Free Cowboy in the Kitchen by Mae Nunn Page A

followed and pushed the door closed again. He settled into a folding chair next to the makeshift worktable that she’d put together with plywood and sawhorses. Why she chose this setup when she could easily afford a proper desk was beyond his understanding.
    “What wrong idea? That you might be human and a nice lady who can take a little teasing on the job?”
    “That’s not what I was thinking.”
    “Then maybe it’s time to change your mind-set,” he suggested.
    “Meaning?” She took the other chair.
    “You will catch more flies with sugar than you will with turpentine.”
    Gillian blew her nose on a tissue and tossed it into the five-gallon bucket that served as her trash can.
    “So I’m supposed to simper and sashay and pretend to be a helpless Southern Belle so people will say I’m sweet?”
    “How many women have you met in Kilgore who sashay, for cryin’ out loud?”
    “I haven’t looked that closely.”
    “Well, add the effort to your to-do list. Maybe it’ll help get your mind off yourself, and you’ll start to appreciate the town you handpicked for your new home.”
    It was good advice, and he should probably take it himself.
    Her head angled away, moist violet eyes narrowed. “Since when do you consider this my home? ”
    “Since you knocked out a few walls, brought in a load of river rock to build a fireplace in the restaurant and started fitting every room on the first floor with new baseboards and crown molding.”
    At the mention of the molding her lips popped open like a largemouth bass after a water bug. He sensed that round two of her hissy fit was coming, so he held his palm up to prevent the flood of words. “Yes, I’ve heard all about the delivery guy you threatened to strangle with his own radio chord.”
    “I wasn’t that bad,” she argued.
    “I witnessed the whole thing, Gillian. When you realized he’d brought the wrong order, you threw something out there in the parking lot that was just short of a conniption.”
    “All right, I did!” She grabbed the nearby roll of architectural plans and smacked them on the plywood for emphasis. “And with good reason.”
    She brandished the roll of drawings as if they were a sword for defending her honor. “The devil is in the details, and if they aren’t handled properly, then nothing that comes next will work.”
    Hunt stood and extended his open palm. “You’ve only shown me the plans for the first phase of the ground floor. Let me see the rest so I can understand what all the fuss is about.”
    She snatched the roll close to her chest. “This information is on a need-to-know basis. When I decide you do, I’ll share it with you and not before.”
    Hunt leaned over Gillian, placed his hands on her shoulders and bent so close that her metal chair tipped back on two legs. She held tight to the plans, refusing to be intimidated by his nearness. He dipped his face to hers and let a threatening smile ease across his lips.
    “Give me the drawings or give me a kiss. It’s your choice.”
    Her lovely eyes widened in defiance. Her gaze locked with his. The chair rocked, unsteady, as if it might tip over. Gillian’s hands flew out for balance. She let the plans drop to the floor, but she never let her eyes lose contact with his.
    Was it possible that his nearness was more important than her precious drawings? Hunt’s heart raced. He wanted to kiss the woman. Rather badly. But not without her consent.
    Hunt stepped away and let the front legs of Gillian’s chair thump to the floor. He stooped, retrieved the roll of paper, handed it to her and then returned to his seat.
    “Why are you playing those cards so close to the vest?”
    “Because what I plan to do next is still entirely on paper, and I’m not ready to share it. I’m in over my head as it is, and you’d probably try to talk me out of it if you saw what I have in mind.”
    “I deserve more credit than that,” he complained.
    “You do, Hunt.” She leaned forward,