Tyler
Authors: C. H. Admirand
Copyright © 2011 by C.H. Admirand
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Randee Ladden
Cover images © cokacoka/iStockphoto.com; Evgeny_D/iStockphoto.com
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
FAX: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
To my great-great-grandmother, Anna Garahan Flaherty
Hardworking Man wanted.
Must have a strong back
and even temperament.
Apply in person.
334 Loblolly Way
Pleasure, TX
Tyler Garahan crushed the newspaper advertisement in his hand. Staring at the building across the street from where he’d parked his pickup, he dug deep for a confidence he sure as hell didn’t feel.
“I don’t have time to waste.”
He needed this job. Hell, he needed any job, but this was the last one he’d circled in Sunday’s paper. His last chance or he and his brothers would lose the Circle G.
He tried to swallow past the lump forming in his throat but couldn’t muster an ounce of spit. Facing down the longhorn bull that tore ass toward him, wanting to skewer him in the part that made him praise the Lord he was a man, was the closest he’d come to being this scared.
He gritted his teeth, braced his arm against the door, and pushed it open. “I’m not scared.”
You shouldn’t lie, Tyler.
His gut clenched.
Trust in yourself, son.
Was it wishful thinking or had he just heard from his grandfather on the other side? Shaking his head, he brushed his damp palms against the front of his jean-clad legs and closed the door.
Stalking across the street, he glanced up at the sign above the building.
The Lucky Star.
As if called up by a long ago memory, the lyrics to an old Kenny Rogers tune his mom loved played through his mind as he crushed the unease he refused to give in to and reached for the door.
The scent was the first thing that hit him, right between the eyes. Rain? How could it smell like a warm summer rain?
Focus on the goal. Get the job first
.
But his concentration wandered when he noticed the mirrors on both sides of the entryway. What the hell was that about? He sneered.
A guy doesn’t want to see himself walking into a bar. He wants to see the bar, check out what’s on tap, and maybe if his luck is running high, flirt with his choice of curvaceous sweet things perched on a barstool.
He grinned, savoring the image, because he hadn’t had the time lately to get out on a Saturday night in search of a little female companionship. A knot of need started to form in his gut, but he ignored it and strode forward down the hallway lined with mirrors.
Tyler stopped dead in his tracks and stared. “Damn. What’s the owner thinking?”
His gaze ran the length of the hallway and back—he wasn’t seeing things—there were benches in front of the mirrors.
“Red velvet.”
He didn’t have to touch the seats to know what they were covered with. His mother had a favorite lady’s chair in her bedroom. A red velvet lady’s chair.
“Hell,” he muttered. They needed to hire him, if only to suggest a few major changes to increase business. No self-respecting bar owner would have mirrors or velvet in their place.
At the end of the hallway, a long, sleek ebony bar gleamed, and damned if every one of the barstools didn’t have a red velvet cushion to sit on.
“Shit,” Tyler muttered aloud. “I can’t see myself working in a place like this.”
“Well now, handsome,” a husky voice purred to the left of him, “I can see you working here just fine.”
He turned and felt his mouth drop open.
Beautiful.
Stunning.
Drop-dead gorgeous
. All of the above fit the little lady walking toward him with her hand outstretched.
“Name’s Jolene Langley,” she said. “Welcome to The Lucky Star, cowboy.”
Lord, she was a looker. Belatedly, Tyler removed his Stetson, ran his hand through his still-damp hair, and grasped her hand. “Tyler Garahan.”
Satin.
Damned if her hand didn’t feel like one of his mom’s nightgowns. He’d done his fair share of laundry over the years and ought to know.
Her grip surprised him. It was firm. His gaze drifted from the top of her wavy red head to the tips of her fancy blue boots—a color only a female would wear.
“Emily!” she called out though her gaze never left his. “See something you like, cowboy?” She returned the favor by letting her gaze slide from the top of his tousled dark brown head to the tips of his worn leather boots. Her gaze lingered on his boots. He glanced down and swore beneath his breath; he’d forgotten to polish them.
“Em?” she called a second time.
“I’m coming,” a soft voice answered. “Give me a minute.”
