Page 8 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

“Well, that’s what I’d call interesting.”

He grinned. “I’d call it annoying, but whatever you say.”

Willow smiled. She crossed her arms at her chest and rocked back on her heels, looking fully into Chance’s face now. She hadn’t a clue about any of this testing nonsense, but her panic, though still present, had lessened considerably.

“Well, then, I guess we’d better put on a great party.”

He grimaced, but nodded just the same. She couldn’t tell if he cared one way or the other about the success of the party, but offered her his arm anyway and added, “At your service.”

* * *

She was in over her head.

Chance could not shake the feeling that the beautiful young cook his father had hired without even a glance at her resume was about to go down in flames. Not that she didn’t make a mean chicken pot pie. Or bacon omelet. Or any of the other mouth-watering meals he’d been served since she came here several months ago.

Oh, she could cook. But manage an event for sixty hungry bellies? Not an easy feat—that he could see. And it wasn’t fair of Ace to ask it of her, especially on such short notice.

He found Willow in the kitchen in late morning, shoulders leaning over the island, her face buried in a cookbook.

“Anything I can help you with?”

She lifted her chin, her eyes unfocused. “Help … me … with?”

Chance plopped his hat onto the counter and scooted next to her. “You know, help you pick a menu?”

“A menu?”

He frowned. “You are trying to figure out what you’ll be serving on Friday night, I presume.”

She squinted, her mouth a straight line, then recognition came over her. Her hand brushed against his arm as she stood. “You’re too late. I’ve already had all the fixins for Friday delivered.” Willow opened the door of the long walk-in pantry and showed off the bulging shelves: cans of tomatoes, flour, yeast, nuts, olives, and more sat waiting to be used. She also lifted the door of the extra freezer stored in there and displayed an abundance of meat ready for whatever she was planning.

“Wow. You got all that into your pink car?”

“My car’s not pink.” She frowned. “I like to think of it as dusty rose. Or salmon, maybe.”

“So is that salmon-colored toy street legal? Or just legally sad?”

“Mean.”

He chuckled.

“At least she runs!” Mostly. And only after Willow whispers sweet nothings to it …

He stared at her, mouth pressed closed, but a smile fighting to get out.

She screwed up her lips. “Getting back to the party, and to answer the question hanging over your head, I’m planning to put it all in the smoker on Thursday.”

“And stay up all night with it?”

“I can spray it all down late that night, you know, keep the moisture on it, and add more chips to it too. Should be fine until morning.”

She’d … surprised him. That he would admit. When he’d walked in here to find her bent over a cookbook, lines etched across her forehead, Chance had expected to see panic in her eyes. She seemed to have it all under control, though.

“So I guess I’m off the hook.”

She tilted a questioning glance at him. “Who do you think’s going to tend to the smoker while I’m dishing up the sides? By the way, how are you with a knife?”

He frowned. Was that a trick question?

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