Lissa- Sugar and Spice (The Wilde Sisters 3)

He didn’t say it nicely, but to hell with that.

“This,” Lissa said slowly, “this is it?”

“This is it,” he said, unbuttoning his denim jacket and working it off without dislodging the crutch under his left arm. “Not quite what you expected, Duchess?”

“Is it a—a boarding house?”

“It’s a home. At least, it used to be. Now it’s just tired house on a tired ranch.”

Nick limped past Lissa Wilde and hung his jacket on a big hook in one of the pine walls. He left the Stetson on. The last thing he needed was for a woman heading back to La La Land to recognize him. There were a dozen rumors about what had happened to him and where he was; he certainly wasn’t going to send the Wilde babe back to Hollywood to spread the word that she’d found the elusive Nick Gentry.

“But—but Marcia said…”

“Yeah. I can just imagine what she said. It was enough to bring you running in hopes of shaking your shapely ass for some Hollywood hotshot, but there ain’t no Hollywood hotshots here.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Lissa Wilde didn’t move or speak. Her disappointment was damn near palpable and he almost felt sorry for her until he reminded himself that feeling sorry for someone changed nothing.

Besides, he knew the type.

He’d dealt with it from the minute he’d earned his first box-office hit.

Small-town girl, pretty enough—this one certainly was—grows up hearing people tell her she’s beautiful, wins a couple of contests—Homecoming Queen, Miss Peach Blossom, whatever—and decides she’s going to be the next hot movie queen. That she has no talent doesn’t mean a damn. She figures all she needs is looks and a lucky break. Getting discovered by an agent while she’s waiting tables. Being noticed by a director while she’s working the bar at a fancy restaurant.

A hot babe passing herself off as a cook was a new one, but, hey, you wanted to make it big, you went with whatever you figured would work.

A cook. A chef. Right, Nick thought with world-weary cynicism. If Lissa Wilde— blond, blue-eyed, great face, five four or five, a hundred ten or twenty pounds of tits, legs and ass—had cooking skills, she’d picked them up working her way west in a succession of roadside diners.

It was just his luck that he’d have to tolerate her until the storm passed. The second it did, he’d call Hank, tell him to fly back from the airport at Billings—

“You have me all figured out.”

Her voice was low. Frigid. Nick shrugged, or tried to. Shrugging was another of those simple things that turned out to be hard to do with a crutch under your arm.

“Yeah, well, it’s not as if your type is unique.”

She spun toward him. Fire blazed in her eyes. They were, he had to admit, interesting eyes. Blue, he’d thought…but maybe they were green.

Not that he gave a damn.

“You,” she said, “you are, without question…”

“Yeah, yeah. A nasty, insolent SOB. You already said that.”

“Those descriptions don’t even come close.” She dropped the suitcase, raised her chin, pointed an index finger at his chest. “I am a classically trained chef. I plan menus. I create dishes. I run a kitchen and supervise its staff.” That pointing finger found its mark in the center of his rib cage and jabbed none too gently. “I do not, do not ever shake my ass at anybody. You got that, cowboy?”

“Uh huh. You’re not the least bit interested in being the next Jennifer Lawrence or Megan Fox or Christ knows who else, discovered waiting tables or slinging hash at The Griddle Café.”

“I am not a wannbe actress! I am a chef! You think I’d have accepted this job in the middle of the wilderness if I weren’t? Although it’s pretty clear that there isn’t a job here.” Those amazing eyes narrowed. “Which brings me to the obvious question, Bannister. Why did you tell my agent you needed a cook?”

“Because I do. I need a cook. Not a chef. Not somebody who knows how to—how to glaze a pan—”

“Pans get deglazed, cowboy. Not glazed.”

“Whatever they get, that’s not what I need. This is a ranch. I have six guys sweating their balls off from dawn to dusk, and I need somebody to cook for them.”

“Let me get this straight. You need somebody to cook for a—a bunch of ranch hands?”

She looked—what? Stunned. Disappointed. Well, why wouldn’t she? She’d come here expecting a cushy job in a cushy place where she could cozy up to Hollywood royalty. Even on the odd chance that she really was a cook, she sure as hell wasn’t the kind he needed.