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“The kids?”
“Mom took the twins to Bozeman, but she should be back at my place by now. I ordered ribs and wings to take home.”
“I saw George getting busy back there.” Millie leaned against the bar. “What’s in Bozeman?”
“Santa?” Taz laughed. “I think?”
“It’s that time of year,” she replied lightly.
“It is.” Taz sat back. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
The plain truth was, Millie had more invitations for turkey dinner than she knew what to do with. Most folks were aware she had no family close by, a mother in California who she hadn’t seen since she was a teenager, along with a smattering of cousins spread across the country, and ever since her father had passed, they made it their mission to make sure she wasn’t alone on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Usually, she ended up at Mike Paul’s place.
“You doing turkey?” she asked.
“That’s the plan. Why don’t you come out to the ranch? I know Mom would love to see you.” He winked. “She’s convinced we’re destined to be together.”
Millie Sue laughed at that. “She wants to see you settled. You’re a thirty-two-year-old bachelor looking after two young kids. I get it.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, sitting back. “There’s that.”
George walked out with two large bags and set them on the bar. With a salute, he returned to the kitchen.
“He’s a strange guy,” Taz said, watching the cook weave through the tables.
“But his ribs are to die for.”
“True.” Taz paid for his food and drink, then paused before scooping up his dinner. “You see Bridgestone lately?”
“Not in a couple of days. Why?” Millie’s gaze dropped, and she grabbed a rag.
“Just wondering how close to the fire you got.” He stepped away. “Let me know about Thursday.”
Taz left, and with a glance at her watch, Millie realized she needed to get through the bar prep in order to leave early. She grabbed a bunch of lemons and limes and got busy sectioning them. By the time she finished dicing them into small slices, she’d not only cut her finger, which stung like hell, but she managed to get lemon juice in her eye—which, coincidentally, stung worse. She went to the washroom and took five minutes to flush her eye and clean her hands.
Once she was done with that, she loosened her hair from its knot and ran her fingers though the tangles. She’d taken the time to put on makeup this morning and was pleased to see her eyes still popped, though the darn right one was now red. Still, her color was good, and her lips still glistened. She had a change of clothes in her office and made quick work of it, pulling on a faded pair of jeans that fit like a glove, along with a fitted silk blouse the color of denim. She switched out her sneakers for a pair of leather boots that added four inches to her frame, and then threaded a delicate belt through the loops in her jeans, a soft black to match.
Jennifer had arrived for her shift and was behind the bar, and sitting on a bar stool chatting her up like a pro was Mike Paul. They both turned as she approached, with Mike Paul letting out a long, slow whistle when he spied her.
“Cut it out,” she said, setting her butt on the stool beside him.
“What?” he replied with a chuckle. “I can’t let you know how good you look?”
“Not with a whistle. What am I, a dog?”
“You’re far from that, sister.” Jennifer’s right eyebrow was raised, hilariously so, and she cocked her head to the side. “I haven’t seen you look like this in”—she raised her shoulders—“forever. What’s the occasion?”
“I think table four needs your attention,” Millie replied dryly, successfully evading an answer.
“Uh-huh.” Jennifer grabbed a couple of menus and stepped back. “We’re gonna talk at some point, because I need to hear all the details.”
“She’s right,” Mike Paul said softly. “You look really good, Mills.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“We could do this all night, you know. Trade one compliment for another. But I’m more interested in why you look so damn good. Or at least you confirming my thoughts on the matter.”
