A smile formed. Trish had never considered publishing on her own. It was scary, unfamiliar territory. And she was sure Henry would never give her credit as an author if she went that route. No contracts and all that jazz. But now that she didn’t give a hoot what Henry thought, the ideahadattractive qualities. “I might come talk to you later, Glenda.”
“I’d love that.” Glenda glanced toward the top of the stairs. “Headed to write?”
“Yep.”
“Let me know if you need to talk through any more plot hang-ups.”
“Thanks, Glenda.” And Trish meant it. Before this retreat, she hadn’t met any other writers in person. Now she had a small tribe of them she could call friends.
She scurried up to the top of the stairs, Shadow close on her heel. But before she could slip into her room, Glenda called up, “You’ll want to be ready for dinner at five. Lina wanted me to remind you. It’s some special dinner with your cowboy, so dress up a bit.”
“Dinner with—” But Glenda’d vanished into the office under the stairs for her turn with the agent. Trish pulled out her itinerary and checked what was on it for this evening. There was an author dinner in town at a restaurant called The Starlight Grill. But nothing about a personal dinner with a cowboy. Trish looked at Shadow. “There are certainly a lot of changes to this itinerary.”
* * *
With the dinnerplan adjustment a complete mystery to Trish, she opted for one of the outfits Mindy had packed—a short burnt orange dress with lace-up detail and bell sleeves, a pair of tights, and the cowgirl boots she couldn’t seem to stop wearing. They were incredibly comfortable, and she loved how they made her feel.
At ten ’til five, Trish ventured downstairs to find a quiet house. A folded note card sat upright on the kitchen counter with her name. She looked around for signs of anyone, but the house was completely quiet except for the occasional settling creak. Perhaps everyone else was in town.
Dinner for you and Wade is in the oven keeping warm. Ready to serve. Dessert and a bottle of wine in the fridge. We’ll be back by eight.
“Grams, I think we need to talk after dinner—” Wade’s voice echoed throughout the empty kitchen as the bathroom door swung open. He was rubbing a towel over his wet hair, and his shirt was missing.
Trish swallowed.
“Hey, you seen Grams?”
Words failing her, she held up the card to him, trying hard and failing to keep her eyes off the muscle definition Wade’s shirts had been hiding this whole time. For as many times as he held her against him, Trish suspected he was in shape, but to witness it in person was a whole other matter.
Wade read the card, his head shaking as he did. He plopped it back on the island. “Should’ve known.” He seemed unaware that he was only wearing a pair of jeans and a towel over one shoulder. “If you don’t want to do this dinner thing—”
“We should at least see what your grandma made,” Trish cut in, desperate for something to occupy her so she’d stop staring at his chest. She skittered around the island to the oven. With a potholder, she lifted lids from two covered plates.
Wade leaned over the island. “Country fried steak. Of course.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“Grams makes the best country fried steak in the county. It also happens to be my favorite.”
Trish pulled the plates out, set them on the stovetop, and closed the oven. “I’m a little lost on the problem.”
“It’s nothing.”
“If it’s me—”
“It’s not you. Grams has been dodging me because, well, never mind. I guess we shouldn’t let a perfectly good dinner go to waste.” He slipped back into the bathroom and returned buttoning up a shirt. It wouldn’t help Trish to concentrate better, covering up those strong muscles. They were burned into her memory.
“I’ll bring the plates if you want to grab something to drink?” Trish practically ran out of the kitchen, embarrassment heating her cheeks. It was evident Wade expected a different dinner arrangement. The itinerary omission of this particular private dinner made a little more sense now.
“Wine or beer?” he called from the other room as Trish set the plates down across from each other.
“A beer would be great.” Then she shuffled the plates next to each other. No, that didn’t seem right either. Finally, she settled on one plate at the head of the table and one off to the side.
“You okay with a wheat beer? It’s not fancy, but it’s the lightest one in—” He froze a few steps from the table.
“What’s wrong?” Trish looked around the table, certain she’d screwed up the arrangement of the place settings.Too intimate?She should have kept them across the table from each other.
“That’s my grandpa’s place.” He nodded at the spot at the head of the table. “Haven’t sat there since I was a kid looking to rile him up.”
