All for You (Texas Heat)

1. Rachel

Chapter 1

Rachel

T he clatter of ceramic plates, the gentle clink of silverware, and the hum of conversation surround me. The syrupy scent of Mrs. Martinez’s famous pecan pie wafts through Bluebonnet Café, along with the pungent aroma of freshly brewed coffee. With every pot I make, I feel a little more settled into this new chapter of my life. I never envisioned starting over in a place like Cupid’s Creek, Texas, population six thousand and thirteen. But here I am.

Honestly, I had no clue where to go when I decided to leave New York. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a destination. I didn’t even know if my leaving would be temporary or permanent. I just packed my bags, turned in my key to the doorman, jumped in my newly purchased battered car, and drove.

And drove and drove. Frankly, I’m surprised the car made it this far.

I also didn’t realize I’d been looking for a place where the sky stretched wide, and the possibilities felt endless. Turns out, a sleepy little farming town between Houston and San Antonio was my destination.

And my safety net for the past two months. This not-so sleepy cute little town has already come to feel like home. And I’m half-way to making it my permanent residence.

Balancing three plates along my arm reminds me of how far I’ve come. Some people back home might think I’ve fallen a peg or two, but I feel more alive here. More real.

Free.

In Cupid’s Creek, I’m not Rachel Anderson, the middle-class executive assistant from Queens who finally grew a pair and skipped town before making the biggest mistake of her life.

Now, I’m just a friendly waitress at the diner who always remembers your order and has a kind word to spare.

“More pie?” I ask Mr. Henderson, the high school principal, and a regular customer who likes his apple pie à la mode, as I top up his cup with a fresh dark roast.

He chuckles. “You know me well. Thank you, Rachel.”

“I’ll have that brought out to you in a few minutes.” Smiling, I move on to the next table. “Here we go, folks.” I set down their plates with practiced ease. “Chicken fried steak for you, Tom. And the usual for you two lovely ladies.” Tom is a middle-aged man who brings his mother, Edna, and his widowed sister, Clara, into the diner at least once a week. They argue like cats and dogs, but their love for each other is reflected in their eyes and the little things they do for one another. Like Tom helping his mom cut her meat because her shaking makes it difficult. Or Clara pushing aside the sugar packets, so Tom doesn’t spike his coffee and his blood sugar.

Edna picks up her fork and stabs it into the pile of creamy mashed potatoes. “Thanks, darlin’. How are you settling in? Still liking our little slice of heaven?”

My grin widens. “I love it here. It feels more like home every day.”

And it does. As I head back to the counter, I glimpse myself in the mirror over the counter. My shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, a few wayward strands framing my face, and my cheeks are pink from the heat in the kitchen. The soft green of my apron brings out the hazel in my eyes; and for once, I don’t hate what I see. My curves fill out my clothes more than I’d like, but there’s a sparkle in my makeup-free eyes that I haven’t seen in years.

“Rachel, a little makeup and a few pounds won’t kill you. Don’t you want to look good for Matthew? And you really should do something with your hair. Maybe try blonde?”

Closing my eyes, I push the memory of Mom’s sharp, hurtful words out of my head, focusing instead on the cheerful chatter of the patrons around me.

“Rachel, table seven needs a refill,” Sheila calls out, snapping me out of my reverie.

I refill Martha Jenkin’s tea and then head to the back room for my ten-minute break, my sneakers squeaking faintly on the linoleum floor. The little room in the back of the café is actually an office, but it feels like an escape, tucked away from most of the noise and activity up front. Cluttered shelves, faded carpeting, and a comfortable recliner gives it a lived-in charm, and the cutout over the built-in counter allows us to see into the diner. Everything about this café, this town, is unlike my life in New York.

I love it here.

Sheila joins me, leaning casually against the stainless-steel counter, one hip cocked and a smile on her weathered face. Her short-cropped dark hair frames her cheeks in an effortlessly chic way. Under her apron, she’s wearing a simple black T-shirt that accentuates her athletic build, paired with jeans that have seen better days. I hope I look as good when I’m in my fifties.

Sheila was the first person to befriend me when I hit town. Hungry, tired, and needing a shower after being on the road for three days, I’d stopped for coffee and an opportunity to stretch my muscles and rest my eyes while deciding where to spend the night. She fed me, chatted me up, and offered me her spare room. And I never left. Well, I did get a small apartment that is twice the size of the one I had in New York.

