Stud for Hire (16 page)

But Hanna had lost the thread of the conversation.

One word had stolen all her attention.

Logan.

He hadn't just walked away after all.

He had, in fact, saved them.

Hanna was nervous as all get out as she arrived at the address scrawled on the back of the card Amy had given her. Though she'd never eaten at one of their many restaurants, she'd heard of
Wild West Tex Mex.
Mostly through commercials, as there wasn't a branch in Snake Gully. There wasn't a branch of anything in Snake Gully. It was a town locked in the past. Locked in the grip of the Puceys.

For the first time in years, possibly in the entirety of her life, she felt gloriously liberated from their influence. Funny how a person could live an entire lifetime within a construct, and never quite realize it wasn't the only way to be. But driving out of town in her father's old truck, leaving the town of Snake Gully in her dust, it felt that way for Hanna.

It was like sloughing off an old skin.

This thing swirling in her gut felt like excitement, but also nervousness.

It was only a meeting. She kept reminding herself of this as she hopped onto Highway 30 and headed east. Her excitement rose as she passed through Fort Worth and zoomed toward Dallas. She'd been to the big city before, usually to visit Sidney, but for the most part—other than a glorious two years in Paris—she'd rarely left the little town she'd been born in.

And this . . . This was a business meeting. With a successful restaurateur who liked her paintings, and wanted more.

All of a sudden, it seemed like anything was possible. Anything at all.

Except finding the place.

She missed her exit and had to circle around, all the while checking her watch and gnashing her teeth. She'd left lots of extra time, based on the directions the Internet had given her. But, apparently, the Internet wasn't aware of the traffic in Dallas.

Fortunately for her churning ulcer, she was only a few minutes late for the meeting. She pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and stared at the façade. It was huge. And bright and clean, and it had all the hallmarks of a thriving business.

This early in the day, there were few cars in the lot, so Hanna parked and collected her things, including a portfolio featuring the paintings she'd done recently, and headed for the restaurant. Before she forged in, she took a deep breath, patted her hair, and straightened her jacket. She'd gone for a business-casual look, slacks and a jacket. She couldn't find anything on the Internet about what to wear for this kind of meeting. She could only hope it was right.

Calming her nerves, or at least attempting to, with a palm to her belly, Hanna opened the doors and pushed inside. The interior of the restaurant was just as attractive as the outside. To her left an enormous dining room sprawled, speckled with faux-rough-wood tables and cozy booths. A long, gleaming bar dominated the right side of the restaurant. Smells of roasting tri tip invaded her senses, though the restaurant itself was empty. A Southwest theme was prominent in the color scheme of the decor as well as the occasional Western artifact on the wall. Her gaze stalled on a painting in a position of prominence over the enormous stone fireplace.

It took a second—though it really shouldn't have—to realize it was hers.

Something sweet swelled inside her, filling her heart and soul with excitement and pride.

This was her art, displayed prominently in a public place. And yes, it fit in perfectly, both in color and theme.

A perky young woman in jeans, a
Wild West Tex Mex
T-shirt, and cowboy boots bustled up to meet her with a cheery smile. “Are you Ms. Stevens?” she asked.

“Yes.” Hanna met her outstretched hand with her own.

The woman blew out a breath. Her bangs fluffed. “They're late. I'm sorry. Traffic this morning is a bear.”

Hanna bit back a smile. “I noticed.”

“I'm Cherry. Come on in and have a seat. Rafe asked me to make you comfortable. He should be here soon. Can I get you a sweet tea?”

“I'd love one. Thanks.”

With a noticeable limp, Cherry guided her through the restaurant into a back room, clearly for banquets and parties. She winked. “They like to use this as a conference room. They have company offices here in town, but you know men. They'd much rather hang out where there's food.” She grabbed a pitcher and poured Hanna a glass of tea.

She sipped it and moaned. It was delicious. And, she discovered, she was parched. “Have you worked here long?” she asked in an attempt to keep Cherry there. If Cherry left her alone, her nerves would certainly flare up again.