He glanced in the direction the voice seemed to come from—somewhere just beyond the bar—and noticed small tables scattered in front of a stage.
“You have live entertainment in here?” He imagined some whiny soft rock band standing on stage, playing music that would get under his skin and have him reaching for a shot of whiskey instead of his usual longneck bottle.
Her laugh was as smooth as her skin. “You could say that, cowboy.”
Irritation began to burn in his gut at the way she’d sneered when she called him cowboy. Hell, he was one and proud of it, but that wasn’t as important right now as landing the job and saving the ranch. “Name’s Tyler, ma’am.”
“What’s up, Jolene?”
The pretty redhead walking toward him had to be a blood relative to the one currently staring at the third button down on his worn denim work shirt. He hoped Jolene didn’t look lower and notice the tear he tried to hide by rolling up the sleeves. The woman was getting under his skin—and not in a good way.
“Trouble, Em?”
Tyler finally tore his gaze from Emily’s face and noticed what Jolene had: the huge splat of chocolate dead center between Emily’s breasts. Firm and proud, cupped lovingly by a form-fitting, cropped T-shirt.
The saliva pooled in his mouth. He swallowed. The urge to devour the chocolate-covered confection caught him off guard. Digging deep for control, he realized he’d been too long without a woman: two months, three weeks, and four days… if he were counting.
He may be damned for it, but he let his gaze feast on the bounty before him. The two inches of exposed skin was tanned and taut. His gaze dipped to the hem of her denim mini skirt, and he had to swallow again. The woman had legs—curvaceous and toned, not toothpick thin—and Lord Almighty, bright green nail polish on her toes.
Emily smiled at Tyler and answered Jolene, “The spoon got caught in the mixer.”
Jolene had a good three inches on Emily and an in-your-face beauty and sexuality that challenged him on every level, but there was something about the barefooted redhead with chocolate smeared across her cheekbone like a slash of war paint that tugged at his gut.
He had to fight against the urge to smile and replied, “Looks like the mixer won.”
Emily lifted her right hand and the mangled spoon she clutched. “That’s the second spoon today.” Her sigh was long and low.
Jolene patted Emily’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just quit while you’re ahead?”
“You know I can’t until I beat the stress out of myself and this batter.” Emily looked over at Tyler and asked, “Are you here to fix the sink?”
He shook his head. “Although I have been known to wrastle an ornery pipe into submission, I’m actually here about your sister’s ad in the paper.” For a split second disappointment clouded her pretty face and had him offering, “Maybe I could take a look at it before I leave.”
Her smile blossomed slowly and was surely like a flower opening its petals to catch the rain. Before he could untangle his tongue, she said, “That’s right neighborly, but I’ll wait for the plumber. Oh… and she’s my cousin.”
“Really? You look enough alike to be sisters.” Now that she was close enough to touch, he could see the subtle differences: the shape of their eyes—Emily’s were long-lashed and almond shaped—and the curve of their lips—Emily’s were fuller, and there was something indefinable about the barefooted redhead that went a whole lot deeper, straight to her core, a sweetness he hadn’t found in long, long while.
If he were gifted with words like his New York City cousins, he’d have said there was something special about Emily and the way she seemed to smile from the inside out. But Tyler’d probably mess it up and compare her to one of the Circle G’s milk cows.
Neither woman looked like they’d ever set foot on a ranch, and Emily sure as hell wouldn’t believe him if he told her that certain breeds of milk cows had beautiful eyes and sweet faces. The steer he and his brothers raised for beef weren’t pretty—well, they probably would be if he were another steer.
Shaking his head to clear it, he asked, “So did you save any of the batter?”
Emily’s smile was slow and achingly sweet. “Enough to fill half the pan.”
“Are you really going to bake half a pan’s worth, Em?”
Emily grinned at her cousin. “No. That’s why I decided to get another spoon and just eat the batter after I nuke it for a few seconds. Then I’ll start over with another batch.”
Tyler could handle cooking meat and potatoes. Baking was a whole other ball game, but he was pretty sure it would take longer than a few seconds to cook brownies in the microwave. “That wouldn’t be long enough to cook them, would it?”
