Barbara Dunlop - An Intimate Bargain

“Not in my book.”

“So why are you worrying about the aesthetics?”

They stepped up on the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

“Because you’re wearing a two-thousand-dollar dress, and I’m buying you a burger and fries.”

“Who says you’re buying?”

“I’m from Texas.”

She smacked her hands dramatically over her ears, signaling her unwillingness to learn where he was from. “La, la, la, la-”

He playfully pulled one of them away. “You can already tell that by my accent.”

“Just because you grew up in Texas doesn’t mean you live there now.”

“I do.”

“Quit breaking the rules,” she warned him.

“There are rules?”

“Yes, there are rules. We agreed.”

“Well, the rule in Texas is that a gentleman always buys a lady’s dinner.”

“This is Colorado.”

They came to a halt beside the drive-through window, and he peered up at the lighted menu board. “And this isn’t exactly dinner.”

A teenage girl in a navy-blue-and-white uniform, her hair pulled back in a ponytail revealing purple beaded earrings, slid the window open. “What’ll you have?”

“A mountain burger,” Abigail decided. “No onions, extra tomato and a chocolate shake.”

“Same for me,” said Lucky, extracting his wallet. “But I’ll take some fries with that.”

Abigail decided not to press the issue of payment. What point would she be making? That she was an independent woman? That this wasn’t a date? Date or not, she doubted a five-dollar dinner would make any man feel entitled to so much as a good-night kiss.

Not that she’d necessarily mind kissing Lucky. She found herself stealing a glance at his profile while he handed the girl a twenty. He was an incredibly attractive man. As tall as her brothers, easily over six feet. He had gorgeous brown eyes, thick, dark hair, full lips, a straight nose, with a square chin that was slightly beard shadowed. He wasn’t cowboy. She’d call it urbane. With an edge. She liked that.

“Cherry turnover?” he asked, turning to catch her staring.

She quickly blinked away her curiosity. “No, thanks.”

“We’re good,” he said to the girl.

The cashier rang their purchase through the register, handing him the change, while another employee appeared with a white paper bag of food and a cardboard tray holding two milk shakes and paper-covered straws.

Lucky took the bag in one hand, the milk shakes in the other. “Lead on.”

“You want some help?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Texans don’t let women carry things?”

“No, ma’am.”

Abigail couldn’t help wondering what he’d think of her hauling hay bales and lumber, and hefting saddles back at the ranch. Then she compressed her lips, determinedly banishing the image. That would be her life tomorrow. For tonight, she was going to be a girlie girl, with makeup, jewelry, horribly impractical shoes and a Texas man who insisted on buying her dinner.

“This way,” she told him with determined cheer.

They headed for the lighted, bark-mulch path that led from the side of the parking lot down to the beach and picnic area. They made their way beneath the glow of overhead lights and the rustle of aspens and sugar maple trees. Her narrow, three-inch heels sank into the loose bark mulch of the pathway. After stumbling a few times, she moved to one side, stopped and slipped off the shoes to stand barefoot on the lush lawn.

Lucky halted to check on her. “You okay there?”

“I’m fine.” She picked up the sandals, dangling them from the straps, the grass cool and soft against her soles.

“Is it safe to walk barefoot?”

“The park’s well maintained.”

He frowned in obvious concern. “I could give you a lift.”

“Is that how they do it in Texas? Haul their women around over their shoulders?”

“When necessary.”

“It’s not necessary. I’ve been running barefoot through this park since I was two years old.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” She began walking, passing him. “But thank you,” she added belatedly, turning to pace backward so she could watch him.

He had a long, easy stride. His shirt collar was open. She could see the fabric was wrinkled, but his blazer was well cut, delineating broad, and what she guessed were well-muscled, shoulders. She wondered if he also had a six-pack.

“You grew up in Lyndon?” he asked.

“I did.”

Technically her family’s ranch was two hours west of Lyndon. But she wasn’t going to fret over the details. Tonight she was a city girl through and through.

“Brothers and sisters?” he asked.

“Both. You?” She didn’t think the question would take them too far down the road to revealing their identities. Mainly, she didn’t want him to know she was the mayor’s sister, and she didn’t want him to know she was really a ranch hand.

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“You were an only child?”

“That’s right. Watch where you’re going.”

She turned her head to discover they were only a few feet from the first picnic table. The grass was about to give way to sand.

“Perfect,” she pronounced, dropping her sandals to the ground and stepping up on the wooden bench seat, intending to perch on the tabletop facing the lake.

“Hold up there.” Lucky swiftly set down the burgers. Stripping off his blazer, he laid it down like a blanket for her to sit on. The simple gesture made her chest tighten.

“Gotta love Texans,” she joked, taking in the breadth of his chest beneath the thin, white cotton shirt. The fabric was tight over his biceps, and she was more willing than ever to lay a bet on him having six-pack abs.

“Can’t have you ruining your dress,” he said.

“So we’re going to ruin your jacket instead?” But she sat down on the warm satin lining.

He shrugged, plunking down beside her, placing the burgers and shakes between them.

A couple of fat mallards splashed and waddled their way out of the water, crossing the pebbles and sand to investigate their presence, obviously on the lookout for bread crumbs.

Lucky handed her a foil-wrapped burger. “The jacket will clean.”

“So would the dress.”

He simply shrugged again.

The wrapper crackled as she peeled it halfway down the thick burger. Then Lucky was handing her a shake with a plastic straw already sticking through the lid.

She transferred the burger to the opposite hand as she accepted the drink, taking a sip of the icy, smooth treat.

“Yum,” she acknowledged, then took a bite of the burger. It was juicy and flavorful, with a fresh bun and crisp condiments. Her stomach rumbled quietly in anticipation.

“I’m starving,” she muttered around the bite.

“Me, too,” he agreed with a nod, digging in to his own burger. “Long day on the road.”

“Long day in the office for me.”

Then they both ate in silence, while a few more ducks made their way over from a small, reed-filled marsh. Abigail tossed them some bits of bun, and they quacked with excitement, wings flapping, orange beaks pecking the ground.

Satiated, she took a long drink of the milk shake and threw the remains of her bun to the birds.

“Better?” asked Lucky, crumpling his wrapper and tossing it into the empty bag. She tucked hers away, as well, and he set the trash behind them.

“Much better,” she acknowledged.

His gaze settled on the black horizon, where the moon was coming up over the mountains, fading the stars that were scattered across the sky. “So, are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What’s going on here?”

She waggled her cardboard cup at him, pretending to misunderstand his question. “I’m finishing my milk shake.”