in your chef’s coat?”
“Of course.” Two can play at this game. “We pastry chefs take a vow to never remove our uniform. Come hell or high water, I will wear the pastry whites!”
James starts to laugh. “I have a feeling when you’re not being bossy or grumpy, you’re probably a lot of fun.”
“Too bad you’ll never know,” I quip back. This man brings out the grump in me.
“That’s going to make our working on this garden project together pretty miserable, don’t you think? What do you say we call a truce and pretend you never came to my farm to torment me this summer?”
Nice, he’s making this all my fault. “I’d be happy to try and pretend you aren’t a rude, pig-headed bore,” I tell him.
James arches his eyebrow challengingly. “Starting now.” He extends his hand. “Hi there, I’m James Cavanaugh. I’m the nice farmer who lives down the road. I help old ladies cross the street when I’m not busy growing food to feed the valley.”
“You think you’re a real prince, don’t you?” I ask, feeling my anger soften slightly.
“Did I mention I rescue dogs in my free time?”
I’m going to have to keep my eye on this one. Not because I can’t handle myself, but because I really don’t need a broken heart. And if my instincts are correct, James is a heartbreaker through and through.
Chapter Eight
Ruby
Sitting at her desk, Ruby’s phone pings to remind her of a call she has scheduled. She hurries to text James.
Ruby: I can’t meet with you about the garden this afternoon after all. I have a meeting about a wedding we’re doing the day after Thanksgiving.
James: When do you want to reschedule?
Ruby: I don’t know, tomorrow? How about if you come to the dining room at ten? Most of the breakfast rush should be over by then.
James: I’m meeting with Tara now. I’ll fill her in.
Ruby: Thanks, honey.
James
The cab of my truck is still cold, so I lean over and turn the heat up before telling Tara, “My mom wants to meet with us tomorrow morning regarding our ideas on the garden, if that works.”
“We don’t have any ideas yet,” she says while giving the puppy a belly rub. Lucky dog.
“We better get started then, but I think I should get some real food into this girl first.”
“You’re not taking her to the pound?” Tara asks hopefully.
“I’ll probably wait until tomorrow.” While I’m sure that won’t make the task any easier, I can’t bear to drop her off today. I want to fill her up and let her get a good night’s sleep before she has another traumatic experience.
“I’m going home now,” Tara says. “Why don’t I text you my ideas when I get settled?”
“Why don’t I just go with you? It’ll be easier for us to scour the internet for pictures and choose them together rather than sending them back and forth.”
“I guess that would work.” She sounds so nervous you’d think I was Jack the Ripper.
“How’s this for an idea? I’ll hit the market and get some stuff for the puppy while you take her over to your place to finish her nap.”
“Okay.” She pauses for several beats before disclosing, “I live at twenty-eight Crooked Lane.”
“Do you need to go back in and get your purse or anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, but I should return these dishes.”
“I’ll drive you to your car and then I’ll take them in. Where are you parked?” She points at a dark blue SUV across the lot.
After getting out of my truck and settling the sleeping puppy on the passenger side of her vehicle, she offers a tentative wave.
As she pulls out, it hits me, I’m going over to Tara Heinz’s house. I can only imagine the look on my teenage face had someone told me that would happen someday. Although back then, I was under the impression Tara was sweet and likable, not as ornery as a breech heifer.
It’s four o’clock by the time I get to the market, so I decide to pick up something for supper while I’m there. I’m in the mood for a stir fry, so I fill my basket with skirt steak, assorted fresh veggies, canned water chestnuts, and rice. On impulse, I add a nice bottle of Merlot. I’m not a big wine drinker, but Tara might like to decompress with a glass.
Cheryl is standing at the cash register when I get there. I put all of my items onto the conveyor belt, but she