Page 6 of All for You

Since I was a kid, the Bluebonnet Café has been Cupid’s Creek’s beating heart, where the charm of small-town Texas is served with every cup of coffee and cherry Danish. No matter the day, familiar conversations, with a side of gossip, rises above the sounds of cutlery and dishes scraping over tabletops, food sizzling on the grill, and the aroma of fresh-baked bread. As a kid, I’d come in with my parents after church on Sundays. In high school, we hung out after class. I had my first date and my first kiss in this very booth. And if I look under the table, I’ll find my name scratched into the wood.

Once, a long time ago, I found comfort in the fact that just by being part of this town, I blended into the background. Everybody knew everybody, their good days and bad. They knew the secrets or what they thought were secrets. Town gossips like Martha Jenkins, currently sitting a few tables over, considered the café the best place to have tea and listen in on conversations they could later share with their cronies at the hair salon.

But those small-town quirks quickly outgrew themselves when first Dad passed away and then Amelia walked away.

For months, almost two years, the ultra-coziness and busybody aspects of Cupid’s Creek grated on my nerves. I foundit easier to be alone, to keep everyone at arm’s length. Safer. I didn’t have to answer questions. I didn’t have to dodge set-up attempts. Nothing I did or didn’t do became part of the rumor mill. But a nagging emptiness has gnawed at me over the last few weeks, whispering that perhaps it’s time for this self-imposed isolation to end. Maybe it’s because Mom decided I need somebody new in my life. Maybe she’s right. I am lonely. What I don’t need is her and her friends at the country club setting me up with womentheythink are suitable. I definitely don’t need the lovely ladies of the local scrapbooking group finding me a new wife.

Regardless of the reason, I’m old and wise enough to know that it’s time to get off my horse and out from behind my desk and face the world again. So, I’ve been testing the waters by popping into the café once or twice a week. At least, it started with a day or two.

Until Rachel Anderson showed up in town. Suddenly I needed the Bonnet’s decaf daily.

The fact that she works at the café means nothing.

However, I do find it amusing that she refuses to serve me, even when I sit in her section. Which I try to do every day.

But today, especially after that little… whatever it was, my usual table feels more like a stage, and the eyes that occasionally flick my way are curious spotlights. I’ve never been a stranger to attention. My family’s wealth and land stretch wider than any other sprawling ranch around Cupid’s Creek. Except today, the attention isn’t because of my family.

It’s because of her. The pretty one who I nearly held in my arms only a second ago. And would have if she hadn’t jumped up as fast as she’d fallen. And the request she just blurted out loud enough that I’m positive Martha caught it.

Rachel, Bluebonnet’s sexy new waitress, normally has a quiet, thoughtful way about her as she moves through thecafé with a practical grace that caught my eye from the first day I spotted her. But until now, we’ve never spoken. Hardly exchanged glances. At least not obvious ones.

But I’ve been aware of her.

I’m aware of the curve of her hip. The almost indiscernible indent at her waist. Her steady hand as she pours coffee. The smile she gives her customers. The smell of jasmine when she’s breezing past my table and avoiding me.

My gaze lingers on her jean-clad ass, and when she turns around, the green apron tied at her waist accentuating the generous swell of her breasts beneath a snug black t-shirt. My throat goes dry. She’s built like a pinup girl come to life. Auburn hair falls in soft waves around her face. Every time those full lips quirk into a half-smile, I wonder how they taste.

But the way her chest rises with each breath, straining against the fabric of her tight shirt—damn, but the sight makes it hard to think straight. Shifting in my seat, I do my best to ignore the heat pooling in my belly, my cock hardening below my belt.

“Do you mind if I sit for a minute?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, simply plops down across from me like we do this every day.

What do you know? Here I thought she couldn’t see past the invisible barrier she put up around my table. I lean back, crossing my arms, enjoying the view. Until today, I’d been content to stay in the background, watching her move through the diner with a calm that makes the work seem effortless. Something about the way she carries herself—steady, resilient—hooked me before I even realized it. And now that we’re finally face to face, all the cool indifference I rely on slips away.

Dammit. The woman has me off balance.

“You want me to be your boyfriend?”

“Just pretend,” she rushes to say, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “You know, a fake boyfriend for the weekend. Just a couple of days while my mother is in town.”

The concept is so far removed from my carefully ordered world that I almost laugh. Yet, beneath my initial disbelief, a spark of interest flickers. “Why would you need someone like me for that?”

“Because you’re perfect for the role,” she says. “The elusive and successful cowboy with a side of mystery.”

Is that truly how she sees me? The image she paints might be flattering to some, yet it feels like a costume. I’m a rancher. I run a business. And, surely, there’s a guy around town closer to her age that’s more suitable for the job. They must be lining to spend time with her.

Jealousy flares bright and hot at the thought of any other man in town holding her hand at the festival this weekend.

I drum my fingers on the table, feeling the weight of her gaze. “And what do I get out of this deal? Beyond the free coffee and pie?” What the fuck am I saying?

“Good karma? And my eternal gratitude.”

I sigh, leaning in, but quickly retreat when I realize the space between us is charged with an energy I hadn’t anticipated. “I’ll consider your offer.”

She frowns. “Consider quickly. Please. My overbearing mother is quite persuasive. And she’s showing up tomorrow.”

I don’t believe in fate or Cupid’s arrows. Sitting across from Rachel, her hazel eyes challenging me, I start questioning everything. The logical part of my brain warns that this is a bad idea. We have nothing in common. There are years between us. We don’t know each other.

Then the green demon rages again.

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