“A bargain at the price.”
Angela beamed. “Vanessa, it is yours.” She started folding a pink bakery box as Van tried to make the sample last.
“Looks good,” said the smooth, deep voice that haunted far too many of her dreams. It came from right behind her.
Carefully, she swallowed her bite of pie before slowly turning to face him. The sight of him so close kind of weakened her knees. In new jeans and a crisp black shirt, he looked yummier than her sliver of pie. “Jameson.” Somehow, she kept her voice casual, friendly—but nottoofriendly. “How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain.” He leaned in a little. She got a whiff of soap and leather, and she wanted to reach out and yank him in close just to smell him better. And then he smiled. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
Today, she wore the ones with the big tortoiseshell frames. Nervously, she adjusted them. “Sometimes it’s just easier than contacts, you know? Not to mention more comfortable.”
“I get that. You look good in them.”
Too bad she felt so awkward and so completely unprepared to deal with him. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’m thinking you look good in whatever you wear.” He was still smiling.
And she couldn’t stop herself from smiling right back—a real smile this time. He had that look in his eye, that teasing, tempting look she remembered with such pleasure from TNTNH, like she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“You’ve got a dab of cherry filling,” he said low, for her ears alone. And then, right there in front of God and everyone, he lifted a lean, tanned hand dusted with gleaming gold hairs and rubbed his thumb at the corner of her lower lip. Tingles shivered along every nerve ending she possessed.
Oh, she really shouldn’t have let him do that.
And it got worse. He brought that thumb to his beautiful mouth and gave it a lick. Something low in her belly went liquid. Was Angela Abernathy watching?
Somehow, at this point, Van couldn’t bring herself to care.
She stared at his mouth, admiring his close-trimmed dark gold beard and mustache—a Vandyke, they called it. Like Custer at the Little Big Horn, like David Beckham and Viggo Mortensen. A Vandyke only looked good on a certain type of man.
The rugged, confident type.
“There’s a pie contest on the Fourth,” he said in a low, lazy drawl.
“I remember the pie contest.” She dropped her used paper plate and plastic fork into the trash basket by the pie table. “It’s held right here in Bronco Park at the town barbecue, am I right?” She might not live here anymore, but she knew her Red, White and Bronco events as well as any Bronco native. She sent a glance over her shoulder at Angela, just to see if the older woman had her eye on them. She didn’t. Angela had already packed up Van’s pie and moved on to filling a box with cookies for a good-looking fortyish woman Van didn’t recognize.
“Are you planning on baking a pie to enter in the contest?” asked Jameson.
She faced him again. Had he moved in even closer—or was that merely wishful thinking on her part? “I don’t bake, but I promise you, I will be eating.”
He gave her a slow once-over, sending more tingles spreading through her traitorous body. Some men made her uncomfortable when they looked her up and down. Not Jameson. He just made her yearn.
“A girl who likes her pie,” he said quietly.
“I’ll take that is a compliment.”
“Good. It was meant as one.”
“As I recall, Miss Bronco always judges the pie contest,” she said. At his nod, she added, “I’m betting on Charity to take the crown. She’s talented and so pretty—and she has a way with words, too.”
His eyes gleamed with pride as he said mildly, “I think she’s doing well. And she’s got her heart set on it, that’s for sure.”
“Tell her we’re all rooting for her.”
“That I will...” His voice wandered off into silence. He stared at her, and she stared back. Nobody else existed right then. She knew she should break the sudden spell that mutual attraction and scorching-hot memories had conjured between them.
But it just felt so good, standing there in dappled sunlight, the smell of pie on the air, staring at this beautiful man and almost wishing—
“Here you go, Vanessa.” Angela Abernathy cut off Van’s dangerous thoughts. She held out a pink bakery box. The cherry pie sat inside it. “How’s it look?”
