Barbara McCauley - Texas Pride

He only knew that the minute Dylan Grant had come into town, none of them—Jessica, Dylan, Meggie and himself—would ever be the same.

Dylan sat in the corner booth of the Bronco Diner, his legs stretched out comfortably under the table, and sipped a cup of hot coffee a pretty little brunette waitress kept filled. He’d polished off a hamburger and french fries a few minutes ago, then settled back with his coffee to enjoy the entertainment, which was watching Jessica in another booth across the aisle interview an interesting assortment of potential foremen.

She’d dressed very businesslike today, Dylan noted. Her navy blue suit was tailored, the skirt resting conservatively at her knees. She’d buttoned her white blouse to the neck and tightly pulled her dark hair to the back of her head, held there by a gold barrette. It was an obvious but futile attempt to downplay her femininity and discourage male interest.

Didn’t she realize that by dressing so severely she actually encouraged a man’s fantasy? Dylan had seen the way the men had looked at her: like they wanted to strip that suit off, pull her hair loose, then drag her slim body underneath their own. The woman was too naive for her own good, Dylan thought, his irritation building as each man took the seat across from Jessica.

Her sixth and current applicant, a long-nosed, thin-haired redhead, had never actually worked in construction, he explained, but had helped his brother-in-law build a carport once. When the man proceeded to describe the building of the structure in excruciating detail, Jessica quickly thanked him for coming and told him she’d call as soon as she made her decision.

Dylan had given Jessica his application over an hour ago, but she had yet to call him. Every time she finished an interview, she’d smile at him, then call someone else. Since there was only one more applicant left, a heavyset man with whiskers, she couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer.

And since he had all the time in the world, Dylan ordered a piece of apple pie and settled back to wait.

The interview ended quickly after the heavyset man referred to Jessica as “girlie.”

When she finally turned to Dylan, he raised his brows and gave her a blank look. She frowned at him, then picked up one application and crossed over to him. She looked tired, he thought. And frustrated.

“Mr. Grant,” she said, staring at the form in her hand, “I’ve gone over your application.”

He gestured for her to sit across from him. “Is there a problem?”

She hesitated, then tugged off her jacket and sat.

“I’d say so. You have a structural-engineering degree from Indiana University, and you’ve worked on everything from high-rise construction to the building of bridges in the jungles of South America.”

“Does that disqualify me?”

“No, it overqualifies you.” She stretched her neck with a weary sigh, then undid the top button of her blouse. “Mr. Grant, did you read my ad in the paper this morning?”

He forced himself not to look as her fingers fiddled with the button. “My name is Dylan, and yes, I did read your ad.”

“Then you know how much I can afford to pay?”

He nodded.

“And you still want the job?”

She unclipped the barrette from her hair. Dylan watched as she shook her head and pulled her fingers through the thick strands. He felt hotter than the weather warranted, and his pulse began to pound.

He had to remind himself she’d asked him a question, then searched his brain to remember what it was. “Yes. I do want the job.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. You can have your pick of jobs and make ten times the salary anywhere else. Why in the world would you come here and work for the proverbial peanuts?”

“Would you like some more coffee, Dylan?”

Jessica glanced up at the waitress, Susan Davis, and frowned again. Dylan? Wasn’t it strange, she thought irritably, that she’d been sitting in this restaurant for over an hour and she’d had her cup refilled only once? She was sure Dylan’s cup had never dropped more than a quarter inch. So what if he filled out a T-shirt and jeans well? So what if that long dark hair and rough slow-talking voice made a woman’s knees turn to water? She was a customer here, too, and the waitress’s selective efficiency was quickly grating on Jessica’s nerves. And so was the smile Dylan was so warmly displaying.

“Thanks, Susan.” Dylan pushed his cup closer. “And bring the lady here a hamburger and fries, please. I think she worked up an appetite interviewing all those men.”

Susan? It certainly hadn’t taken him long to get chummy, Jessica thought. “Never mind. I’m not staying that long.”

“I’ll have seconds, then,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Extra cheese.”

Susan bounced off, happy to oblige.

Exasperated, Jessica leaned back against the vinyl cushions and kicked off her heels. She closed her eyes and breathed her contentment.

Dylan glanced under the table, then raised one brow. “Is taking off our clothes part of the interview?”

She frowned at him. “My shoes are too tight.”

He grinned back. “Your skirt is tight, also,” he said with a note of hope in his voice.

“My skirt stays on,” she said coolly. “And I’m not interviewing you anymore.”

“Does that mean I’m hired?”

She shook her head.

“So who are you going to hire?” he asked. “The fat guy who ‘accidentally’ bumped your knee six times and dropped his pencil under the table four times?”

Jessica felt a fresh wave of anger just thinking about that lecher. She’d had to refrain from kicking him the last time he’d dropped the damn pencil. “Of course not. But since you were paying such close attention, you must have noticed that Mr. Thompson, my second applicant, was highly qualified. He was a carpenter for a housing developer in San Antonio and an electrician for a small construction company in Austin.”

“Oh, yes.” Dylan took a swig of coffee. “Mr. Thompson. The guy whose hands were shaking.”

“He was a little nervous, that’s all.”

“I’m sure that’s why he left here and went straight to that bar across the street.”

Jessica sighed with resignation and tucked her legs beneath her chair. “A pretty sorry lot.”

“And at the salary you’re offering, you won’t get better,” Dylan said pointedly.

“Except for you.”

He grinned at her. “Of course.”

And just who was he? she wondered. Other than the fact he was thirty-four and born in Maine, his application had been sketchy regarding his personal life. There’d been no mention of a wife—or wives, as the case might be—or children.

Damn that smile of his. She hated the way it made her control slip. He sipped his coffee, watching her with dark intense eyes that never seemed to miss a thing. She shifted slightly under his perusal.

“Which brings me back to my question,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel. “With your qualifications, why would you accept what I’m offering?”

Susan set the hamburger and fries in front of Dylan, fussed over him for a minute, then when Jessica scowled at her, reluctantly moved to take another order at the counter.

Dylan slid the plate closer to Jessica. The smell of the fries was sheer heaven. Just one, she told herself, reaching for the plate.

“The first reason is that it’s temporary work, nothing long-term,” he said. “I don’t like to be tied down.”

No big surprise there, Jessica thought. A man who traveled on a motorcycle with little more than a duffel bag was hardly the type to build picket fences. “And your second reason?” she asked.