herself churning butter or milking a cow, but she smiled
and winked. “Your secret is safe with me.”

As Gertie drifted away with her platter of cupcakes to distribute to the rest of the
crew, Charli got back to stapling new fabric onto old seat cushions. One of the most
important shortcuts to make sure a redesign came in under budget was to reuse anything
possible. The chairs in the large meeting space were sturdy. With a fresh coat of
paint, they looked good as new.

Charli smoothed her hand over a wrinkle and popped in the last two staples. She looked
up at the bare wall that ran the length of the room and wished the stubborn and grumpy
Mr. Wilder would change his mind. He was very talented. His creative eye and attention
to detail could add a nice spin to this room that the seniors would enjoy for years
and years to come.

The front door opened, and Charli popped her head up, hoping he’d changed his mind.
Instead of a sexy rancher entering the room, it was an old bowlegged cowboy with his
Wranglers starched so stiff, she wondered how he managed to move. His black felt hat
was tipped up at the brim, and determination knitted the grayed brows above a pretty
spectacular nose as he headed right toward her. She rose to greet him.

“Howdy there, purdy lady.”

“Howdy yourself.”

He stuck out a hand gnarled with arthritis. She extended her own hand, which he lifted
to his wrinkled lips and kissed the backs of her fingers.

She chuckled. “You must be Chester Banks.”

“How’d ya know?” His grin said he was pleased she’d heard of him.

“Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “How can
I help you today?”

“Heard you was wantin’ some ridin’ lessons.”

She wanted to ask where he’d heard that bit of misinformation, but she knew. No doubt
a certain dimpled cowboy had planted that speck of nonsense in the old guy’s ear.
Still, she wouldn’t want to hurt the old gentleman’s feelings. “Well, I would love
that, but I doubt I’m going to have much extra time.”

“Got yer evenin’s off, doncha?”

Crap. “Sometimes. It depends on what projects we’re working on.”

“Well, next time you get a few, you give me a call. I got me a new bottle of Dickel,
and I’m willin’ to share.”

“Dickel?”

“George Dickel. Good old Tennessee Whisky. It’ll give ya a kick in the knickers.”

“Well, I’ll definitely remember that, Mr. Banks. Thank you for the offer.”

He lifted her hand and gave it another kiss. “You can call me Chester, darlin’.”

“I think I can call you Mr. Flirtatious.”

“That you can.” He gave her a wink. “Yep. That you can.”

Talk about local color. Charli chuckled. At that moment, the front door opened again.
She didn’t know what to expect after Chester’s amorous invitation. When a tall, dark,
and devastating cowboy dressed in paint-splattered jeans and a baby blue T-shirt
in the same condition entered the room, she couldn’t have been more surprised.

In his hand, he held a red toolbox that Charli hoped was filled with paints and brushes.

“Aw shucks,” Chester said. “Here comes Mr. Party Pooper.”

Reno tipped his battered, straw, cowboy hat at Gertie and walked up to where Charli
stood fending off Chester’s romantic intentions.

“You trying to fix up a date for Friday night, Chester?” His deep voice brushed over
Charli’s skin like a feather, tickling her senses into full alert.

“As if you didn’t know,” Chester said. “What are
you
doin’ here?”

Reno held up his toolbox. “Ms. Brooks asked me to lend a hand.”

“She ain’t got enough help?” The jealousy in Chester’s gravelly voice was clear.

Charli couldn’t help but be entertained by the men bantering among themselves as if
she weren’t standing there taking it all in. “Mr. Wilder has offered . . .” She looked
up at him. “Right?”

He gave a quick nod as if he needed to respond before he rescinded the offer.

She sighed in relief. “To paint a mural for us.” She tucked her arm through Chester’s
and led him toward the door. “Promise me you’ll come back in a couple of days to
see the finished piece.”

“I sure will,” Chester said, then turned around and sent a glare in Reno’s direction.
“I got my eye on you, Wilder.”

When Charli closed the door behind her ardent admirer, she turned back to Reno. “What
made you change your mind?”

“Call it a moment of temporary weakness,” he said. “Which wall?”

She pointed to the largest.

“Figures.” He carried his toolbox toward the back and flipped open the latches.

Charli walked through the room bustling with commotion and went to where he’d hunkered
down. His big hands were busy removing a rainbow of paints and soft-bristled brushes.

Excitement moved through her as she watched the emotions play across his handsome
face. She recognized that he didn’t want to be here, but at the same time he seemed
eager to create.

She bent down beside him. “What are you going to paint?”

He didn’t look up. Just continued to remove the paints, brushes, and a roll of cheesecloth
with big strong hands that seemed more capable of wielding a hammer than a small paintbrush.

“What do you
want
me to paint?”

“Oh, no. It would be a sin to take away an artist’s creativity. That should come from
passion and inspiration.”

“Told you I’m not an artist.”

She leaned her head back and got a good look at him. She had a feeling Reno Wilder
was many things he’d never admit to. One of them being passionate.

She could imagine when a man like him decided to express himself, how powerful that
might be. And to be on the receiving end . . . The thought alone gave her a delightful
shiver.

“I beg to differ,” she said. “What made you paint the castle for Izzy?”

“She’s a princess. Always wearing tutus over her jeans and sneakers.” His dimples
flashed. “When she stays with Jackson, she even sleeps with a little tiara on her
head.”

“That’s adorable.”

“She is.”

“And you love her like crazy, which is why you painted the castle.”

“Yeah. She’s only two and pretty much already has me figured out.”

At least someone did.

“Where’s Izzy’s mother?”

“She lives here in town.” He looked down, removed another brush from the toolbox.
“They’re divorced. Joint custody. Breaks Jackson’s heart every time he has to take
Izzy back home.” His head snapped up, and those dark eyes narrowed as though he realized
he’d just been trapped.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re tricky.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You ask so many damned questions, a person doesn’t know when you’re getting personal.”

“Sorry. That wasn’t my intent. It just seemed like a natural flow to the conversation.”

“We’re not having a conversation.”

“We’re not?”

“No. You’re telling me what you want painted on this wall, then we’re done.”

She rose.

His eyes followed her all the way up.

“Surprise me.”

T
wo hours after closing time at the store, Reno put his old red truck into gear and
found himself drawn back to the senior center. With little extra time during his normal
busy days, his passion to paint was a curse as well as an amazing release.

He could thank his mother for discovering his gift about six months after he’d been
in their home. When he’d arrived, he’d been a scared, angry, little boy. His new parents
had resolved his anxieties by giving him an abundance of love and the security that
he’d never again be alone or abandoned.