“Still scared to talk to the handsome cowboy?” She teases, a playful glint in her bright blue eyes.

“Am not.” My cheeks heat with my lie. This woman, who I’ve known for less than sixty days, who welcomed a stranger into her home, already knows me better than any friends, family or even my ex-fiancé ever did. And she’s quickly become my new best friend regardless of our age difference.

But deep down, she’s right. Travis Kincaid, with his troubled brown gaze, ties my tongue in knots every damn time I see him. I’ve even swapped tables to avoid talking to him.

“Uh-huh.” She’s clearly not buying it. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to go right on up to him and say, ‘Howdy, cowboy. Can I take your order?’”

I laugh at her exaggerated twang.

“He doesn’t bite.” She cocks her head and scrunches up her face, her eyes twinkling. “At least I don’t think he does. There must be a reason he always sits in your section, and a reason you refuse to wait on him.”

“I, um, just don’t like him,” I mutter, followed by a shaky laugh I try to disguise behind a fake cough. “Besides, he’s much older than me.” At least ten years, if not more. Not that it matters. Not to me anyway.

“Hogwash. He’s younger than me. I’d give him a go, but he’s not me he’s interested in me.”

“I think you’re imagining things.”

“Girl, you’re as stubborn as a mule. He comes in here nearly every day, sits at the same table, in the same chair, orders the same thing, and yet you act like you don’t notice him. I don’t get it.” She shakes her head and pushes away from the counter.

“I don’t notice him.” The denial sounds feeble even to my own ears. I noticed that man the minute he walked through the door. It was the one and only time I’ve stumbled while carrying an armful of dishes. They nearly hit the floor that day. But by the time my tongue returned to my mouth, I had things back under control. At least until he sat in my section. I made a deal with Daisy, the high-school student who works here part-time, to cover that table for me—indefinitely.

Sheila snorts. “Right.”

“Okay, okay, fine. Maybe I, uh, do notice him… sometimes.” I hate how flustered I sound. I glance over my shoulder through the cutout into the dining area. From here I can a direct line of sight to the corner booth where Travis sits, looking all broody and inaccessible. The man is gorgeous in a rough, rode all-night sort of way.

“You’ve heard the stories about him, right?” Sheila joins me, leaning closer, her voice hushed as we peer through the half-opened shutters. “His family has been here for generations. He’s loaded but got dumped by his wife not long after she moved here. He went away to school but when his father passed, he moved back home with the wife in tow to take over the ranch. No kids. He used to be such a nice, easy-going kid himself. Unlike his brothers and sister who couldn’t wait to leave town, he always loved Cupid’s Creek. But folks say he’s meaner than a rattlesnake now.”

I’ve discovered that rumors spread quickly in a small town. And they grow in each circle until it’s difficult to distinguish truth from embellishment. You can’t hide here like you can in the city. Everybody knows your business. Everybody wants to share their advice. And there’s been lots to hear about Travis. Mostly that he’s tied up tighter than a drum now. Doesn’t hang out with friends, doesn’t date. Just works his family’s ranch. But something about him makes me want to peel back those layers to discover the man beneath the myth. And given the situation that brought me to Cupid’s Creek, I’m confused about why I think that way.

I shrug. “Looks can be deceiving.”

It’s easy to watch Travis from a distance. My heart pumps wildly when the light catches the silver threads weaved through his dark hair, giving him a distinguished look that only intensifies his imposing figure. He’s tall, over six feet for sure, and has the body of a man half his age. His jaw is set, and there’s something about the downward turn of his mouth that makes me want to smooth away the deep lines between his brows. The man shows his pain clear as day. He’s not mean. But he’s been hurt.

And I can’t go there.

He is danger personified. A walking, breathing reminder of every bad decision I’ve ever made when it comes to the male species. Yet I can’t look away. My body hums with like a live wire, drawn to him like a compass finding true north. It scares me how quickly and easily he’s managed to stir up feelings I thought well buried after my last relationship.

“On second thought, maybe you should keep your distance,” Sheila says as she straightens and smooths down her apron.

“Don’t worry, I will.” Though not for the reason she means.

