Just Once (6 page)

I return to the bedroom, whisper a small prayer that the bat will remain sleeping and/or not attack, and very carefully peel back the curtain. Sure enough, there’s a bat: a teeny-tiny bat, fast asleep, looking for all the world like a little dark brown frog.
Aww.

I then realize I have no idea how to get a bat out of a room, so I beat a hasty retreat to the lodge kitchen, pick up the ranch hands’ lunch, and take it to the barn. The men are sitting around the desks, so I drop the tower on the closest table and they promptly start attacking.

“Do you still have that requisition slip?” I ask Shane.

He stares at me for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tiny folded paper. I take it, re-read it, and hand it back. “Bat in cabin nine,” I say.

“You saw it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

He stands, and suddenly we’re just inches apart. This close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Even though I’m hardly small at five foot seven, he makes me feel that way.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We don’t speak en route to the cabin. When we arrive, Shane opens the door and gestures for me to enter first. Not wanting to argue, I go inside and beeline it for the master bedroom, preparing to point to the window. Then I hesitate.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, turning.

Shane, right on my heels, skids to a stop to prevent a collision, then removes his sunglasses to look down at me.

“What do you mean?”

“How are you going to remove the bat?” The way the windows open doesn’t allow for simply popping out the screen and pushing the bat through the other side.

“Let me see it,” he says, trying to step past me to the window. I move to block his path and he stops, cocking that eyebrow. This time, however, he doesn’t look doubtful/amused, he looks annoyed.

“What are you going to do?” I repeat.

“You’ll see,” he says.

I realize he’s chewing gum and watch his jaw work for a second. “Are you going to kill it?”

“It’s a bat, Kate.” He sighs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What’s the alternative?” I persist.

“You have a thing for bats?”

“I have a thing for not killing things.” I move again to block him from passing me. This time he steps forward so we’re nearly nose to nose, but are definitely chest to chest. My breasts press into his ribcage, and I feel his chest contract as he inhales.

“Move,” he says softly.

“No,” I reply.

“Now.”

I take a deep, fortifying breath, put my hands on his chest, and push. He doesn’t budge. At all. But this time
both
eyebrows raise and he looks at my hands, suddenly small and futile, on his chest.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice deceptively quiet.

“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Do what?”

“Get rid of the bat.”

“You will not.”

“It’s gone,” I lie.

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, it’s small and harmless, and I don’t want you to kill it. If that’s your only plan—”

He sighs, hooks his big, calloused fingers around my wrists, and all-too-easily uses them to push me away, at the same time turning us so his back is to the window and the back of my knees bump the edge of the bed.

“I’ll do it—” I say again.

He closes his eyes as though summoning patience, then tips me back slightly so I fall on the bed when he releases my wrists. In the three seconds that I’m startled and falling he whips a handkerchief out of his pocket, whirls around, pushes the curtain aside, and scoops up the sleeping bat in his cloth-covered fist.

There’s a faint squeak, and I’m not sure if it’s me or the bat. “Are you killing it?” I ask, leaping up and chasing him out of the room. “Don’t squeeze too hard—”

The cabin door is still open, and he flicks his wrist. The handkerchief opens to spill out a tiny, dazed bat that falters for a second before extending its wings and zipping away.

Shane turns to me, sunglasses in hand, and once again I’m too close. My skin flushes at our proximity and maybe because of the look in his dark, dark eyes.

“Satisfied?” he asks.

Chapter Four

W
E
M
AKE
I
T
T
HROUGH
the evening’s dinner service without injury or embarrassment. Rather than try to convince someone else, I hustle the ranch hands’ food out to the barn. They’re nowhere in sight, so I leave it on the desks and return to the kitchen. In between entrées and dessert the girls discuss their plans for the evening: returning to O’Malley’s.

“Are you coming?” Hailey asks.

I notice Sous Chef Mark listening in.

“No,” I say. “Not tonight.”

“Why? Too tired?”

“Ah…” I am definitely not too tired. Like most of the staff, I slept all afternoon, waking only at the insistence of my alarm clock. I have plenty of energy and even want to return to O’Malley’s, but I don’t want to keep reminding people of Eight-Shot Kate’s previous antics. Plus I really want to swim, and the pool will be empty if they’re all out partying.

“Tomorrow?” Lisa asks.

“Yeah, maybe,” I hedge. “Drink responsibly tonight, okay? You’re opening tomorrow.”

Lisa grins. “Definitely,” she vows. “Whatever you say.”

It’s nearly ten by the time the staff clears out and I have most of the ranch to myself. From my room I can hear a ruckus in the lounge downstairs as the guests amuse themselves at the pool table and someone strums a guitar. I step outside to scan the pool: the single security light shines bright and the water is empty. Perfect.

I hurry back to slip into a bathing suit. The only one I can find is a bright blue bikini that’s a little on the skimpy side, but no one will be around to see, so I put it on and check myself out in the mirror. I look okay—maybe a little too skinny, but I’m working on that. Eating has never been a problem for me, but I haven’t quite been myself for the past six months. The bottoms sag a little in the back, but my boobs look half decent in the bandeau top.

