Taking Home the Tycoon (Texas Cattleman's Club: Blackmail 9)

He’d meant his vow not to take her to bed tonight. He was a man of patience and she clearly needed space to process what had happened between them.

And he had to admit, their night together had moved him more than he’d expected.

She was right. They were moving fast—both of them.

No question, he wanted to be with her again, and he wasn’t sure where this crazy draw was headed. He didn’t know where it could go. He couldn’t ignore the importance of being careful for her kids. Great kids who were fast becoming more than just Natalie’s children.

They were people in their own right.

Lexie.

Colby.

The dinner tonight had tasted better than any in recent memory and he had to be honest with himself. It was the company that added the special seasoning that flavored the meal to perfection.

So where did that leave him? He understood her concerns and reservations. Maybe it was time to help her understand more about what made him the man he’d become. A man who wasn’t right for her but wanted her all the same. A man who wasn’t good at denying himself what he wanted except he had to be that man. For her, tonight at least.

But tomorrow? Away from here and prying eyes?

He rested his beer on his knee and tucked her to his side. “I know how to cook because of this one foster home I lived in. It was a really good home. People talk about the bad ones so much, and sure, there are some.” He shook his head. “But there are some good and amazing people out there opening their homes to children in need. Not enough of them. But plenty.”

“And you learned to cook in one of those homes because of the foster mom?”

Memories flashed before his mind’s eye. A montage of baking in the well-lit kitchen. Lessons in cooking fettuccine alfredo, lasagna, chimichangas and frittata. Eliot, his foster dad, arranging all the supplies on a faded laminate countertop. “Because of the foster dad. He did all the cooking and made a point of teaching us kids. He told us his wife worked hard and this was his way of pulling his weight. He also told us we would likely live on our own at some point in our lives and that the best way to save money was to cook for ourselves. Eating out was a treat, but not always the financially wisest or the healthiest move.”

“Valid points and smart of him to teach you kids that.” Her voice was soft and soothing, stroking along the edges of those memories.

“He was a wise man. I learned a lot from him.” And back then he’d been hungry to learn and daring to hope he might, just might, get to stick around there long enough to learn a lot.

“Like what?”

A hefty sigh damn near deflated him. Of all the foster homes, that one with Eliot had been the closest he’d ever gotten to having a family. The memory of what-if still pained him. “How to change a tire. How to use crap to make things, which ultimately led me to build my first computer by Dumpster diving behind a few business offices and a computer store.”

“How old were you while you were there?”

“For a little over a year when I was thirteen.” He’d learned a lot in that year, things that had stuck with him long after he left. He’d just been too mad then to realize it.

“What happened?”

A knot formed in his chest. “He had a stroke, a really bad one. His wife couldn’t take care of him and all of us foster kids. She wanted to.” He believed that now, even though then he’d been so angry he’d doubted her. “But the system thought otherwise about her ability to juggle his care with raising fosters and they moved us all.”

“I’m so sorry.” She clasped his hand and rubbed lightly.

“That’s life. It’

s not always fair and a person has to accept the things beyond control—or go crazy.” He shrugged, swirling the beer in his bottle.

“You figured that out at thirteen?”

“Hell, no. My foster dad told me that, slowly, with drool pooling in one corner of his mouth, his left side almost totally paralyzed from the stroke. I just didn’t fully accept it until later.”

She angled her face to see him, her eyes searching his. “How is he doing now?”

“He died when I was nineteen.” He tore his gaze away from hers and tipped up his beer for a long swig. “But I think of him when I cook and I feel like I’m honoring his memory. The way I see it, the foster system isn’t perfect, but I made it through. I can focus on the good, and do what I can to help fix the broken.”

“Fix the broken?” she asked sympathetically, lifting her wineglass to her lips. “How do you do that?”

“Ah, that’s a story for another day.”