Travis is a warning of everything I ran from—a man who overshadowed me and made me feel small and insignificant. Not worthy to be in his circles. No good enough. Yet, I’m drawn to him whenever he enters the Bluebonnet Café. My skin prickles with awareness. My body tingles as if recognizing a truth my mind refuses to acknowledge. I know I’m playing with fire, but God help me; I’m starting to crave the burn.

And that scares me.

The shrill ring of my cell phone cuts through the turmoil. Glancing at the caller ID, panic shoots through me. Mom. Crap.

I hold up a finger. “Be right back.” I retreat to the corner, my hand shaky as I lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Rachel!” The overly cheery timbre of Mom’s voice hurts my ear. I don’t even get a chance to say hello before she jumps into the reason for her call. “Guess what? I’m coming to visit, and I’ll be there tomorrow. I can only stay a couple of days, but I’ll be there by noon.”

What?

My stomach clenches, a knot of anxiety tightening with each word. She would never leave New York to visit a small town anywhere, never mind one across the country. The woman thrives on big city life. She thinks she’s a Rockefeller. Even Dad got tired of her spending every dollar he had to keep up the image, that he bailed when I was a kid and never looked back. Although he left me too, I don’t blame him. He never measured up in her eyes. Just like she never fails to make me feel inadequate. My makeup is too much, it’s not enough. I’m too heavy; I’m too thin. My hair’s too long, or it’s too short. I need a better job, a better boyfriend. Why am I not married? I’m never good enough. I left New York to escape my ex and the constant stream of nit-picking. But because I do love her and didn’t want her to worry, I told her where I’d landed. I had hoped the onslaught of judgment and expectations wouldn’t follow if she couldn’t see me.

I was wrong.

“Darling? Did you hear me? I’m coming for a visit.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah. That’s... great, Mom.” I close my eyes and breathe deeply in through my nose.

“I’m flying into Austin. I’ll rent a car at the airport, so you don’t have to worry about picking me up. I just need you to text me your address. Why did you have to move to some small hole-in-the-wall town all the way across the country?”

“It’s beautiful here, Mom. And why are you coming all the way here, to Cupid’s Creek?” I’m sure she’ll hate it.

“Because I miss you. And I want to see you. You’ve hardly called since you up and left everything you’ve ever know behind, including Matthew.”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about him.”

She plows on, oblivious to the tightness in my voice. “Have you at least met any interesting men yet? And when are you going to find something to do besides waitressing? There’s got to be better jobs than that. And your hair—have you had a haircut recently? Please tell me they have a decent hair salon there. Do you at least try to wear makeup, sweetheart? Because you know you can’t catch a man without fixing yourself up?—”

“Mom, I’m at work. Can we talk about this some other time?” Like maybe never. I want to defend myself and explain that my job isn’t simply a placeholder but that I find purpose in it. But the words catch in my throat, years of conditioning holding them back.

“Fine.” She huffs into the receiver.

“Mom, I?—”

“Never mind, we’ll talk when I get there. See you soon, darling.” The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the screen.

My mother’s visit is the last thing I need. Underneath her relentless questioning lies the insinuation that waitressing—and my entire existence—is inadequate. That I’m nothing without a man in my life.

A wave of frustration courses through me. Why can’t she see me for who I am? Why isn’t my happiness enough? I’ve longed for her approval my entire life, even when I resented needing it.

“Everything okay?” Sheila asks, her eyebrows knitting together.

I forgot she was there.

“My mother’s coming for a visit. Tomorrow. She’s going to be all over me about not having a boyfriend and making something of myself.” Plus, she’s going to hate my little apartment. Where will she sleep?

“Damn.” She breathes out a huff.

“Yeah, damn,” I echo.

Sheila leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Your mom sounds like a real piece of work, honey.”

I sigh heavily and roll my eyes. “You have no idea. She’s got this perfect vision of who I should be, and I’ve never quite met her standards.”

The weight of my mother’s expectations has always felt like a suffocating blanket. Whenever I think I’ve made progress, her disapproving gaze reminds me how far I still have to go. It’s exhausting.

Sheila drums her fingers on the counter. “Let me guess, she wants you married to some rich guy with two point five kids and a white picket fence?”

