A Taste of Texas. Liz Talley

more like irresponsible and—”

      “Available. We need him.” Aunt Frances put her hands on her ample hips and gave Rayne that stare. The one her own mother never bothered to use for fear it might repress Rayne and her sister and keep them from finding enlightenment. “And don’t tell me Brent’s worse than the crew who worked here last week. I didn’t know curse words could be used in such unique combinations. They made sailors look like thumb suckers.”

      Rayne almost smiled. She had to admit, the two Italian carpenters had seemed pleased with their newfound ability to pair Southernisms with the curse words they’d learned in Boston. They’d married New England girls and somehow ended up in East Texas. They possessed amazing carpentry skills and had constructed custom closets in each of the guest rooms. Rayne had nabbed them before they started contract jobs in Plano. It had been a coup since their work had been touted all over the South and featured in Southern Architecture Today. “True.”

      “Yes, true. Now pull on your big girl panties, get your tail end over to Brent’s and make sure he starts tomorrow. Meg and I are meeting with Dawn Hart to look at fabric samples this afternoon, and I don’t have time to bake Brent an apple cake to apologize for my rude niece.”

      Aunt Frances disappeared into the house as if her word was law. The woman had been alone for too many years to compromise. She’d meant what she said. Normally, Rayne would have dug in her heels, but this wasn’t normally. It was Oak Stand.

      She swiped at the mascara that had smudged beneath her eyes. Aunt Frances was right. She needed to stop acting like she was in junior high. She was a grown woman, a grown woman who’d been married, had a child and ran a successful enterprise. She hadn’t gotten to where she was by being immature.

      She sniffed, picked up the resolve she’d misplaced and marched down the steps, heading toward the Hamiltons’ century-old house.

      She could still make out the path that had been beaten into the grass between the two houses long ago. The Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast had been in operation for the past twelve years, ever since her Uncle Travis had dropped dead in the grocery store with a massive coronary. Until that time, it had been Aunt Fran and Uncle Trav’s house, a place full of honeysuckle and sweet gum prickle balls, a delightful place for a child to stomp and skip. Aunt Frances, heartbroken and in need of money, had turned the charming house into a place to share with others. Problem was her patrons were few and far between. Frances eked out a living, yet she seemed content doing so. Ambition had never attached itself to Frances as it had to Rayne.

      A hedge of sweet olive bushes made a natural fence between the two front yards. Rayne followed the square brick pavers around to the rear of the house through the wooden gate to the charming slate-gray carriage house that sat at back of the property. The small house was unfailingly neat and simple, with only a single planter housing a sago palm squatting to the side of the French doors.

      She stood on the small porch for a moment before taking a deep breath and knocking on the glass pane.

      No one answered.

      She knocked again.

      No one.

      The ginger cat leaped onto the porch nearly scaring her to death, but she saw no trace of Brent even though she’d watched him head in this direction.

      She looked around. His truck was parked out front, so he had to be home.

      She raised her hand and banged on the glass pane, bruising her knuckles. Still, no one came.

      Where was he?

      She tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed the door open slightly, just a crack and stuck her head inside. The room was dark but she could make out a simple couch and two armchairs. An enormous flat-screen TV hung on the adjacent wall. Very Spartan. Very male.

      “Brent?” she called against the quiet of the room.

      There was no answer.

      She pushed the door opened wider and stepped inside.

      “Yoo-hoo,” she called. “Brent?”

      The house was dark and silent. She felt a little like the stupid babysitter in a slasher film. Any minute a hockey-masked boogeyman would jump out with a machete.

      The door clicked shut behind her and she jumped. She took a quick step backward, knocking into an occasional table and tipping over an empty beer stein sitting on the table. She caught it with both hands before it crashed to the wood floor. She placed it next to the four remote controls on the table and stepped back, relieved she’d avoided calamity.

      Something hard stopped her progress.

      She whirled around to find Brent standing there naked as the day he’d been born.

      “Ack!” she yelped, bumping into the table and sending the stein crashing to the floor where thankfully it didn’t shatter. “Good gravy, you’re naked.”

      The room was dim, but she could make out how nicely the man fit his skin. How many times had she imagined him naked? Too many to name. For some reason, her fingers started toward the lamp switch, maybe so she could drink him in. She caught herself before she twisted the knob and plastered her hands to her eyes.

      “Yeah, Captain Obvious, it’s my house. And usually you take your clothes off before you shower.”

      She swallowed. Mostly because visions flitted through her head. Visions of her clothes joining his on the floor. Visions of sluicing water and warm, wet skin. All of which were totally…insane.

      She didn’t say a word.

      “So you have a reason for breaking and entering?”

      “Of course not. I mean, I didn’t break in. You didn’t answer the door.” She chanced a peek through her fingers. He made no move to cover his nakedness. Of course. He wouldn’t. She re-covered her eyes. “Will you put on some clothes or cover yourself so I can talk to you?”

      Silence met her plea.

      “Please,’ she finally said, dropping her hands but squeezing her eyes closed. Or almost closed.

      He moved away from her, snatching up a throw from the couch. She cracked one eye to get a brief glimpse of an ass that frankly should never be covered up. She closed her eyes again so he wouldn’t know she’d peeked.

      “Okay,” he said.

      She opened her eyes. He’d wrapped the afghan low on his hips. He switched on a lamp and grinned at her. It was a sexy, knowing grin.

      “You peeked, didn’t you?” he said.

      “I did not,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She hoped she didn’t get struck down for lying. “And I wasn’t breaking in. Just trying to…talk to you.”

      He tugged the throw tighter around his hips. “So talk.”

      Rayne looked around the room. It was clean for a bachelor pad with tasteful bookshelves loaded with books. Was that Thoreau and Kafka next to…Debbie Macomber? She pulled her gaze away and took in a rich chocolate-and-navy-striped hooked rug that centered the room along with the pictures of various birds hanging evenly over the microsuede couch.

      “Ahem.” He cleared his throat.

      “Oh, um, I came to apologize,” she said, keeping her gaze on the print of a snowy egret. She didn’t want to look at Brent again. He was more tempting than chocolate chip cookies, a virgin beach with no footprints and a kitchen utensil sale all rolled into one. Rayne was afraid she might do something insane, like kiss him. Or join him for a naked frolic around the living area.

      What the hell was wrong with her? She was a deliberate woman. Responsible. Businesslike. Horny. Strike the last thought. She concentrated on the egret’s feathers.

      “Apology accepted, though I don’t think you did anything wrong. You were honest. That’s not a crime.” His voice was emotionless. Nothing to read in the remark.

      “Well,