Chapter 11
Sawyer was tweaking his nut graph on the Forbes piece when someone rang the doorbell. He glanced at the clock. The girls were probably still doing their thing and Jace needed a place to hang out until he could go home.
“Door’s open,” he yelled down.
The sound of footsteps came up the stairs.
Sawyer didn’t bother to look up from his computer. “Cash kick you out?” His cousin had adopted the hours of a cow cop. Early to bed, early to rise.
“How come you didn’t tell me about the email? The one from Angie?”
He swiveled his barstool around to find Gina in his entryway, not Jace.
She had on the same short skirt she’d worn to the barbecue that first week she was here and a stretchy sleeveless top that gave her a boost in the chest department.
Not the legendary Gina DeRose rack of cooking show lore, but enough to fill his hands.
Instead of the high heels, cowboy boots.
That visual alone made his blood rush south of his belt.
“We don’t know that it’s Angie,” he said, trying hard not to ogle her and failing miserably.
“Who else could it be?”
Who else indeed? But it was better to keep his expectations low, that way he wasn’t disappointed. “Don’t know. But the timing seems odd. Why now, after all these years?”
“Because for the first time you have a solid lead. New Mexico. She likely knows you’ve been talking to people from the commune, asking questions.”
Beautiful and smart. But Gina DeRose had enough troubles of her own. He didn’t plan to make his her part-time hobby while she waited for the dust to settle on her own situation.
“Maybe,” was all he said. “Your hen party over?”
“I hate that saying. It’s condescending. What if I called your night out with the guys a cock party?”
He eyed her up and down, not even bothering to be discreet about it.
Cock party?
His cock wanted to party right now.
“Did you come over to use my kitchen or to berate me for being a chauvinist?”
“I came over to find out why you hadn’t told me about the email. We spent all day together and not one word.” She plopped down on the stool next to him. “I tell you all my stuff.”
“That’s so I can help you go home. Back to the bright lights and glitter.” He winked.
“You’re being a dick.”
“Dick is my default.”
“What’re you going to do if Cash’s friend traces the email to Angie?” She wouldn’t let it go.
He let out a breath. “It won’t be that cut-and-dried. But if the signs point to it being sent from her, I’ll find her.”
“Even if she doesn’t want you to?”
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “There’s more to it, more to the story.”
“Like she’s in trouble?”
He nodded and turned away, staring out the window. “Why are you really here?”
Rarely did women show up at his house after ten p.m. without sex in mind. If that’s why she’d come, he’d send her home. As much a temptation as she was, he’d proven he could restrain himself. The kiss had been a slip, a momentary lapse in judgment. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
Maybe when she fixed her life and was no longer his mother’s client they could meet up for a drink in Malibu. Tear up the sheets for a night and make a plan to do it again sometime. But not under these circumstances. And definitely not while she was living less than a mile away.
Sawyer liked his space and freedom too much to hook up with the girl next door.
“You have air-conditioning and I don’t.” She got up, moved to the living room, and made herself at home on his sofa.
“If you’re going to suck up the free air-conditioning you could’ve at least brought ice cream.”
“We ate it all. Now that I’ve got the machine, I’ll make you some tomorrow.”
He saved his work, shut down his laptop, and joined Gina on the sofa. She kicked off her boots and tucked her legs under her ass, showing more of those glorious legs of hers. He considered moving to the chair but stayed put, either to punish himself or to prove his mettle.
“What were you working on?” She nudged her head at his computer on the kitchen island.
“An article for Forbes that’s due next week.”
“What’s it about?”
“The fall of globalization.” Normally, he could’ve spent hours talking about his current work. The research, the interviews, the thesis of the story, things that bored his cousins to death. But not tonight.
Tonight, he was having trouble focusing on anything other than Gina stretched out on his couch in that tiny skirt, wondering what she had on for underwear.
“It sounds dull as dirt.”
“It’s my life’s work, so thanks.”
“It is not. I liked your story about that Malawi kid who studied library books so he could build an electrical windmill to bring water to his home.”
“You read that?” He’d written it years ago. Since then, the kid—now a man—had been the focus of a documentary and had penned an autobiography.
“Mm-hmm. You’re a good writer.”
He laughed because she sounded surprised. “Yeah, I get by.”
“If you could only be one, which would you pick: cowboy or writer?”
“Cowboy writer.” He grinned. “How ’bout you? Chef or celebrity?”
She took a long time to answer. “Celebrity.”