Cherry grinned and sat, perhaps reading Hanna's edgy expression. “Years. This is a great company to work for. No one leaves. The Ws really take good care of us.”

“The . . . Ws?”

She chuckled. “Sorry. That's what we call them. The Wilder family. Sam started the company but now his sons run it. But honestly, they treat us all like family. Not just employees. When I was in the hospital last spring—nasty car accident—”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Thanks.” She grimaced. “Anyway, I was laid up for months. Rafe came to see me on a regular basis, and so did Diane, his step-mom. And all the other brothers . . .”

“How many are there?”

“Four.” She leaned in. “All of them are adorable and charming and
polite
. But even beyond that, when I got out of the hospital and needed physical therapy to walk again—”

Hanna gasped.

“They paid for it. Every penny the insurance didn't cover. And they told me not to worry about my job. They'd hold it till I could come back. And when the doctors told me I couldn't waitress anymore, they found me a position in the back of the house.” She sighed. “I love those guys. Can't imagine where I would be without them.”

“They sound wonderful.”

She nodded. “The best. I would do anything for them. Oh, but dang. Here I am babbling on . . .”

“No. I appreciate it. From what I understand, Rafe is interested in hiring me for a project and I like to know what I'm getting in to.” Sidney had shared horror stories about bosses from hell and, never having had a job, or a boss, Hanna was understandably uneasy about the prospect.

Cherry patted her hand. “Well, it's a good, solid company and, I have to admit, I
love
your work.” She nodded at the fireplace just visible through the door.

Hanna flushed. “I can't tell you how nice that is to hear.”

“The other paintings went out to the other stores. I was sad to see them go. My favorite was that purple sunset one.”

“Ah, yes.” Hanna nodded. It was one of her favorites too.

“The Ws want that one for the new store they are opening down south.” She tipped her head to the side. “But Rafe will tell you all about that. I think he's here.”

Cherry must have had uncanny spidey sense when it came to Rafe, because just then the front door opened and Hanna heard his heavy boots clomping on the hardwood floor.

He paused in the doorway and her jaw dropped.

She'd been expecting some middle-aged businessman—“adorable, charming and polite” as he was—not this. Rafe Wilder was tall and lanky and dressed like a cowboy in jeans and chambray. There was dust on his boots and his Stetson which was tipped to the side. He had the broadest shoulders she'd ever seen, and his face was a fascinating panoply of angles and scruff. He was, in a word, gorgeous.

He dropped the manila folder he held onto the table and took off his hat, slapping it against his thigh. A cloud of dust erupted.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said in a low rumble. “Damn cattle . . .” He raked his fingers through his sandy blond, sun-streaked hair and glanced at her. His features froze. Some strange expression—an odd mix of appreciation and amusement—flickered over them. “You must be Hanna Stevens.” He thrust out a hand. His grip was firm and warm.

“I am.”

He chuckled and muttered something to himself. Something that sounded like,
“That explains a lot.”
He angled into a chair and dropped his hat on the table, smiling at Cherry as she brought him a glass of iced tea. He downed it in one go, his Adam's apple working in a long ripple. Cherry took his glass and refilled it. “Thank you for coming in to meet with me,” he said, and Hanna was struck again by the mellifluous tone in his voice. Yes. He was adorable. And judging from Cherry's expression as she gazed at him as she backed out of the room, she was more than a little in love with him.

Hanna bit back a smile. Easy to see why. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I'm thrilled you like my work.”

He snorted. “I'm thrilled my brother saw it in that gallery. He assured me it was perfect for the stores—we've been updating our look—and he was right.” Rafe thrust a thumb toward the main room. “That one on the mantle is damn purty. We put it up last week and I've already had three offers on it.”

Hanna blinked. “Thr-three offers?” As in people wanting to buy it?

Rafe nodded, a glimmer dancing in his eyes. “Brandon was thinking about placing more pieces in each store and offering them for sale. If, well, if that's all right with you.”

Unable to respond, lips flapping and all, Hanna nodded.

