Meg Maxwell - A Cowboy In The Kitchen

He’d learn to cook. He’d figure out how to get the knots out of Lucy’s hair, even if the detangler the clerk in Walgreens told him about was no match for the thick curls.

What he wouldn’t do was let himself fall for Annabel—again. He was done with romance, done with relationships, done with disappointing people. And besides, things with Annabel just cut too deep in too many ways. Where she was concerned, there was too much he wanted to forget.

Anyway, after the way he’d treated Annabel seven years ago, he was surprised she hadn’t hit him over the head with that wooden spoon she’d been gripping yesterday.

West heard Miss Letty’s car arrive and took Lucy out to meet her, the fresh April air a relief from the smell of rubbery chicken.

Lucy bounded over to her sitter, a tall woman in her early fifties with a long gray braid, jeans and sneakers for Lucy’s outdoor play, and a warm smile. “Miss Letty, come play house with Daisy. I’m the mother and Daisy is the daughter and you’ll be the grandmother.” Lucy turned to Daisy, who eyed her skeptically. “Okay, Daisy, I said only one treat after lunch.”

Miss Letty smiled and followed after Lucy, who pulled her by the hand. “You go ahead,” Letty said to West.

He hugged and kissed Lucy goodbye, told Letty he’d pay her extra if she’d clean up the dinner dishes, which got him a wink and a sure thing, and then got in his pickup. Time to learn how not to screw up fried eggs.

Chapter Two Contents Cover Introduction West looked at Annabel for a long moment, then seemed to realize he had an audience, and cleared his throat. “See you later at my place,” he said before disappearing through the door. He was back in a heartbeat. “For the cooking lesson,” he added. Annabel felt her cheeks warm but couldn’t help the chuckle. Yet as she thought about being alone with West Montgomery in his house, in his kitchen, standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter, the chuckle was replaced by honest-to-goodness fear. How did you stop yourself from falling for someone you’d never gotten over to begin with? *** Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen: There’s nothing more delicious than falling in love … Title Page A Cowboy in the Kitchen Meg Maxwell www.millsandboon.co.uk About the Author MEG MAXWELL lives on the coast of Maine with her teen-aged son, their beagle and black-and-white cat. When she’s not writing, Meg is either reading, at the movies or thinking up new story ideas on her favorite little beach (even in winter) just minutes from her house. Interesting fact: Meg Maxwell is a pseudonym for author Melissa Senate, whose women’s fiction titles have been published in over twenty-five countries. Dedication When I was twenty-one years old, I read my first category romance novel: a funny, heartwarming book by Janet Evanovich with—for reasons I forget—a hero running around in a feathered chicken costume. That book hooked me on the genre, though my favorite heroes became cowboys and cops more than six-foot-tall chickens. Since then, I’ve read thousands more category romances and dedicate my own to all those authors who inspired me and continue to do so, old and new favorites alike. Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Epilogue Extract Copyright

Yesterday, when Gram was reminding Annabel of how the restaurant worked, Essie Hurley had made clear that Mondays were a real day off—no prep, no cleaning, no ordering supplies. In fact, family who lived in the Victorian were only allowed in the kitchen on Mondays to cook simple meals for themselves. So at five-thirty, Annabel was surprised to come down the back stairs into the kitchen and find her younger sister, Clementine, kneeling in front of the sink and meticulously cleaning the little red rooster cabinet knobs. Twenty-four-year-old Clementine wore gray yoga pants and a long pale pink T-shirt, her feet in orange flip-flops and her long dark hair in a high ponytail.

“Clem?” Annabel said, watching her sister dip a rag into a small bucket of cleaning solution and go over the rooster’s tiny tail.

Clementine turned around and shot Annabel a tight smile. “I forgot to clean these last night,” she said, moving on to the next cabinet knob. “Aren’t they cute? Georgia sent them from Houston a few months ago.” She smiled again and returned to work, scrubbing at the rooster’s crown.

Something was wrong. Annabel had been gone for seven years, and she and Clementine had never been as close as Annabel had hoped, even when they’d lived under one roof, but she knew when Clementine was holding back. Maybe Clem was angry at her for staying away so long. For leaving the restaurant and Gram on her shoulders all these years. It was hard to tell with Clem. Clem was a “fine, everything’s fine” kind of person, the sort who’d tell you “no worries!” with a bright smile and then go off alone to cry over something dreadful that had just happened to her, like when her birth mother had stood her up for their twice-a-year reunions, only to text an hour later to say something had come up. Annabel’s parents had adopted Clementine when she was eight from a bad foster-care situation, and though Clem’s birth mother was cagey and distant, Clementine had worked hard, often fruitlessly, to keep up some kind of relationship with the woman.

If Clem was cleaning cabinet pulls—and on a Monday—something had happened.

“Is everything okay with you?” Annabel asked.

“I’m fine. Just worried about Gram.” She glanced back at Annabel. “I’m fine, really.”

Annabel wished her sister would open to her. But Annabel knew she couldn’t rush things. This morning she and Clementine had taken Gram to an appointment at the county hospital; three hours later, after testing and poking, they were sent home, Gram told to rest as much as possible until the test results came in. Clementine had been quiet on the ride to the hospital, quiet there, quiet on the way back.

Now she glanced at the big yellow clock on the wall above the stove. “I promised Mae Tucker I’d babysit the triplets tonight. See you around midnight.” With that, Clementine bolted up, dumped out the bucket and stored it away, then dashed up the back stairs.

It’ll take time to rebuild your relationship with Clem, Gram had said during lunch earlier. Don’t give up on her.

Annabel wouldn’t. Ever. She’d never give up on family.

And she’d never give up on Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen either. Since the restaurant wasn’t doing well, it was up to Annabel to keep the kitchen going. Folks counted on Hurley’s to be open Tuesday through Sundays for lunch and dinner, and Annabel didn’t want to let her Gram down.

West Montgomery wants to learn how to cook, does he? Gram had said that afternoon, taking a nibble of the potato chowder Annabel had made her. Teach him everything I taught you, Essie had added. The tips and secrets. The things you can’t learn by a recipe alone. I know he hurt you, Annabel. But I’ve seen him around town with that little girl of his and it would melt the heart of Constance Brichard. Constance Brichard was the grumpiest person in town, an elderly widow who was always threatening to sic her mean little Chihuahua on kids for making too much noise at the bus stop across the street from her house.

Which made things worse for Annabel. If West could get Constance Brichard to crack a smile, what would he do to her?

Annabel put on her favorite yellow apron and glanced at the clock—ten minutes till West walked through the door, daughter-sized handprint apron on.

She pulled the list she’d made from her jeans pocket. Breakfasts: cheese omelet, scrambled eggs, quiche Lorraine, French toast. Bacon. Biscuits with apple butter. Tonight’s cooking lesson would be about breakfast. Annabel was about to open the walk-in refrigerator for the eggs and milk and butter, then realized if West was paying her a thousand dollars to learn how to make an omelet and biscuits, he could probably use a tutorial about the ingredients themselves, what to buy, how to store them.