Marriage, Maverick Style!. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Wow.”
“My family has been making good liquor for nearly a hundred years. When the story of the magic moonshine popped up on the wire services and the web, I read all about it. That was when it happened. I got the shiver.”
“Which shiver is that?”
“The one I get when I have a great idea—like packaging Homer’s moonshine for international distribution under the Drake label.”
“Sounds a little crazy to me.”
“Sometimes the best ideas are kind of crazy. I called Ryan. He gave me more details. Homer’s famous formula is supposed to be delicious. I want to find out if it’s as good as everyone seems to think—and if it is, I want it.”
“Be careful,” she warned. “Last Fourth of July, people drank Homer’s moonshine and then did things they didn’t even remember the next morning.”
“I take my business seriously,” he replied, his eyes level on hers. “And there are a lot of laws governing the bottling and distribution of alcoholic spirits. If I ever get my hands on Homer’s formula, there will be extensive testing and trials before the finished product ever reaches the marketplace.”
She tipped her head down and found herself staring at his boots. They were cowboy boots. Designer cowboy boots. The kind that cost as much as a used car. She sighed at the sight and lifted her gaze to him again. “It is kind of magical, what happened last year. I wasn’t here, but everyone said people had the best time of their lives. There was a lot of hooking up.”
“Thus, the Baby Bonanza.”
“Exactly. People behaved way out of character, lost all control. Homer put the moonshine in the wedding punch, which was only supposed to have a small amount of sparkling wine in it. Nobody knew what they were drinking.”
“I heard about that, too. The old fool is lucky nobody sued his ass.”
“At first no one knew how the punch got spiked. For a while, there was talk about tracking down the culprit and putting him in jail. It was months before Homer confessed that he was the one.”
“Was he ever arrested or even sued?”
“Nope. By then, folks were past wanting him to pay for what he’d done. It was getting to be something of a town legend, one of those stories people tell their kids, who turn around and tell their kids. It was as if Homer’s moonshine allowed people to be...swept away, to do the things they would ordinarily only dream of doing. I mean, this little town is not the kind of place where people go to a wedding reception in the park and then wake up the next morning with a stranger, minus their clothes.”
He leaned closer, so his forehead almost touched the brim of her hat, bringing the heat of his big body and the wonderful, subtle scent of his skin. “The whole aphrodisiac angle could be interesting—for marketing, I mean.”
“Marketing.” She put some effort into sounding less breathless and more sarcastic. “Because sex sells, right?”
“You said it—I didn’t.” His mouth was only inches from hers.
She thought about kissing him, and wanted that. Too much. To get a little distance, she brought up her hands and pushed lightly at his chest. “You’re in my space.”
One corner of that sinful mouth kicked up. “I think I like it in your space.”
She kept her hands on that broad, hard chest, felt the strong, even beating of his heart—and slowly shook her head.
He took the hint, leaning back against the bench again and sipping his beer. “Ryan tells me you’re from Bozeman.”
“Born, bred and raised.”
“You have a job there in Bozeman, Tessa?”
“I’m a graphic designer. I freelance with a small Bozeman firm—and I mean very small, so small the owner closes it down every summer.”
“And that gives you a chance to have a nice, long visit in beautiful Rust Creek Falls every year?”
“Exactly. I also take work on my own. I have a website, StricklandGraphix.com—that’s an x instead of a cs, in case you’d like to pay me a whole bunch of money to design your next marketing campaign.”
“Are you good?”
“Now, how do you think I’m going to answer that?”
“Tell me you’re terrific. I like a woman with confidence.”
She took off her hat and dropped it on the bench between them. “Glad to hear it. Because when it comes to design, I know my stuff.” Even if I was blackballed from the industry and am highly unlikely to work in a major design firm or ad agency ever again.
“Where did you study?”
“The School of Visual Arts.”
“In New York?”
She poked him with her elbow. “Your look of complete surprise is not the least flattering.”
“That’s a great school.” He said it with real admiration.
She shouldn’t bask in his approval. But she did. “One of the best. I worked in New York for a while after I graduated.”
“What brought you home to Bozeman?”
“Now, that’s a long story. One you don’t need to hear right this minute.”
“But I would love to hear it.” He was leaning close again, his arm along the back of the bench behind her, all manly and much too exciting. “You should tell me. Now.” How did he do that? Have her longing to open her mouth and blather out every stupid mistake she’d ever made?
Uh-uh. Not happening. “But I’m not telling you now—so let it go.”
“Maybe you’ll tell me someday?” He sounded almost wistful, and that made her like him more, made her think that he was more than just some cocky rich guy, that there was at least a little vulnerability under the swagger.
“I guess anything’s possible,” she answered, keeping it vague, longing to move on from the uncomfortable subject.
Again, he retreated to his side of the bench. She drank a sip of ginger ale. Finally, he said, “You looked amazing in that stork costume.”
“Oh, please.”
“You did. You looked dorky and sweet and intriguing and original.”
“Dorky, huh?”
“Yeah. Dorky. And perfect. Almost as perfect as you look right now. I couldn’t wait to meet you. And now I never want to leave your side.”
“I’ll bet.”
He put up a hand as though swearing an oath. “Honest truth.”
She let out a big, fake sigh. “Not so perfect with babies, unfortunately. Poor little Gil—that’s Kayla and my cousin Trey’s baby, the one I was holding during the parade.”
“I remember.”
“Did you hear him wailing?”
“I did. Yes.”
“He’s probably scarred for life after having me hold him for the whole parade.”
“I’m not much of a baby person, either,” Carson confessed with very little regret.
She teased, “So you’re saying that we have something in common?”
“I’ll bet we have a lot in common.” He sounded way too sincere for her peace of mind. She tried to think of something light and easy to say in response, but she had nothing. He picked up her hat, tipped it back and forth so the rhinestone accents glittered in the sunlight, and then set it back down between them. “Any particular