“Oh!” The explosive cry came out of her when a particularly hard thrust took her by surprise.

  She wanted to hold him inside her and enjoy the fullness of him—she wanted him to keep hitting that spot—but Trent pulled her almost all the way off him and forced her to beg for it. Her hips tried to maneuver down again in vain, and a low, infuriating chuckle escaped him.

  “God, Trent!” she exclaimed. She couldn’t articulate what she wanted anymore, not with words. A keening sound of longing filtered past her lips, and she didn’t care who might hear. She strained against his hold, and Trent’s fingers clenched the tight flesh of her backside as he eased himself back into her.

  Their bouncing resumed, more frantic than ever. The couch beneath them creaked and groaned.

  “Oh, God.” A shudder coursed through her. Trent’s hands slid up her back, skimming perspiration from her skin.

  “Do it,” he urged her. “Let go, Marianne.”

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure she could. The mounting pressure inside her, the bursts of bright sensation that overwhelmed her with increasing frequency, she was used to. But her pleasure usually stopped just short of that long-withheld release. Old anxieties raced through her head, competing with her current need to chase her pleasure. It had been too long. Her body wouldn’t remember how. And maybe worst of all was the fear that giving into her desire now would lead her back into unhappiness, despair, disconnection. Had she ever known lovemaking without it?

  But none of that fear could compete or compare with the feeling of being locked in Trent’s tightening embrace.

  “Come for me,” he said. He gazed at her and their eyes locked. She shuddered again. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with the weight of his passion, gave her permission. There was no expectation, no aggressive anticipation, just inevitability. He had never been inside her before, but Trent knew the signals of her body. He held her gaze, thrust himself deeper, and heat ballooned in her belly.

  When she came, it was as if a dam had broken. A cascade of sensation rolled through her, so powerful and unexpected that she cried out and tightened her quivering legs around him. Trent’s hands braced her back with an answering pressure, holding her in place. Marianne’s head fell back, and she gave herself over to the gorgeous man who had made it his business to give this orgasm to her.

  Her release had barely crested before Trent unexpectedly quickened his rhythm. Marianne rode his rapid thrusts, and before she knew it, her cries were mounting again. You can’t be serious, she thought in wonder. Her lips parted, her eyes widened in shock as her orgasm was arrested mid-fall and she started the climb all over again. Trent’s cock slid in and out of her in strokes that were maddeningly fast and too fleeting. God, why couldn’t he just hold her still and let her feel the full length of him buried deep inside of her? She just knew that was the key. Building up to that breaking point all over again was beyond her endurance. She couldn’t take any more of it!

  “Trent!” She cried his name in rapturous demand, and Trent locked his arms around her waist. He slid into her with a finality she hadn’t been expecting, and the tip of his cock struck that throbbing spot within her that ached for more. A second orgasm ripped through her, and she rocked in his lap as if she lived only for the pleasure she found in his arms. Trent hissed a low oath, and his fingers dug into her ass as if he was the one who needed to hold onto something.

  When Marianne once more had the awareness to take in what had happened, she realized she had come with Trent that second time. His grip on her relaxed, and she collapsed against him with a rough exhalation. She rested against his fever-hot chest, enjoying the feel of his solidity beneath her.

  “I needed that,” she said, when her pulse had quit racing. “I’d forgotten what it felt like, letting someone that close.”

  Trent trailed a big hand down her bare back. “Been a while for me too. But well worth the wait.”

  Marianne just sighed and rolled onto her back, her head on his shoulder, her leg slung over his. The couch was too small to lie side by side, but they made it work anyway, snuggling in tight. Had things ever felt this easy with Simon? She tried to think back to their early days, but soon gave up the effort and pressed closer to Trent. The past was behind her. She wanted to live in the moment as long as she could. For moments like this, and good times to come. Behind her lay heartache, but ahead of her, who knew?

  “I’ll make this work,” she said, mostly to herself. Trent raised himself on one elbow to steal a soft kiss.

  “You mean the Honky-Tonk? Or this, us, right here?” He gestured at the two of them, their entangled limbs. Marianne winked at him and kissed him back.