I laugh lightly. “Something like that. Throw in a high-powered career and you’ve got it.” She wanted me to be a big important lawyer. I hated school. The best I could manage was an executive assistant position at one of the top financial firms. And look how that turned out.

My mother’s ideal version of me feels like a stranger—someone I wouldn’t even recognize in the mirror. The thought of the life she’d mapped out for me a long time ago makes my skin itch. And we didn’t have the finances to make it happen. Dad was gone and she didn’t make that much money working retail, even if it was as a sales manager.

“And what do you want?” My friend asks quietly.

I fidget with my apron. “I don’t know. I just want to be happy, I guess. To feel like I’m enough.”

Sheila slaps her hand on the counter, making me jump. “Screw that. You are enough. Your mom’s just projecting her own crap onto you.”

“Maybe. But it’s hard to shake off years of her constant digs.” Those jabs have become a part of me, woven into the fabric of my being. Unraveling them feels impossible, like trying to separate grains of sand on a beach.

“So don’t shake ‘em off. Use ‘em as fuel. Prove her wrong.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How? By suddenly becoming CEO of some Fortune 500 company?”

“Nah, by being you. The real you. The one who makes me laugh and reads smutty novels like they’re going out of style.”

“I do not read smut.”

“And those regulars who come in just to have you wait on them? They see you. The real you.”

My shoulders slump. “Thanks, Sheila. I just wish... I wish I could stand up to her, you know?” Years of biting my tongue and swallowing my true feelings have left me ill-equipped to voice my needs and desires. It’s easier to nod, smile, and play the part of the dutiful daughter, even if resentment simmers hot in my blood.

“So do it. Tell her to take her judgment and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Right, because that’ll go over well.” She’d be shocked that I would say such a thing and blame my bad manners on my new home, new friends, and new job.

“Who cares how it goes over? It’s about you standing your ground.”

I wring my hands. “I don’t know if I can. Every time I try, I freeze up.”

The memory of past confrontations flash through my mind—how my voice would shake, my hands would sweat, and my carefully planned arguments would crumble in the face of her disapproval. It’s like being a child again, desperate for validation and afraid of disappointing someone who’s supposed to love me unconditionally.

“Then practice. Right here, right now.” She pushes her shoulders back. “Pretend I’m your mom.”

I retreat, my gaze snapping through the opening into the diner, where Daisy dashes from one table to the next. “Sheila, I don’t think?—”

She tightens her posture and puts on a haughty expression. “Rachel, darling. When are you going to find a man and settle down?”

My ears burn as I choke on laughter at her attempt to sound like Mom—who she seems to think is British. “I... um... well...”

This is silly.

Sheila taps her foot impatiently. “Come on, Rachel. Give it to me.”

Fine. I square my shoulders. “Mom, I...” Swallowing, I start again. “I’m happy with my life the way it is and where it is.” But am I? Happy? Or am I settling, too afraid to reach for something more?

Sheila rolls her eyes. “Try again.”

Grinding my back molars and clenching my fists, I start over, slower this time. “Mom, my life is none of your business.”

“Better. Now hit me with the big guns.”

Taking a deep breath, I blow it out as I place a damp palm on my forehead and close my eyes, picturing the woman who’s popping in from across the country for a visit in a matter of hours. “Mom, I’m sick of your constant criticism. I like my job, I like my life, and if you can’t accept that, then maybe you shouldn’t come to Cupid’s Creek at all.”

The words burst out of me like a dam breaking. For a moment, I feel powerful and in control. Can I really say those things? Do I even mean them? No matter how she makes me think, she’s still my mom.

Sheila pumps her fist in the air. “Now we’re talking. That’s the Rachel I knew was in there.”

I exhale slowly.

It’s a glimpse of who I could be if I can only find the courage to embrace it. It’s one thing to play-act in the safety of the back of the diner with my friend, but facing mom in reality? That’s a whole different ballgame. Her disapproval has always felt like a physical force, crushing my spirit and reshaping me into the daughter she wants—one that isn’t a waitress struggling to make ends meet in a small town far from her home.

“See? You’ve got it in you. You just gotta let it out.”

“Yeah but saying it to you is one thing. Saying it to her?—”

“Is exactly the same. She’s just a person, Rachel. Not some all-powerful being.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up with her.”