I wrap a towel around my chest, slip on a pair of flip-flops, and hustle to the pool as quietly as I can. The ranch is still and dark, and there are no guests roaming around. The pool is raised up on a wooden deck wide enough to hold a dozen lounge chairs and the small shack for the hot tub. The water gleams in the moonlight, luring me in. I still feel the heat from the kitchen clinging to my skin as I drop the towel on a chair and step out of my shoes.

I nearly have a heart attack when a massive figure steps out of the shadows. “Ahh!” I squeal, reaching behind me for my towel but succeeding only in knocking it to the ground between the chairs. My options are to turn around, bend over, and dig for it—not going to happen—or stand there awkwardly, exposed. Without much choice, I opt for the latter.

Shane steps out of the hot tub shack and closes the door behind him, a towel wrapped around his hips. Even in the weak light I can see the water glistening on his chest. He’s built like an ox: his muscles are defined, but he’s mostly just big, and though I have no idea what a lumberjack looks like, that’s the first word that comes to mind.

“Evening,” he says. He’s not moving, and I know he’s looking me up and down. I definitely don’t want to turn around to hunt for my towel and show him my saggy bikini bottoms.

“Evening.”

“Cabin nine have any more complaints?”

“None.”

“Good.”

We continue to stand there. He’s got the benefit of the shadows from the shack, but while the security light may not be bright, I’m standing in its glow and know that I’m on display.

“You going swimming?” he asks finally.

“Yes. You?” Dammit. I shouldn’t have said yes. Now if he says yes I’ll still have to go. I could’ve said I—Well, what could I have said? That I came out for a nighttime tan?

“No,” he says. “I’m done.”

I nod uncomfortably. “Okay.”

He finally peels away from the shack and moves toward the staircase. This involves coming closer to me, and I watch him from the corner of my eye as I dip my toe in the water. He’s twice the size of the guys I usually go for. I like them sleek and refined, not brutally strong. Don’t I?

“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” he asks suddenly.

I freeze. I hadn’t realized I’d been rubbing my sore shoulder. For some reason I don’t want to tell him it’s from carrying his freaking food. “Oh, nothing,” I lie. “Mosquito bite.”

Shane hesitates for a second, then nods as he turns down the steps. “Good night,” he says without looking back.

“Good night.” Without waiting to see him disappear, I dive straight into the deep end.

I’ve got first shift the next morning, so at quarter to six I reluctantly roll out of bed. There isn’t really time, but I still hop in the shower and now I pull my hair up in a wet bun. And, because I’m foolish, I apply mascara and blush for reasons I don’t care to dwell on.

I enter the dark dining room and navigate my way through tables and chairs, using the light from the kitchen doors as guidance. Suddenly my shin slams into an out-of-place table and searing pain shoots up my leg. “Fuck!” I hiss, since I’m alone and don’t need to set an example. “Fuckity fuck!”

“I can hear you,” Alec calls.

I stagger to the light switch and flip it on. The dining room is in disarray. The tables have been cleared but not wiped down or returned to order. Clearly the girls prioritized going out over doing their job, and I foolishly trusted them enough to assume they were up to the most basic of tasks.

I stomp into the kitchen as best I can on one good leg and beeline it to the coffee machine, which, to my surprise, is already brewing. “Thanks, Alec,” I say, pouring a grateful cup.

“Wasn’t me,” he replies, not lifting his head from the batch of biscuit dough he’s kneading.

I don’t really know how to reply because no one else is around at this hour. I hesitate and sniff the coffee, then utter a quick prayer that it’s not left over from the night before. I sip tentatively…It’s fresh. And I don’t care who made it. I need it. I need this and another cold shower and a whole lot more that there’s just not time for.

I take the coffee with me and hastily rearrange the dining room, wiping down tables as I go. I get cutlery and coffee cups on the two wrangler tables just in time and manage to take their breakfast orders without showing my simmering rage/angst/dissatisfaction with everything.

On one return trip to the kitchen I catch a pair of broad shoulders disappearing out back, and I can’t stop myself from watching them depart. It’s Shane, thermos in hand. Part of me knew he must have made the coffee. That same part knows it cannot dwell on him if I’m expected to concentrate on my job.
Which would make
one
of us
, I think, irritated, as four hung-over girls stumble into the kitchen at two minutes after seven.

“You’re late,” I snap.

Janie blinks tiredly as she slips the rubber dishwashing apron over her head. “What?”

I bite my tongue. I don’t want to go all Mother Hen on their asses, but if I don’t, who will? Then again, I remember being seventeen and listening to just such a morning lecture, then promptly discarding it. They’re not going to care about anything I say right now. I’ll let it go. Just this once. It’s not their fault Dream Shane made an appearance again last night, disappearing before he could finish what he’d started. Again.

Too-eager guests are already filling the dining room, and Hailey, Lisa, and Becca are busy taking orders when Alec stacks the now-familiar pile of room service plates on the counter.

“Ranch hands,” he barks, in full chef mode.

I’m in no mood to make the trek out to the barn, so I snag Hailey the next time she’s in the kitchen and ask her to run them out.

“Absolutely,” she agrees.

“What the what?” I ask, temporarily forgetting I’m pissed.