The Cowboy's Baby Bargain. Emilie Rose

and her hips nudged his butt. Electricity jolted through each of his cells as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod.

      She frowned. “Pardon me. Is something wrong?”

      He’d forgotten the restaurant had live bands on Thursday and Friday nights. The lights would be dimmed, and there’d be candles on the tables. The romantic atmosphere was the last thing he needed. Unlocking his jaw, he struggled to pull himself out of this whirlwind of need. “Band’s playing tonight. It’ll be loud. Maybe we’d better try someplace else.”

      Excitement sparkled in her eyes. Damn. Next thing you know, she’d want to dance. “The band sounds wonderful.”

      The hostess came forward and waved them in. Before he could convince Brooke to leave she’d requested a table for two, and the waitress had led them to a tiny square beside the dance floor.

      Caleb’s stomach sank. The woman was already overloading his circuits and his common sense. Close body contact would fry his brain for sure. What he ought to do was go back to the seedy bar and get knee-walking drunk. He could sleep it off in his truck and go home tomorrow as planned.

      He sure as hell didn’t need to spend an evening with a woman who had a five-year plan. He’d read that much in Brooke’s notebook before she’d closed it. His ex had made lists, too. He’d do best to remember that women-including the one tapping her toes across the table from him—always had an agenda.

      He glanced at Brooke. She stared wistfully at the couples shuffling around the floor. Every muscle in his body tensed—in anticipation, no doubt—because he knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth.

      “I wish I knew how to dance like that.”

      “Anybody can two-step.” He bit his tongue, wishing the words back.

      “I can’t. Would you teach me, Caleb?”

      Ah hell. Now look what he’d gone and done, but it was her birthday. How could he refuse? If he had any luck at all the band would take a long break. “Maybe after dinner.”

      Right after they gave their orders to the waitress the band left the stage. He hoped his luck would hold, that service would be fast and the band would be slow to return.

      “So what do you do, Caleb?”

      “Ranch.” She waited with an expectant look for him to elaborate. He was reluctant to do so—not because he didn’t love what he did, but because most women’s eyes glazed over when he started talking about ranch management.

      “You?”

      She ducked her head and looked at the checkered tablecloth. “I…write.”

      “Write what? News stuff, travelogues, romances?”

      “Self-help books.” She got a defensive expression on her face, almost as if she expected him to poke fun at her.

      He nodded. “That explains it then.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Explains what?”

      “All those meaty little phrases you throw out. So who’re you helping down here in McMullen county?”

      “Myself.”

      Curious as to what kinds of problems a beautiful woman like Brooke could have, he arched a brow and waited for her to continue.

      She shifted in her seat and confessed, “I’m trying to define my personal success.”

      There she went again, talking that self-help stuff. The words and delivery were stiff and proper, but there was a yearning in her eyes that told him she was anything but detached. It was kind of cute in a schoolteacherish way. Of course he’d never had any teachers who looked this good.

      The waitress arrived with their dinners. Brooke waited for her to leave before asking, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to redefine your goals?”

      “Can’t say that I have. I always knew I’d be ranching.”

      “Why?”

      The smells wafting up from his plate made his mouth water, but it looked like his appetite would have to wait. Back home, when the food hit the table everybody shut up and dug in. He didn’t remember many of the manners his momma had tried to teach him before she’d left, but he did remember the one about waiting for the lady at the table to eat first.

      “I’m the oldest son of a rancher. Texan born and bred. I’ll take over from my dad.”

      “Do your brothers and sisters feel the same way?” She focused all her attention on him, ignoring the trucker-size barbecue sampler platter in front of her. Either she wanted to try every version the restaurant offered or she had a voracious appetite.

      Well, there was another thought he didn’t need. Brooke’s appetite for food or anything else was none of his business. He cleared his throat and tried to remember her question.

      “Brothers, three of ’em. And no. One’s in medical school, another is—was— a world champion bull rider till this year when he up and got married. Patrick’s the only one still at home.”

      “So you had choices, and you chose ranching.”

      Caleb traced a finger along the outside seam of his jeans. Growing up it hadn’t felt like he had choices. He’d felt trapped. It wasn’t until Amanda had tried to make him leave Crooked Creek and move to the city that he’d discovered how much he loved the ranch. But how could he explain the love of open spaces and the desire to pit himself against nature to a city gal? His ex hadn’t understood, and she’d grown up on a neighboring property.

      “Sweetheart, you’d best dig in while it’s hot.”

      Brooke daintily lifted a rib and nibbled on it. Her tongue peeked out to swipe a smear of sauce from her lips. She looked from the coating on her fingers to the fragile paper napkin and back.

      “Lick ’em.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Lick the sauce from your fingers.”

      She hesitated a moment, then glanced around to see that the other patrons were doing the same. Inserting a finger in her mouth, she sucked off the sauce—one finger at a time then moved on to the next rib.

      Oh man. Watching the woman eat was an erotic experience. He probably would’ve been better off to let her keep talking. He swallowed hard, amazed that she had him so distracted he could barely taste his food. “What about you? How do you go about redefining yourself? Sounds painful.”

      She smiled. “It can be. The journey of self-discovery is always a bumpy road.”

      “Not interested in whatever it is your parents do?”

      She shuddered. “No. Both are tenured college professors. They write endless theses that no one other than their colleagues can understand. It doesn’t matter how brilliant their work is because so few read it. I want to reach masses of people and help them fulfill their potential.”

      He shifted in his seat. That was the same argument his ex had used. She’d wanted him to fulfill his potential by running for office in the county cattlemen’s association, then on the state level. She’d even talked about him being the next Texan president, for crying out loud. All the while she planned to paint her nails, spend his money and play queen of the castle. Problem was Crooked Creek wasn’t any damned castle, and it had taken her less than two years to blow through every dime his family had saved. Not only had his brother Brand lost his college fund, but they’d had to sell a piece of the ranch to keep from losing the whole thing.

      “Does most of your family live nearby?” She nibbled and licked. He had to quit watching her and focus on his own dinner if he wanted to be able to string sentences together coherently.

      “All but Cort, the youngest. He’s in North Carolina.”

      “You have roots.” She sounded envious. “I’m working on that.”