Finding His Lone Star Love. Amy Woods

and he’d made a few pieces here and there, mostly for friends, but he’d never had the luxury of taking on a real project. Maybe he would finally be able to carve out some time to do so.

      As they got closer to the back of the café, a terrible scent bit at Sam’s nose. As a trained chef, there was one thing he loathed the smell of more than anything in his kitchen, and that was the exact odor permeating the air as he inhaled. A thin cloud of smoke lent a gray haze to the area, and Sam and Dr. Blake had to force their way through a crowd, some of whom were peering through the kitchen door. They all probably had the same question. What in the hell was burning? Sam sniffed the air again and had the answer in an instant: butter and flour. Someone on the other side of that door was ruining pastry. Maybe he’d be of use here in more ways that he had anticipated.

      “It’s hotter than a hog’s behind in here” were the first words Sam heard the second he opened the door.

      “Well, thanks for the welcome,” Sam joked.

      The owner of the voice, a woman with olive skin and short, spiky black hair, stood near a prep counter, smiling at him, and was joined a second later by the cutest girl Sam had ever laid eyes on. She was petite with gorgeous curves, reminiscent of 1940s pinup beauties and comic book heroines, though, sadly, the clothes she wore did much to hide what he guessed was an incredible figure. Curls the color of autumn-red leaves brushed her shoulders. Huge green eyes, filled with what looked like disappointment and traces of tears, maybe from the smoke Sam could see billowing out of the oven in great clouds, peered at him curiously from behind large purple glasses.

      “Hi, there. Looks like you could use a hand.”

      Dr. Blake said he’d see them all later and disappeared as fast as he could. Sam couldn’t blame the doc, but there was no chance of escape for him now, as he’d walked straight into a war zone.

      Sam rushed over to join the two women, grabbing oven mitts from a counter along the way, and began taking the pies from them and dumping the offending confections into the nearest large trash can.

      “Oh my gosh! What do you think you’re doing?” the lovely, green-eyed girl shrieked, actually pulling a pie from Sam’s hands and holding it to her chest as if he’d just snatched a baby from her, the momentum causing what remained of the pie’s less thoroughly burned contents to spill on her shirt. Sam stared at her, alarmed at her reaction.

      “I’m saving whatever disaster of a dessert you’ve got going here, is what I’m doing,” he said, gently taking back the pie. He had to peel the woman’s fingers from the edges, and as he did, chunks of blackened crust hit the ground, causing her cheeks to redden until she had no choice but to let Sam slip it out of her hands.

      “Who are you? And what on earth are you doing in my kitchen?” she asked. Sam had the feeling she meant to sound stern, but her voice came out thin and defeated.

      “I’m Sam. Sam Haynes,” he said, in as soothing a voice as he could. From the look of things, the woman had had a hard day, and he could understand her frustration at a stranger showing up, but he had the strong idea she could use his help.

      “This is your kitchen?” He raised an eyebrow, suspicious. It didn’t line up with what Dr. Blake had mentioned, but if the kitchen were indeed hers, clearly he’d arrived right in the nick of time.

      “Well. For now it is. My chef quit and—” she glared at Sam and placed both hands on her hips “—what difference is it to you anyway? Why are you here?”

      “Actually, if you’re Ms. Monroe,” Sam said, glancing at the apple filling–splattered name tag on her lapel that read Lucy, “I’d really like to speak to you in private.”

      “Regarding?”

      “Well, it’s complicated,” Sam said, weighing his words carefully. He cursed himself for not thinking this through all the way. Then he had an idea. He squared his shoulders. “Actually, I’m in the restaurant business and I have some experience. It’s clear you’re in need of a chef, and it appears I’ve come at a good time.”

      “You’re really a chef?” she asked, eyeing him up and down as she took in his choice of outfit.

      “Straight from heaven, it would seem,” said the other woman, moving forward and offering Sam her hand. “Hi, I’m Tessa. Forgive my bestie here. We’ve had a rough morning, if you hadn’t figured that out already. The chef really did just up and quit, so it’s true that you are just in time if, in fact, you’re really a chef, Mr. Haynes.”

      Still holding his hand after shaking it, Tessa batted her eyelashes at Sam. The woman he’d assumed was Ms. Monroe tossed her an irritated look.

      “What?” Tessa asked, innocence sugaring her words as she finally released Sam’s hand.

      “Never mind her,” Lucy interrupted, waving a hand at her friend. “Where did you train, Mr. Haynes?”

      “Call me Sam. Please.”

      “Okay, Sam. Where did you train? And where are you from? And what—”

      “Hang on now. Let’s tackle one thing at a time, if that’s all right with you.”

      She seemed to back down and lower her defenses, just a little, enough so that Sam had a moment to figure out where to go next. The fact that he was an experienced chef was the definite truth. From there, he’d have to be careful. He wouldn’t outright lie to her, but he couldn’t come out with the full reason for his presence there, either. He would figure out a way to bring up his daughter, but for now, he seized the opportunity before him.

      He had a way in, and it might be a good approach to find out more about his kid. He’d have to take his chances. He could always quit and head out of town if things didn’t work out, or if the PI’s info had somehow been wrong. But he knew when a bone had been thrown in his direction, and he wasn’t about to toss it aside.

      “I have no formal training, but I assure you, I’m qualified. I know my way around a kitchen and I own a few restaurants here and there. I can get paperwork to you soon enough, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it looks like you’ve got a little emergency here that needs taking care of before we talk official documents. I’ll help you out now, free of charge, and if you like my cooking, and if the customers leave satisfied with the food, then maybe you’ll consider giving me the job on a more permanent basis.” Sam held out his hand, offering a deal that could benefit them both.

      Lucy narrowed her eyes, staring him up and down. Skepticism—and he didn’t blame her for it—was written all over her face, but she accepted his hand. Warmth rushed through his skin at her touch as though he’d jumped into a sunbaked river. Sam saw a flash of something in her eyes, and he knew she’d felt it too, but it passed just as quickly.

      “I don’t think I’ve said yet, but I’m Lucy. Lucy Monroe.”

      Sam gently took back his hand and crossed his fingers that she’d buy in to his offer. He knew he could prove himself in the kitchen, and doing so was a start to proving himself to the town, where he hoped to find his daughter.

      “All right. You fix this mess and we’ll talk,” she said, glancing nervously toward the door as she pushed her glasses farther onto her nose.

      The motion was endearing, and, even though he’d never dated a girl like her, Lucy was undeniably adorable in her giant, grape-colored glasses. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from wondering what she would look like if he took them off.

      “Great,” Sam said, a sigh of relief escaping his lungs as he pushed away the scene he’d begun to imagine against his will. He was surprised at how good her mild approval felt, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that now. He had a lot of work ahead of him if he was going to convince her to let him stay.

      “Don’t get carried away yet, Sam,” Lucy said, holding up her palm. “I make no promises. Just...cook the lunch,” she said, waving him away, “and we’ll go from there.”

      Sam nodded and took off his suit jacket