  “Guess you’ll just have to wait and find out.”

  10

  MARIANNE

  Marianne mopped at her brow and blew out a harsh breath. She was a mess and she knew it, glistening with sweat, her hair straggling out of her itchy hairnet. If you couldn’t take the heat, you got out of the kitchen. Everyone knew that. But what if it was your kitchen, and your whole future depended on what you did there?

  She checked on her cornbread—baking up fluffy and hot—and laid the chicken-fried steaks in the cast-iron pan. Everything smelled great, but the taste was what mattered. And not poisoning anyone, but her kitchen was clean. Trent had done his part gathering the troops, Trevor and Sabrina, Charlie and Dylan, and a couple of ranch hands from Wildhorse Ranch.

  “They’ll be honest,” he’d promised her. “But don’t worry, okay? They want to see you succeed as much as I do. Whatever the verdict, they’ll deliver it with love.”

  Marianne wondered what “ew” would sound like, delivered with love.

  “Hey, how’s it coming?” Trent poked his head in the door. “Whoa, it’s hot in here. Did something catch fire?”

  “I’m going to set you on fire, if you don’t watch it.” Marianne set down her tongs and turned to the big fridge. “I’m about to bring out the first course, if you could watch the pan.”

  Trent’s brows went up. “Watch it do what?”

  “Just watch it to make sure the steaks don’t burn. Wait till they’re golden brown, then flip ‘em.”

  Trent took over at the stove and Marianne laid out her first course on a serving cart. She wheeled it out carefully, mindful not to spill, and slapped a smile on her face as she rolled up to the table. Charlie leaned forward to see what she’d brought.

  “Pea soup?”

  “Not quite.” She straightened, head spinning, and took a steadying breath. This was her first time meeting most of these people. Dylan was still in her white lab coat—she’d taken her lunch hour to come to this tasting. If she left unsatisfied—

  “Oh, I know what this is! Charlie, you’ll love it.” Dylan smiled, reassuring, and patted Charlie’s arm. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’d live on pizza and beer given half a chance.”

  Charlie opened his mouth, as though to protest, but Trevor shook his head at him.

  “You know it’s true.”

  “Fine, fine, it’s true.” Charlie slumped in his chair. “But I’ll eat your green soup. It can’t be worse than Coach’s kale smoothies.”

  “No kale, I promise.” Marianne smiled at the Wild brothers’ banter, feeling more relaxed with the laughter around the table. “This is green gazpacho,” she said. “It’s a kind of cold soup with an avocado base, but the fun part about it is it’s kind of a…build your own soup.” She began setting small bowls of toppings on the table—diced vegetables, croutons, salty anchovies. “You can take all the toppings or none at all, and have your gazpacho the way you want it.”

  A tall man at the end of the table held up his hand. Marianne nodded at him.

  “Yes? You had a question?”

  “More of a comment,” he said, with a friendly smile. “I’m Pete, by the way. I work on the ranch. And my ma used to make this stuff. You guys’ll love it.”

  Marianne started ladling the soup into bowls. She hadn’t yet bought a soup tureen, so she served it from the pot, but if anyone minded, they kept it to themselves. Charlie loaded his soup with every single topping, even the anchovies, to Trevor’s disgust. Trevor took just croutons, and Dylan went for veggies. Pete added pepper and cubes of cucumber. Sabrina watched everyone else, maybe waiting to see whose turned out the best.

  “So good,” Dylan said, her eyes fluttering shut. “Mmm…Is that lemon? It’s rich, but not too rich. Perfect for summer.”

  “You should sit down and eat with us,” Pete said, trying his. “Mmm…just like Ma used to make.”

  Sabrina spooned some cucumber and sprinkled on pepper, then after a moment’s thought, she added tomato. She took a nervous bite, then her face lit up. “I have to say, I had reservations—I mean, cold avocado soup? But this is amazing. Like spooning up salsa. Pete’s right, sit with us. Have some yourself.”