He’d expected her to imitate his cop-out answer with celebrity chef. But she’d surprised him. “Yeah?” He tilted his head sideways. Why was he not surprised?
“The thing is I’m a better celebrity than I am a chef.”
He didn’t know about that. She was quickly on her way to being a washed-up celebrity.
But on that, he held his tongue. “Your show is good, Gina. I don’t even cook and I watch it.
” He left out that he especially enjoyed the T&A part of the program.
“But your cooking”—he held his hand over his heart—“incomparable.”
“Don’t get carried away. Whatever skills I had I’ve lost. And even when I was good, I wasn’t Thomas Keller or Nancy Silverton good.”
“I disagree. And I’ve eaten at the French Laundry, Per Se, Bouchon, and Ad Hoc. I freaking lived at La Brea Bakery and spent my childhood eating at Campanile before Nancy and Mark split up. You’re every bit as good as them.”
“Nancy and Mark?” She rolled her eyes at his familiar use of Chef Silverton and Chef Peel’s first names.
“Hey, my parents are Wendy and Dan Dalton.” His lips curved up. “They handled the press on the divorce.”
“I’m not doing anything innovative or extraordinary,” she said, getting back on point. “Everything I do is basic. My signature is strawberry shortcake. Enough said, right?”
“Isn’t Nancy famous for grilled cheese sandwiches? And Keller, a version of an Oreo cookie. It’s all in the execution.”
She shook her head. “You know what? For a cowboy you’re an awful big know-it-all.”
“Nah, I’m just smart as hell. And hungry.” He got to his feet before he did something stupid like kiss her again. Because the mood in the room was definitely veering in that direction.
He stuck his head in the fridge, wishing he could stick the lower half of his body in there too. All of Gina’s leftovers were gone. He’d powered through her baked ziti in less than two days. “You want something?”
“I gorged on Charlie’s cheesy beef quesadillas. I couldn’t eat another thing.”
“Quesadillas, huh?” He searched his dairy drawer for cheese, found a package of stale tortillas on the top shelf, and piled his ingredients on the counter.
“You want me to make them for you?” she asked as he fumbled with a cheese grater.
“I can do it.” Although hers would be edible. His, not so much.
She came over and grabbed the butter before he closed the fridge door. “Go sit down. Watching you is painful.”
Not half as painful as watching her bending over to preheat his oven in that short skirt.
“You have any steak?”
He looked at her pointedly. “I own a cattle ranch.” Then he got up and opened his freezer.
“Holy cow.” She laughed at her own pun, which really wasn’t that funny. “You’ve been holding out on me, Dalton.”
“It’s fresh, DeRose. Help yourself. But it’s a little late for beef.” Nighttime had never stopped him from grabbing a burger when he was out on the road on assignment. But when he was home, he tried to adhere to somewhat of a normal schedule, which included not eating heavy meals before bedtime.
“I wanted to test out Charlie’s recipe. With a twist, of course.
” She eyed the freezer shelves filled with various cuts wrapped in white butcher paper, each package efficiently labeled.
“I’ll take you up on your offer, though.
Not tonight. But I can’t wait to play with your meat.
” It took her a second, then her face flushed. “Yeah, that sounded…weird.”
He thought of a dozen double entendres he could fire back, but was afraid it would hurt to talk. Instead, he concealed the lower half of his body underneath the granite ledge of the kitchen island while she finished grating the hunk of cheddar cheese he’d butchered.
“Not what I would normally use, but it’s all you have.” She gazed around his kitchen. “You have a red onion?”
“Maybe in the pantry.” He started to get up and thought better of it.
She didn’t seem to notice and found what she was looking for.
“I don’t know how old that is.” Hell, he couldn’t even remember buying it.
“Not old. I brought it for the panzanella salad.” She filled a bowl with apple cider vinegar—another staple he didn’t know he had—sugar and salt, then began slicing the onion. “Nice knife. Mine’s better, though.”
“What’s that for?” He bobbed his chin at the vinegar mixture.
“It’s to pickle the onion. Technically, it takes an hour. But I won’t make you wait.” Her lips ticked up in a teasing smile.
Did the woman know what she was doing to him?
“Seems like a lot of trouble for a quesadilla.” Something he’d always thought of as kid food. Ellie, Travis, and Grady lived on them.
“Even simple dishes should be elevated to be the best they can be, according to you, Mr. Cowboy Know-It-All.”
“Well, this cowboy know-it-all is starved.” Starved for something entirely different than food.