A Cowboy In The Kitchen. Meg Maxwell

      

       West looked at Annabel for a long moment, then seemed to realize he had an audience, and cleared his throat.

      “See you later at my place,” he said before disappearing through the door. He was back in a heartbeat. “For the cooking lesson,” he added.

      Annabel felt her cheeks warm but couldn’t help the chuckle. Yet as she thought about being alone with West Montgomery in his house, in his kitchen, standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter, the chuckle was replaced by honest-to-goodness fear.

      How did you stop yourself from falling for someone you’d never gotten over to begin with?

      ***

      Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen: There’s nothing more delicious than falling in love …

      A Cowboy in the Kitchen

      Meg Maxwell

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MEG MAXWELL lives on the coast of Maine with her teen-aged son, their beagle and black-and-white cat. When she’s not writing, Meg is either reading, at the movies or thinking up new story ideas on her favorite little beach (even in winter) just minutes from her house. Interesting fact: Meg Maxwell is a pseudonym for author Melissa Senate, whose women’s fiction titles have been published in over twenty-five countries.

      When I was twenty-one years old, I read my first category romance novel: a funny, heartwarming book by Janet Evanovich with—for reasons I forget—a hero running around in a feathered chicken costume. That book hooked me on the genre, though my favorite heroes became cowboys and cops more than six-foot-tall chickens. Since then, I’ve read thousands more category romances and dedicate my own to all those authors who inspired me and continue to do so, old and new favorites alike.

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Barbecued catfish po’boy with Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen’s famed spicy slaw would be tonight’s special, Annabel Hurley decided—until all thought poofed from her head with a glance out the window. She ducked behind the industrial-sized silver mixing bowl, a glob of biscuit batter falling from the wooden spoon in her hand to her sneaker. She sighed at how ridiculous she was. Hiding behind a bowl because West Montgomery was coming up the path to the house? Heck yeah, she was. Annabel had been back in Blue Gulch less than twenty-four hours and already the one person she wanted to avoid was rapping on the door.

      He had something in his hand, she noticed as she bolted up, another dollop of batter flying to the floor. Was that a checkbook? Maybe he wanted to wave his money around to secure a Saturday night reservation for Hurley’s best table, the one that faced the Sweet Briar Mountain Range in the distance. Last night, Annabel’s first at taking over as cook in the small restaurant’s kitchen, Jillian Quisper, homecoming queen back in high school, had gotten engaged to PJ Renner right at that round table for two. Jillian had screamed for joy so loud that everyone in the kitchen had run out to make sure she wasn’t choking on her plain green salad. It was no surprise that one of the wealthiest men in Blue Gulch would choose to propose in a small Western-style restaurant like Hurley’s; most everyone in town had had their first date at Hurley’s as teenagers. Parents knew Gram Hurley would keep an eye on kids. Plus, there was no better place to get country-fried steak, ribs or a pulled pork sandwich in the entire county. Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen meant something to just about everyone in town, homecoming queens included. Telling folks her intended had proposed on one knee at Hurley’s over baby back ribs would get any gal “aws” from everyone, especially at the mountain-view table under the elegant little chandelier.

      Annabel’s experience with marriage proposals at that table was limited to old daydreams and nightly fantasies about West Montgomery on one knee—ha. As if West would propose the traditional way. He’d buy a plane and skywrite a proposal. He’d spell it out in rocks down by the clearing in front of the woods. He’d grab her hand, look her deeply in the eye, see everything she felt and whisk her away to Vegas for a quickie ceremony in the Elvis Presley wedding chapel, not that she’d ever get married without her gram or sisters in attendance.

      And not that West Montgomery would ever propose to her.

      Would anyone? Sometimes she thought her cooking skills were all she had going for her in the romance department. Way to a man’s heart and all that. As if her ability to make a barbecue sauce to rival her gram’s had gotten her anywhere but right where she was, standing in a kitchen.

      West shielded his eyes from the bright April morning sunshine and squinted in the window. As he spotted her, surprise crossed his features; then he held up his hand with something of a nod.

      Annabel gripped the wooden spoon, took a deep breath, ran her hands down the front of her apron, a mistake, since it was speckled with flour, and headed to the kitchen’s back door. The restaurant was in the Hurley family home, an old apricot-colored Victorian that had seen better days.

      He knocked again. What could he want?

      Annabel Hurley, you are twenty-five years old. Open the door and find out!

      So she did. The sight of him, six foot three, leanly muscular in worn jeans and a green chambray shirt, those intense brown eyes the color of driftwood, his thick, wavy hair so dark it was almost black, had her knees slightly buckling. He wore a black Stetson, which he tipped at her.

      “Annabel,” he said, unease clear. “I didn’t know you were back in town.” His gaze went to her sneaker, with the glob of batter, then to the spoon she held so tightly her knuckles were white.

      She loosened her hold. And wondered if he even remembered their night—just a precious hour, if that—in the loft of the barn on his family’s ranch. Given what he’d done the next day, she’d bet her meager savings he’d forgotten the minute she left that night. “Just got here yesterday.”

      He seemed distracted, as though there was something weighing