  “I can’t,” Marianne said, though she would have liked nothing more. She liked Dylan already, and Sabrina was great. Even Trevor didn’t seem much like Trent’s evil twin—just a little quiet, with a slow, thoughtful smile. “You guys enjoy, though. Have as much as you want. The next course should be ready in about twenty minutes.”

  She hurried back to the kitchen to find Trent in oven mitts, setting her cornbread on the counter.

  “Your timer went off,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Perfect,” Marianne said, and reached for a fork. She poked it into her cornbread and found it light and fluffy, perfectly golden on top and cooked to perfection in the middle. The delicious smell drifted up on a warm cloud of steam, and as she breathed in, she felt her nerves ebb away. Gazpacho had been a risk, for the first course. A lot of folks got nervous at the thought of cold soup. But the whole table had seemed to enjoy it, if their easy praise was anything to go by. Of course, the real test would be how much they left in the pot, if they went back for seconds or barely finished their first helpings.

  “You’re doing great,” Trent said. He slid his arms around Marianne’s waist, his warmth almost suffocating in the heat of the kitchen. She leaned into him anyway, glad for his presence. She’d almost told him no when he’d offered to help, but she had to admit she’d have had a rough time trying to go it alone.

  “You should go out and grab some soup before it’s all gone,” she said, when Trent pulled away.

  “I stole some already while you were dredging the steaks.”

  “You what?” Marianne flicked a dish towel at him, but without any rancor. “What did you think? Too cold? Too much lemon?”

  “Not enough chips to dip. I could’ve scarfed the whole pot.” He winked and dodged out of dish towel-flick range.

  Marianne laughed and turned back to her steaks. Normally, she would have served them with her own crisp whole-cone hops pilsner, a recipe she’d perfected through years of trial and error. But today, a nice, store-bought IPA would have to do. Something zesty, refreshing, to complement the black pepper from the batter and keep the meal from feeling too greasy. She couldn’t wait to get brewing again, to get her hands dirty, to—

  To face Simon again.

  The thought hit her like a splash of cold water. Her skin prickled with goosebumps despite the humidity of the kitchen.

  “Hey.” Trent set his hand on her shoulder, perhaps sensing her discomfort. “Don’t stress, okay? My family won’t bite.”

  Marianne nodded, but her stomach didn’t unclench. Trent’s family was great, but Simon was…Simon, still gatekeeping her dreams after a year apart. Ruining what should’ve been a pretty great moment.

  Only if I let him. Marianne stood up straighter. She served up the main course with a smile on her face, a smile that grew brighter when she saw her soup was all gone.

  “We tried to stop him,” Pete said, gesturing at Charlie. “Said you might want some leftovers, but he ate the last bowl.”

  “Hey, I’m an athlete! I’ve got a big appetite.” Charlie grabbed a chunk of cornbread and took a big bite. Dylan rolled her eyes.

  “You’re supposed to dip that in the leftover gravy.”

  “Says you,” Sabrina said. “I like mine with butter.”

  Trevor ignored them all, spooning a large ladle of gravy over his steak. Trent grabbed a piece of cornbread and plopped down beside him, and Marianne saw what he’d meant about the contrast between them. Trevor had a deeper tan, and his face was more weathered, his love for the outdoors etched into his skin. But his laugh was just like Trent’s, warm and wholehearted. Maybe the two brothers had more in common than they thought—though Marianne guessed she shouldn’t say as much to them.

  After the steak, Marianne served dessert, a cherry pie with a scoop of ice cream and a glass of Cherries Brewbilee. The pie was a hit, but the beer was a smash hit, everyone exclaiming over its rich taste.

  “I could drink this all day,” Sabrina said.

  “I wouldn’t,” Dylan said. “Not at your size. You’d be under the table in three bottles flat.”

  “I’d come here for lunch,” Trevor said, wiping his mouth. “And that’s saying something. When I eat in town, it’s always the diner.”

  “Me too,” Pete said. “It’s fancier than I’m used to, but it’s good, hearty food. This steak’ll see me through an afternoon’s work.”

  Dylan forked her last bite of cherry pie into her mouth, and washed it down with the last of her beer. “Will you deliver? Because we’d be all over that at Lockhart Bend General. Our cafeteria’s not horrible, but this is great.”

