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Chapter 1
Kinky Spurs was known for two things: fun and games. People came to the western-themed bar for the hot cowboys, naughty games that put smiles on the customers’ faces, live music, a ride on the mechanical bull, and the famous off-the-charts hot chicken wings capable of bringing men to their knees. For Chase Blackshaw, the best thing about Kinky Spurs wasn’t the place itself, it was a certain person that worked there.
Harper McKinney.
Dressed in the Kinky Spurs uniform of a tight, red T-shirt with Kinky Spurs written across her chest in bold, white calligraphy and tiny denim shorts, Harper was the finest woman in the room. But it wasn’t the sexy getup that hooked Chase; it was her sassy smile, deep hazel eyes, and long, honey-colored hair that he imagined draping perfectly over her naked flesh when he tasted every inch of her.
That woman standing behind the bar was everything beautiful in this world. And he wanted her. Badly.
This deep hunger he endured had not always been there. When she left their hometown of River Rock, a town nestled in the Colorado mountains, a few years ago to attend culinary school in Denver, she was the kid who had once made a name of herself. At fourteen years old, she had become the youngest contestant to make it to the finals on the culinary reality television show, MentorChef Teen. She’d baked at every fundraiser put on by the high school or any local business in town, including fundraisers put on by his family’s cattle ranch, Blackshaw Cattle Company. Everyone in town knew Harper’s name and how incredible her food tasted. Still, she had always been a kid he barely gave a passing glance to, considering she was three years younger; but all that had changed nine months ago.
When she returned to River Rock after completing her studies in Denver, she had come home a breathtaking woman, full of heat and lust, that Chase could not ignore. His body stood up and took notice of her. Literally.
Standing behind the bar with the neon KINKY SPURS sign above her head, she caught him looking at her and aimed a sultry smile in his direction. Christ, what that smile did to him. His fingers twitched to rip her uniform off, tie her up, and mercilessly tease her with his body in retribution for tormenting him in the way she likely knew tortured him.
The greasy aroma spilling out from the kitchen drew him forward. To her. His cowboy boots clicked against the hardwood floor as he passed the empty stage where the country music band would play later tonight and wove his way through the scattered tables. The bar was quiet, the highlights of the baseball game playing on the flat-screen TVs, soft chatter among the dozen customers there for dinner. Peanut shells littered the floor when he slid onto the stool at the bar.
Harper moved in front of him. “Don’t get too comfy, big guy. I’ve got something in the back for you.”
Her naked, preferably. He smiled. “Something sweet, I hope?”
He relished her darting tongue licking her lip. “Even better.” Her teeth grazed over her mouth. “Sweet and spicy.”
Christ, that damn smile was going to be the death of him. The way her pupils dilated with obvious arousal had become a drug he craved more and more lately. “That does sound better.” So did getting past all the teasing and getting down to business.
She grinned back, never shy about her perusal of him, then ducked under the bar, heading toward the back.
He followed, his mouth salivating not only at her, but also what awaited him in the kitchen. They had formed a tradition over the past two months. Every night after work, he would come in before the dinner rush and he would be her taste tester. She could have asked anyone to do this, and he liked to think she asked him because she wanted to cook for him alone. The only reason she wasn’t cooking for the Spurs stood at the stove, flipping a burger, with earphones stuck in his ears, when Chase entered the kitchen.
Antonio, Kinky Spurs’ chef, would be out of a job if Harper started working in the kitchen. Everyone knew it, and that’s why when she did cook, it was not during working hours, or so she had told Chase once while she fed him in the back kitchen.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her when she stopped at the end of the long, stainless-steel table with a stool in front. As he slid onto the stool, the very place he’d been sitting every late afternoon for the past three months, he asked, “What am I taste-testing tonight?”
“Iberian-style sausage and chicken ragù.”
She set the dish in front of him, and he chuckled. “So sausage and chicken pasta?”
“Basically, yes.” She nudged the bowl toward him. “Remember to be honest. I can take it.”