Her slow, sweet smile eased under his worry about getting the job. “Brownies taste better half-cooked,” Emily said. “Imagine how great the batter would taste warm and freshly whipped.”
Tyler couldn’t keep from grinning at the thought. Standing this close to her, he couldn’t help but notice that without boots, the top of Emily’s head would hit him mid-chest. He’d have to work at it to line up their lips, but if they were lying down—Whoa! Hold on there. Time enough to go there later, after he’d landed the job.
If he landed the job.
“So, you’re here about the position.”
The hard edge in Jolene’s voice had Tyler looking at her. Hell, a few positions came to mind and stubbornly got stuck there, making it hard to focus. Man, if he didn’t need the money, he’d be looking for a nice quiet place to sample the chocolate-covered redhead. Head to toe and every luscious inch in between. Had she noticed him drooling over her cousin?
“I think you should hire him, Jo,” Emily said, heading back the way she’d come. “See y’all later,” she called out over her shoulder. “If you need me, I’ll be upstairs whipping these brownies into submission. Bye, Tyler.”
Lord, he’d get arrested if either woman could read his thoughts right now. One of Grandpa’s favorite expressions came to mind watching the gentle sway of Emily’s hips. The hitch in Emily’s
git-a-long
was as delectable as the front of her had been, and damned if a line from a Trace Adkins song didn’t start running through his brain,
We hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave.
Damn, get your mind on the job, son.
Jolene asked him a question, but he was too preoccupied to pay attention. “I’m sorry, ma’am… what did you ask me?”
Lord, don’t let Jolene wonder if I’ll be able to keep my mind on the job and off her cousin. I need this job!
Jolene was watching him closely. Finally the corner of her mouth lifted into a smile. “Are you here to apply for the position?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am. I’m here about the job.”
“You a hard working man, Mr. Garahan?” She reached out and brushed at the front of his shirt.
He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable now that she’d touched him. Had she meant to? “Excuse me?”
“The person I need to fill the position has to be willing to work hard.”
He rubbed his fingers along the brim of his hat and wondered how to convince the woman that he’d work until he dropped.
Doing’s smarter than jawing.
“I give one hundred percent to everything I do.”
Damned if she didn’t reach out and touch him again, this time he twitched as her nail flicked unerringly over his left nipple.
Holy Hell!
He stepped back. Had she meant to touch him like that, or did she simply have dead-on aim? Unease roiled in his gut. He couldn’t flat out ask her. If he was wrong he’d look like a fool, blow the interview, and lose his chance at the job. “Ma’am?”
“What about your temperament?” she asked, taking a step closer to him, easily closing the distance.
“I’m easygoing most of the time.” His eyes narrowed. Was she coming on to him, or was it some kind of test?
“So far, you have all of the qualifications I need. How’s your back… strong?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stepped around behind him, and he wondered why she couldn’t take his word for it that his back was strong and had to see for herself. The small palm cupping the seat of his Levis was all it took to answer his unasked question and end the interview.
He spun around to face her. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing or what kind of
position
you’re hiring for, but I don’t think I’m the man for the job.”
Hell, usually he enjoyed an aggressive female, given the fact that free time was next to nonexistent and getting down to the good part right off meant more time in the saddle, but he’d been attracted to Emily, not Jolene, and totally missed the fact that Jolene apparently had other things in mind. At least Emily had been honest in mistaking him for a plumber. He couldn’t imagine what Jolene had mistaken him for.
“I believe you’re just what we’re looking for.” She smiled, and he wondered if anyone ever told this woman flat out no.
“Take off your shirt.”
Sheer desperation grabbed a hold of his roiling gut and twisted it. Self-preservation warred with duty. “Look, I don’t know what you’re selling here, lady, but I’m not buying.” He planted his heel, did an about-face, and strode toward the hallway. He could find another job. Had to.
“Position pays thirty dollars an hour, plus tips.”
That stopped him dead in his tracks.
Damn.
How could he walk away from that kind of money? Without turning around he shot back, “What’re the hours?”
She chuckled, and the sound grated on his nerves. “Seven o’clock to two o’clock, six days a week.”
Tyler’s hands shook as he did the math. Two hundred ten dollars a night? That was over a thousand dollars a week! He clenched them into fists.