Page 29 of Takes Two to Tango

Meg turned. “Later. Right now I’m going fishing."

Rayne blinked. "Huh?”

"Fishing. I believe you put a worm on a hook and drop it in the water. Then you wait for a fish to bite it."

"I get the concept. But why areyoudoing it? And dressed like that?"

Pink swept across Meg's cheeks. "I've always wanted to try it, and Bubba Malone said he'd take me. As an apology for his rudeness, as he put it. Besides, I'm wearing boots."

"Bubba? Malone? The guy who slapped your butt?"

Meg made a face. “Yes, that one. I tore him a new one and he was man enough to apologize. Besides, I feel sorry for him. He needs a little training but he seems like he could be almost normal eventually. Besides, he did compliment my ass.”

Rayne grinned. "Oh, now I see."

Meg flipped her off.

"Have fun," Rayne called as Meg tromped off in her black combat boots. At least she wouldn't come back with chiggers. Heck, even snakes would be deterred by Meg's steel-toed boots.

Rayne glanced to the Persian walnuts she'd imported from the Balkans. She'd spent the past few days working on a basic menu for the launch of the inn. She wanted the menu to be modeled after her flagship restaurant, yet simpler, with a smidgen of home cooking. This inn would be her first attempt at branching out since the Austin restaurant had taken off nearly five years ago.Only one shot to prove she wasn't a flash in the pan. One shot to prove she could make magic again.

Her thoughts swung back to Meg's words. Was she using this project as a diversion? As a way to slow down the careening roller coaster of her career? Her success had happened fast. One day she labored under Claude Freret, one of the best chefs in the South. The next she and Phillip were leaving Atlanta to fill out loan forms and pick out cutlery. Serendipity was the culmination of blood, sweat, tears, and dreams. And Phillip hadn't lived long enough to see his part of the hard work bloom into a success.

He'd shared her vision. From the very beginning.

Their dream was what had drawn them to each other. That, and the fact they were both from Texas. She a lowly line cook fresh out of culinary school, alone and unfamiliar in a new city. He, the assistant to the front of the house, fresh out of University of Texas business school with an MBA and an accounting degree. They'd commiserated over leftover wine late at night when thesous-chef slipped out for his date with the dishwasher. It became a nightly habit that grew into a healthy respect and shared goal. Then two years later, she was the sous-chef and he ran the front of the house.

One thing led to another and before they knew it, Rayne wore a diamond wedding band and Phillip held the deed to a deceased aunt's farmhouse in a burgeoning section of Austin. They left Atlanta and embarked on a journey that earned them rave reviews from critics all over Texas. Then all over the country.

Phillip and Rayne had lived their dream - they bought a house, grew a business, and made a beautiful baby boy.

Neither of them had been head over heels for the other. But they loved each other. They liked the same movies, laughed at the same comedians, and had pretty decent sex once they scheduled it into their weekly list of demands. She hadn't needed a grand, all-consuming love. She and Phillip had suited just fine.

And she still missed him fiercely. Missed his warm hazel eyes and good foot rubs. Missed the way he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in traffic intent on recreating the drum solo from his favorite Rush song. Missed the way he took care of the bills, the dry cleaning, and her. But her wishes hadn't stop the freak aneurism that had claimed her husband at the age of thirty-four. One minute they'd been talking to each other on the cell phone while he was en route to pick up Henry. The next she was calling a funeral home.

Rayne shrugged off the memories and focused on the salads lying before her. Arugula? Perhaps the Bibb lettuce divided into pillowy wedges? A fresh creamy buttermilk drizzle would complement the soft flavor of the lettuce. She quickly cut the Bibb lettuce with the knife, artfully arranging it on the uncomplicated purity of the salad plate. She halved the tomatoes and lined them in a semicircle on the plate.

Too simplistic?

But wasn't that the theme?

She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. She counted to five and released the breath. Maybe cornbread croutons and pralined walnuts? Use the simplicity of the salad as the canvas for southern flavor.

"You okay?"

Rayne jumped, opening her eyes. "Oh. Aunt Fran. You scared me."

"Sorry ‘bout that,” the older woman said, slipping her arms around Rayne's waist and giving her a squeeze. She peered over Rayne's shoulder. "That doesn't look as if it took all the starch out of you. That's just lettuce and tomatoes."

Rayne stared at the plate. “That’s the base. I have some tricks up my sleeve and I still got some starch left in me.”

"Good." Aunt Fran tugged one of Rayne's curls."I'm gonna be tied up with the landscaper, and Dawn Hart called for the second time today requesting we pick up the cushions and chairs. She has another project and needs the space. Brent said he'd swing by and grab them. Why don't you ride with him and settle up with Dawn if you’re at a stopping point?”

Because Rayne didn't want to ride with him. Didn't want to smell the scent that was his alone. Didn't want to see the way the denim stretched across his toned thighs. Didn't want to make awkward small talk after their encounter last Thursday evening. Didn't want to remember staring at him from her bedroom window like the morality police. But most of all she didn't want to ride with him because he tempted her. He made her want to jump into a place she'd never been before-his bed. And that might be temporarily satisfying, but not lasting. That would be a mistake of epic proportions.

Brent spelled absolute heartbreak to any girl who did a half gainer into his sheets. And several nights before as she'd stared out the window at the full moon, she'd been seriouslycontemplating stepping onto the springboard to perform that particular dive. She’d been envisioning padding barefoot across the cool grass, knocking on his door, falling into his arms.

But then she'd seen him tumble out of the Suburban. He'd popped from the depths of the vehicle, landed on his behind in the grass, all the while holding a condom. That image was the equivalent of a shovel slamming upside her head, knocking any fantasy of Brent and percale sheets from her brain.

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