His head tipped to one side for a moment. Then he nodded, the speculative look fading from his expression. “Because you had a rough day with the press and your family, I’m going to accept that as an answer tonight.”
“Magnanimous of you.” Despite the sarcasm in her tone, she appreciated him letting her off the hook. Her defenses were in tatters and in need of serious reinforcement. Backing up another step, she bumped into the porch swing and set it rocking before she stilled the chains with one hand. “Thank you.”
Gibson followed her, his moon shadow falling over her as she headed around the side porch to the front of the house.
“Just keep in mind that next time I’m going to remind you in detail how good kissing can be for both of us.” He said it as confidently as if he were on camera in the locker room, trotting out an opinion on an upcoming game.
We’re just going to play with the puck more and remember how effective it is to stay in our zone.
Lark shoved away the imagined sound bite in her head, telling herself she needed more sleep and less kissing to clear her mind of this man.
She arched an eyebrow. “Who says there will be a next time?”
His smile unfurled the deep dimple in one cheek that had cinched his spot on the “Men of Hockey” calendar for the last decade. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
Returning to Catamount from an all-day tour of a bison ranch over the Wyoming border, Gibson slowed his truck as he neared the local diner close to supper time. Thunder rumbled in time with his stomach since he hadn’t eaten all day.
He was hungry, yes. But he could have waited to grab a bite until he returned home.
The bigger draw was the place’s connection to the Barclay sisters now that owner Drake Alexander had offered for his chef fiancée, Fleur, to take over operations. She hadn’t done so, preferring to open a restaurant of her own down the road, or so he’d heard from the extremely forthcoming rumor mill that was the Cowboy Kitchen dining room. Still, Fleur provided baked goods daily for the operation, and Gibson had noted that one or both of her sisters frequently stopped by to give her a hand in the mornings.
Flipping on his directional as storm clouds gathered, Gibson suspected his chances were slim he could catch a glimpse of Lark now, an hour before closing time. That didn’t stop him from hoping. She’d been quiet for the last few days, ever since she’d stopped by his house and flipped his world upside down with that kiss. He’d been thinking of her nonstop in the meantime and hoping she wouldn’t change her mind about their date.
He hadn’t intended to push her about a follow-up kiss, all but guaranteeing there would be a second. But at the time, with the memory of her body pressed tight to his, her hands stroking over him like she craved more, taking things further between them felt inevitable. Imminent.
A date with destiny.
Her silence had him second-guessing, however, and he didn’t like that one bit.
His tires crunched over a pothole in the parking lot situated near the building that housed the restaurant along with a post office and hardware store, the latter a two-for-one shop. The place was as close as Catamount got to a shopping plaza, the sum total of downtown business fronts in a rural community.
Yet the parking area was more than half-full. Diner business had been booming since Fleur had taken the food offerings up a notch.
Gibson steered the truck into a space at the far end of a row and switched off the headlights while another bout of thunder rolled ominously, the sky growing dark even though the sun wouldn’t set for over two hours. He saw no sign of Lark’s rental car or the silver compact that belonged to Fleur, but he recognized Drake’s Super Duty pickup near the entrance. Did that still leave a small chance Lark could be inside with her sister?
Trying to ignore the surge of hope as he stepped from his vehicle and settled his hat on his head, Gibson heard the bell chime over the diner entrance followed by a male voice.
“...as soon as the case is closed. You know I’m good for it.” Something about the speaker’s tone—the bluff confidence of someone who thought highly of himself—made Gibson glance up sharply.
He recalled that voice.
Worse? He recognized the speaker—an overdressed out-of-towner from his too-slick suit to custom cowboy boots that had never spent a moment off of pavement. A careful comb-over and the flash of gold jewelry marked the guy as Lark’s estranged father, Mateo Barclay.
Grinding teeth at the sight of the man who’d cut Lark out of his life long ago, Gibson stalled his step, still unseen near a stake body truck from a local farm. He couldn’t have said what made him hesitate, perhaps an unwillingness to acknowledge the guy actively trying to steal away his daughters’ inheritance.
“I’ll make sure you are since your case goes nowhere without me.” The man who’d exited Cowboy Kitchen with Mateo was a weathered looking rancher in worn coveralls and boots. He dropped a battered Stetson onto his gray hair. “See you in court.”
A streak of lightning flashed in the sky while the two men seemed to size one another up on the step outside the diner. Gibson remembered the second guy was Antonia Barclay’s tenant, Josiah Cranston. Gibson had heard from Drake that the Barclay sisters tried to evict him from the old Crooked Elm foreman’s quarters, but with the estate tied up in probate, the eviction hadn’t been enforceable and the guy had refused to leave.
What did Lark’s slimeball father want with the disgruntled Crooked Elm tenant? Could it be as shady as it sounded?
Gibson’s feet were already moving toward the entrance while the men shook hands and Cranston lumbered toward a truck towing an empty horse trailer.
“Barclay, hold on.” Gibson hailed Lark’s father before the snake slid away.
The man paused in the act of smoothing his pinstriped tie over a slight paunch, his comb-over lifting off his head in a sudden gust of wind.
“If it isn’t my former son-in-law.” An oily smile spread over his face as Lark’s father walked toward him, one hand extended.