“Good. But the real reason I wanted to meet with you was because of the new restaurants. We've just about finished construction and are working on the décor. We were thinking it would be cool if you could paint the walls.”

“P-paint the walls?”

Rafe cursed and glanced at his watch. “Damn. My brother was going to explain all this to you. He's the one in charge of development. But he's late. Well, bottom line is this. We sent the purple sunset over there. It's damn striking, that one. And we wanted a mural that matched it throughout the restaurant. Then the painting would be showcased in the entryway. That one, of course, is not for sale.”

He slid some papers across the table. “Here is the contract. Look it over and if everything looks good, we'll have a deal.”

Hanna scanned the contract. The terms were pretty clear-cut. She would paint a mural within a two-month period and they would pay her an exorbitant amount of money and put her up at nearby lodgings for the duration of the project. But . . .

“You can have your lawyer look it over, of course. There's no rush.” He misinterpreted her hesitation.

She chuckled. “This looks fine. It's just that . . . well, I've never painted a mural before. Something that big . . .” Could she handle it? Would it look the same, have the same feel as her much smaller paintings? On the other hand, ideas blossomed in her head. Excitement trickled through her.

He studied her with a frown. “Do you think you'll need more time? We can work that out.”

Two months? A week or so to sketch it out? Several for painting? One for touch ups? “I think I can do it.” Forcing away her annoying doubts, she fished a pen from her purse and signed before she could let the second thoughts take her.

Rafe blew out a sigh. “If all goes well, we'd like for you to do murals in all the restaurants, but we'd have to work it around the customers. It gets pretty busy here in the afternoons and evenings.”

“I can imagine.” Her lips quirked as she slipped the contract back at him, an unfamiliar joy welling in her as he popped it into the folder. “I love your commercials on TV.”

His face broke, a wide smile. “Do ya? My brother Ben is in charge of all that shit.” He flushed. “Sorry, ma'am.”

“It's okay.”

“My mother would knock me into next week, talking like that in front of a lady. But thank God for Ben. I don't get any of that advertising sh—stuff. Social media. Advertising. Promotion.” He made a face. “I like managing restaurants.”

“It seems you do very well.”

He flushed again. “Thank you, ma'am. But it is a group effort. I focus on the management side, Brandon does the merchandizing, Ben does all the promo, and Logan handles the development.”

“Logan?”

He nodded, his brow wrinkling a bit. “Yeah. My brother Logan. The one who brought your paintings to our attention. I thought you . . . knew him.”

Logan.

Oh, she knew him. But . . .

Confusion flooded her and then it coalesced as all the pieces fit into place. Something cold and hard nested in her gut.

“
You
bought my dad's chili.”

Rafe blinked. “Your dad's chili?”

“Hank's Eye-Poppin' Chili?

He laughed. A full-bodied roll. “Hank is
your
dad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this just gets better and better. He does make a damn fine chili.”

“I think so.” But she had to force the words out. The tight ball had swollen up and blocked her throat. Her mind spun. Logan? Logan had done all this?

She wasn't sure how she felt about this. On the one hand, she was thrilled and relieved that her family was out of the woods, and out of Zack's grasp. But the disappointment raking her punctured her delight.

She'd really thought someone—some stranger—had loved her work enough to buy every piece. But it had been Logan. It had been Logan all along.

She wasn't sure whether she should be flattered or insulted, which was a strange position to be in, all things considered.

A rustle of activity at the front door captured her attention. Her heart slowed and then erupted into a manic tattoo as hard and heavy footfalls headed their way.

She knew, in her heart, her mind, and her soul. She knew.

He was here.

And indeed, he burst through the door, breathless, his chest heaving. A curl flopped down on his forehead and his shirt was stained with sweat.

Logan.

Her Logan.

Something sizzled in her belly at the sight of him. She hadn't seen him for weeks and she took him in the way a starving woman inhales a cheesecake. He was so handsome, so large, and firm, so . . . anxious.

He should be.

He'd lied to her.