  Marianne sputtered, flushed from all the praise. “Delivery, I…I hadn’t thought that far ahead. We’ll definitely have takeout, if you can pick it up. But I can look into drivers once I’m on my feet.”

  “You should talk to Hazel at the diner,” Trevor said. “They’ve just started doing delivery. She can warn you of the pitfalls.”

  Marianne felt like she should be writing this down, but Trent took her hand and squeezed it, and she relaxed. She could talk to him any time if she forgot the details—who to talk to at the diner, where to advertise. Meanwhile, it felt good to bask in her moment. They’d all loved her food. Devoured every bite. She’d still need to figure out a few more dishes, and design a kids’ menu, and rethink her décor, but here, surrounded by bright smiles and empty plates, she felt her confidence growing for the first time in weeks.

  Trent left with Trevor when the meal was over, headed out to the ranch to help him move some junk. Marianne washed the dishes and left them to dry. She wiped down her cast-iron pan and scrubbed the counters till they sparkled. She swept all the floors and mopped for good measure, and then there was just one thing left to do.

  Marianne stood on her back porch, gulping in deep breaths of fresh lavender. The scent was supposed to be soothing, but her pulse pounded in her ears. She hadn’t spoken to Simon since their divorce was finalized. Hadn’t thought she’d need to, but now…

  “I can still have my dream,” she reminded herself. “He can’t hold it hostage.”

  Her hand shook as she pulled out her phone. Her thumb left a sweat-streak on the cool glass. Still, she pulled up his number and composed a text.

  We need to truck, she typed. Damn autocorrect. Deleting it, she tried again.

  We need to talk, she wrote, and this time, she hit send. She dropped to her knees, suddenly dizzy and sick and elated in equal measure. She’d done it. She was taking her life back. And not even Simon could stand in her way.

  11

  TRENT

  Marianne wasn’t listening. She’d been distracted since the test lunch, jumpy and edgy, working nonstop. He’d thought the family meal would relax her, especially considering her menu was great, but instead, it seemed to have cranked her stress level up to eleven.

  It had been eight days since their trip to the Stomper. Since the night that followed and the sweet morning after. Eight long, agonizing days of seeing Marianne, speaking with Marianne, stealing the odd kiss in the heat of the kitchen, but mostly it had been eight days of helping her redecorate the Honky-Tonk for her new direction. She was running on no budget, but Sabrina had come through with a wealth of DIY ideas, and even pitched in when Wildhorse could spare her.

  The place was coming together, but eight days. Eight days. Over a week with no resolution to the fantastic sex he’d had with Marianne. Their relationship was still as open-ended and unlabeled as the spare bottles stacked in Marianne’s garage, and Marianne didn’t seem to notice or care. Now she was in the kitchen, checking her phone again. Whose call was she waiting for? Why the deep frown?

  He came up behind her. “Hey. Something wrong?”

  Marianne jerked and nearly dropped her phone. “Sneak much? You scared me.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.” He’d practically been stomping, in his heavy work boots.

  “I’m fine,” Marianne said. She jammed her phone in her pocket. “Just a lot on my mind, is all, with the grand opening.” She frowned. “I’m worried it’ll send mixed messages, opening now. Am I a restaurant? A brewpub? Something in between? Maybe I should hold off till after the contest. If I win, I don’t know…”

  “I wouldn’t,” Trent said. “You’ll miss all the crowds from the Summer Festival that way. That big a head start, and you can afford to open in stages.”

  “Yeah. It’s just…mm, that feels good.” Marianne’s shoulders loosened as Trent massaged them. All the rough work around the Honky-Tonk was done, so Marianne had traded her usual jeans for a pair of tight shorts that hugged her shapely ass and slender legs. Her porcelain skin was tinged with the beginnings of a tan, a hint of caramel that looked good enough to eat.

  Trent wanted to run his tongue along Marianne’s arm, just to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked. He wanted to trail kisses along her inner thighs, feel them tense and quake despite her best efforts to hold still. He wanted to tear the thin material of her white tank top, buy her a new one, and repeat the process as many times as she would allow.