Harmony and High Heels (Fort Worth Wranglers 2)

But he’d wanted to do something special for Harmony, something to show her that he really cared. At his house, that thing had always been Thanksgiving dinner.

Growing up, it was the one time of the year his mother ever cooked. So to him, this was what a home-cooked meal should be. But now that he thought about it, that might have been a little ambitious to try for his first home-cooked meal.

As if to prove his point, when he yanked the oven door open, flames shot out. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink and doused Tom Turkey until he was swimming in white foam.

Was blackened turkey the same as charred turkey? Blackened sounded so much better than charred. And it looked better too. Surely, he couldn’t serve this. It was burned all to hell and covered in—he looked down at the fire extinguisher—whatever was in there to put out fires.

To make matters worse, his whole place smelled like Five-Alarm Harm had already tried to burn it to the ground. He really hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.

He jogged over to the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that served as the exterior wall of his kitchen and living room space in the old mill turned condos where he lived and opened the heavy multi-paned windows in an effort to get the smoke out before the fire department—or worse, Harm—showed up.

When the smoke detector finally stopped screeching and he could think again, he took stock of what he had left for dinner. There was the cornbread dressing … He slouched against the cabinets next to the kitchen sink. It had been baking on the rack under the turkey, so that was out.

There were French-cut green beans on the stove. He lifted their lid. They looked like black dried-out worms. He glanced at the chicken stock he’d been about to add to them when the turkey had broken out in flames. Too late now. Green beans were off the list.

He lifted the lid on the macaroni and cheese. Because it was a special occasion, he’d bought the deluxe box kind instead of just the plain old mac and cheese. Just to make sure the noodles were cooked through, he’d let them boil for almost an hour. Turned out that wasn’t a great plan, since they’d fallen apart as soon as he added the cheese sauce. Now they kinda looked like bright-orange oatmeal.

The mashed potatoes didn’t look that bad—he was kind of proud of them. As he didn’t have a potato masher or a hand mixer, he’d ended up using a hammer to beat them into submission. Sure, they were kinda lumpy and—he peered closer—a little rust filled. But rust was okay, right? A little oxidized metal never hurt anyone. Or at least, had never killed anyone.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, he turned to look at the gravy. He lifted that lid and the smell was so bad it nearly knocked him over, so slammed the lid back down. When it cooled down, he was throwing that one away, pot and all.

Finally, there was the chocolate sauce he was making to put on the ice cream he’d bought for dessert. He’d also been hoping to pour it all over Harmony, but when he lifted that lid, all that was left of his beautiful sauce was a gritty, smoking blob. He obviously should have gone with the bro

wn plastic bottled stuff from Hershey’s.

Fuck. Just fuck. He’d ruined every damn thing he’d tried to make and nearly burned his loft down in the process. Five-Alarm Harm had nothing on him.

It was definitely time to order pizza.

Then again … He surveyed his kitchen. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Maybe they should go out for dinner and he should have a hazmat crew come in and hose everything down.

Resigned now, he grabbed a trash bag and was just starting to dump the mess—pans and all—when his buzzer rang.

He glanced down. Splotches of fire foam mixed with the other cooking muck splattered on his shirt and jeans. But if he took the time to change clothes, Harm might leave, thinking he wasn’t home.

Fuck it. He’d made the mess. Might as well own it.

He headed to the door and pressed the buzzer to let Harmony up. He opened the front door, and in a moment the penthouse elevator door rolled open.

And there stood Harmony, wearing nothing but killer black high heels, tiny black lace panties, a black leather motorcycle jacket, and a sinful smile.

His brain shut down and all he could do was stare. He ran his hand across his mouth checking for drool. No drool.

“I’ll take your slack-jawed expression as a sign that you like my new underwear.” She tossed a black dress over her shoulder and strutted out of the elevator. If he thought the front view was nice, the back was even better. An itty-bitty string disappeared between her perfectly round ass cheeks.

“I hope you were wearing the dress when you walked through the lobby, or my doorman probably had a heart attack and is dead on the front sidewalk.” He closed the door and leaned against it, just taking her in. Every square inch of her was perfect. Lucky, lucky him.

What a wonderful feeling it was to be in love with the person he was also lusting over.

She sniffed the air. “Is something on fire?”

“Besides me?” He looked around. Crap, one look at her and he’d forgotten all about dinner. “We’re going to need to order in.”

“I thought you were cooking?” She glanced at the kitchen and her eyes went so wide he could see the whites all around the iris. “Wow, that’s a huge mess.”

“You have no idea.” He picked at the dried fire foam on his shirt. “It turns out, I can’t cook.”

She threw her head back and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It sounded like the way rich, smoky bourbon tasted. Full and dark and absolutely delicious.