her reaction to him rather than what her eyes saw. She went warm and breathless, and looked away because staring at him was abruptly too much, too dangerous in a way she sensed but couldn’t quite grasp, at least not consciously. He was every inch the heartbreaker cowboy Kat had warned her away from—and damn if he didn’t charge the air when he walked into the place.
He was bad news all the way around, she recognized that much right away. She ignored her racing heartbeat as she refilled a cup of coffee, smiling at the older man sitting on the other side of the counter while she concentrated on not looking at the new customer.
The cowboy nodded to Kat, who gave him a bright smile. She couldn’t wave, considering she was carrying both a pitcher of tea and a coffeepot, but her pleasure at seeing him was obvious. He took a booth, the same one Carlin had chosen her first day here, sliding into the seat that put his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the door. So, who was
he
running from?
No damn body
, that was who. She didn’t know him, but Carlin doubted he’d ever backed down from much in his entire life. He just had that look, which meant he was probably a pain in the ass to deal with, but at least the physical scenery was fine.
A couple of the cowboys at the counter said hello, greeted the newcomer like an old acquaintance.
Hey, Zeke
. He returned their greetings, but that was it. From his slightly grim expression he seemed to be in a bad mood, though that could be his default setting.
Out of the corner of her eye, Carlin saw Kat head in Zeke’s direction. They spoke like old friends, she took his order—without writing it down, as usual—and then she came back to the counter. “A daily special and a coffee, black, for my wayward cousin.”
“Wayward?” And her cousin?
“He doesn’t come to see me nearly often enough. If not for my pies I’d be lucky to see him twice a year.”
The Pie Hole was small, and of course Zeke heard every word Kat said. “I’m busy,” he explained, his voice raised slightly so Kat could hear. “Give me a break.”
Then his gaze moved to Carlin, held, focused, and she gave a quick, involuntary shiver. He might be in a bad mood, but he wasn’t shy. He didn’t look away, the way most of Kat’s male customers did if they were caught looking too long or too hard. No, he just kept staring, steady and still and … lethal. The shiver walked down her spine, a tickle of instinct. Zeke looked at her the way a hungry man might look at a slice of Kat’s apple pie.
Oh, crap. That was a comparison she didn’t need to have in her head, even if she hadn’t voiced it aloud. She felt her face turning red.
“I’ll get his order,” she said, turning on her heel and all but bolting for the kitchen. She felt a little like she was making an escape.
Heaven save her from macho men who thought they ruled the world just because they had a penis. Well, penises. Plural, right? And, yes, she was assigning him to that category because the last thing she needed was to let herself get involved. The strength of her reaction to him was warning enough.
She put the order together on his plate: meatloaf; mashed potatoes and gravy; green beans that were too underdone for her tastes, but then again she liked her green beans cooked to the point where they no longer actually resembled a bean of any kind, the way her momhad made them; a soft roll—homemade, which kind of blew Carlin’s mind. Who made homemade rolls when the prebaked ones were fine? Okay, these were extraspecial good, but still. Kat didn’t make homemade rolls every day, but at least once a week the entire place was filled with the scent of baking bread; therefore, if Carlin was never again completely satisfied with a ready-made dinner roll, it was all Kat’s fault. The customers liked them, too; word seemed to spread whenever there were fresh rolls on the menu.
The order was ready; Carlin left the kitchen with the
He was bad news all the way around, she recognized that much right away. She ignored her racing heartbeat as she refilled a cup of coffee, smiling at the older man sitting on the other side of the counter while she concentrated on not looking at the new customer.
The cowboy nodded to Kat, who gave him a bright smile. She couldn’t wave, considering she was carrying both a pitcher of tea and a coffeepot, but her pleasure at seeing him was obvious. He took a booth, the same one Carlin had chosen her first day here, sliding into the seat that put his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the door. So, who was
he
running from?
No damn body
, that was who. She didn’t know him, but Carlin doubted he’d ever backed down from much in his entire life. He just had that look, which meant he was probably a pain in the ass to deal with, but at least the physical scenery was fine.
A couple of the cowboys at the counter said hello, greeted the newcomer like an old acquaintance.
Hey, Zeke
. He returned their greetings, but that was it. From his slightly grim expression he seemed to be in a bad mood, though that could be his default setting.
Out of the corner of her eye, Carlin saw Kat head in Zeke’s direction. They spoke like old friends, she took his order—without writing it down, as usual—and then she came back to the counter. “A daily special and a coffee, black, for my wayward cousin.”
“Wayward?” And her cousin?
“He doesn’t come to see me nearly often enough. If not for my pies I’d be lucky to see him twice a year.”
The Pie Hole was small, and of course Zeke heard every word Kat said. “I’m busy,” he explained, his voice raised slightly so Kat could hear. “Give me a break.”
Then his gaze moved to Carlin, held, focused, and she gave a quick, involuntary shiver. He might be in a bad mood, but he wasn’t shy. He didn’t look away, the way most of Kat’s male customers did if they were caught looking too long or too hard. No, he just kept staring, steady and still and … lethal. The shiver walked down her spine, a tickle of instinct. Zeke looked at her the way a hungry man might look at a slice of Kat’s apple pie.
Oh, crap. That was a comparison she didn’t need to have in her head, even if she hadn’t voiced it aloud. She felt her face turning red.
“I’ll get his order,” she said, turning on her heel and all but bolting for the kitchen. She felt a little like she was making an escape.
Heaven save her from macho men who thought they ruled the world just because they had a penis. Well, penises. Plural, right? And, yes, she was assigning him to that category because the last thing she needed was to let herself get involved. The strength of her reaction to him was warning enough.
She put the order together on his plate: meatloaf; mashed potatoes and gravy; green beans that were too underdone for her tastes, but then again she liked her green beans cooked to the point where they no longer actually resembled a bean of any kind, the way her momhad made them; a soft roll—homemade, which kind of blew Carlin’s mind. Who made homemade rolls when the prebaked ones were fine? Okay, these were extraspecial good, but still. Kat didn’t make homemade rolls every day, but at least once a week the entire place was filled with the scent of baking bread; therefore, if Carlin was never again completely satisfied with a ready-made dinner roll, it was all Kat’s fault. The customers liked them, too; word seemed to spread whenever there were fresh rolls on the menu.
The order was ready; Carlin left the kitchen with the
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