“True. But I’ve dealt with my fair share of judgmental assholes.”

I tilt my head and glance at my friend. “How do you do it? How do you just... not care what people think?”

Sheila shrugs. “Who says I don’t care? I just decided my opinion of myself matters more.”

“I wish I could do that.”

She steps up to me, grips my shoulders and stares into my eyes. “You can. It’s a choice you have to make every damn day.”

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

She lets me go and retreats. “Bullshit. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

My jaw drops. “Me? Strong?”

“Hell yeah. You’ve been through some serious shit, and you’re still standing.”

“Barely.” Tears sting my eyes.

“Standing is standing. Give yourself some credit.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Now, you gonna let your mom walk all over you this weekend?”

I set my jaw. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Hey, Rachel.” Ruby Martinez, the owner of the café, peeks around the door. “Can you clear table four, please? Daisy has homework to complete now.” Daisy is Ruby’s granddaughter, and the woman always puts schoolwork before the job.

I glance up from the crumpled napkin I’ve been absently shredding. Table four. Right next to Travis Kincaid’s table. With a deep breath, I smooth out my apron and gather the resolve to face him. I’ve spent so much time avoiding situations like this, carefully sidestepping anything that might lead to speaking to the cowboy.

My hands start sweating, and I rub them down my jean-covered thighs. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sheila and I leave the office, and while she heads behind the counter, I sidestep between crowded tables, my heart thrumming in my chest.

Travis sits there, a solitary figure amidst the lunch rush, his broad shoulders hunched over a half-eaten plate of Mrs. Martinez’s famous chicken-fried steak. As I get closer to him, my skin prickles, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, a warm musky blend with a hint of cool mint. Automatically, I lean toward the delicious smell as he looks up. Somehow, I trip over my feet and almost land in his lap. While I try to recover, he turns, and we bump heads.

“S-sorry,” I stammer, stepping back into his table, knocking it with enough force to jostle his water glass. While reaching to still the wobbling glass which is threatening to tip and spill, he looks up, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic grin. I drink him in like an icy cold soda on a hot summer day.

“Can I help you?” He raises an eyebrow, the question hanging in the air between us.

“Help me?” I keep staring as I gather myself. My face burns hot. I’m supposed to be calm and collected, not some flustered mess of a waitress who can’t keep her composure around a patron.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of every imperfection—the coffee stain on my apron, the wisps of hair escaping my ponytail. Why does he affect me this way? Why can’t I maintain my composure around him? I’ve worked hard to build a life for myself, to prove I’m more than my mistakes and that I don’t need a man in my life. Yet here I am, reduced to a stammering mess by a very handsome one I hardly know. The unfairness of it all stings, fueling a spark of defiance.

“Yes,” Travis says, his mouth turned down.

“No, I… uh… I…”

“You’re staring at me like you want to ask a question, but I know you’re not working my table.”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend for the weekend, but you know, not actually be my real boyfriend, at all, just a pretend one, for a few days.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. What the hell am I thinking, blurting out something so ridiculous? To Travis Kincaid, of all people?

Desperation bites at my insides. This is all mom’s fault. Yet some small part of me buried deep beneath all the caution and warning signs, I’m thrilled at the recklessness of it all. I blame Sheila. She did tell me to toss out the big guns. Though I’m not sure, she had this in mind.

Travis leans back, a hint of surprise flirting with the corners of his lips. He studies me as if seeing me for the first time.

I squirm, trying to ignore the warmth that spreads through my body as his gaze travels slowly down and back up, settling on my eyes.

“Now, I didn’t expect that specific request,” he drawls, his husky voice filled with humor.

I shrug, attempting nonchalance, though I wish I could recall my words. My heart thumps hard. The scars my ex left behind are deep ones that make the thought of any sort of commitment feel like a noose tightening around my neck. But this is different. This would just be pretend for a few days. Long enough to get me through Mom’s visit. Good God, what was I thinking?

“Does the offer come with any perks?” he teases. “Because I might be interested.”

“Perks?” I frown. “Um, free coffee? The occasional slice of pie?”

“I do like… pie.” A slow, crooked grin overtakes his handsome features, and I think my panties catch on fire to match my face.

Then I catch his meaning.

That’s when I know I’m in big, big trouble.