A Cowboy in the Kitchen by Meg Maxwell Page A

night in the hayloft with West, no one ever coming close to making her feel the way she had that night. In love. And as though she were on fire. As though she were beautiful and sexy. As though everything that made Annabel Hurley who she was blossomed brighter. She’d felt more herself that night with West, that hour, than she ever had before or since. Getting over his betrayal, the heartbreak, throwing herself into two bad relationships with men who didn’t really care about her...she was better off alone, spending her evenings perfecting Gram’s recipes and thinking up business initiatives for Hurley’s. She would not let herself be drawn in by West, no matter how much her mind, heart and soul wanted him. He’d broken her once. That wasn’t going to happen again. Her grandmother needed her—depended on her, especially now that Georgia was God knew where.
    Keep your head , she ordered herself, straightening her purposely unsexy ponytail, smoothing her purposely unsexy long-sleeved yellow T-shirt, tucked into purposely unsexy on-the-loose-side old jeans. She picked up her lunch-recipes folder and the bag of groceries she’d shopped for on her lunch break and headed up the steps to the porch. She forced herself not to glance over to the right just past the house at the barn, now a traditional red, where she and West had spent an unforgettable hour.
    She took a deep breath and rang the bell.
    Seconds later, there he was, his expression serious as he ushered her inside, taking the bag of groceries. Before she could ask him if everything was okay, he headed toward the kitchen. She followed him through the living room, liking the two big red comfy-looking sofas, lots of throw pillows, a plush area rug, an enormous round wooden coffee table piled with kids’ books and action figures and a furry dog bed on which a beagle eyed her.
    â€œDaisy’s not much of a watchdog,” West said as he led the way into the kitchen, the walls a warm yellow, the wooden cabinetry white and appliances stainless steel. He put the bag of groceries on the island in the center of the room, and Annabel placed the folder next to it, then looked over at West, who was holding up a bottle of red wine. She nodded and he poured two glasses.
    â€œThe more you can pack into tonight’s lesson, the better,” he said, handing her a glass.
    She took the wine, wishing she could read his mind. Something was clearly bothering him. “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s worth one thousand bucks to make a chicken salad sandwich?”
    He leaned back against the refrigerator, covered in his daughter’s paintings and school notices and quizzes, and took a long drink of his wine. “That’s complicated.”
    Chicken salad was complicated? She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Okay,” she said. “So let’s get started.” She dug into the grocery bag, taking out a rotisserie chicken. “At our dinner lesson, I’ll teach you how to roast a chicken, using the leftovers for chicken salad sandwiches the next day. But for now we’ll use a preroasted chicken. Rotisserie chickens are great when you’re in a hurry—”
    He put his wine down and came over, standing so close she could smell his shampoo. He stared at the chicken. She realized he’d been a million miles away and had just clicked back to her. “I admit I buy those a few times a week. Quick and easy.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” she said, for a moment overwhelmed by his nearness, by his muscled forearm, his hand in his pocket. Annabel was tall, almost five foot nine, but West towered over her at six-three.
    To stop focusing on his face, his body, the clean scent of him, she launched into a lecture about how long to keep a roast chicken in the fridge, then ticked off on her fingers the various lunches he could make from it.
    â€œAside from chicken salad, there’s tacos,