muscle jerked in his cheek and how the color of his eyes reminded her of a Siamese cat she once had named Murrow in honor of Edward R.
“If you could be any kind of vegetable,” she blurted out, “what would you be?”
He laughed, then rolled those deep blue eyes toward the ceiling. “What kind of dumb question is that?”
“It's not a dumb question.”
“Yes, it is.”
Holly gripped her pen and stared at him belligerently. This never happened to Barbara Walters. “There are no dumb questions,” she said. “Only dumb answers.”
“Right,” he said, just as Coral approached their table. “Well, let's get one.”
“Here's your Danish, hon,” the waitress said, sliding a plate in front of Cal.
“Coral, darlin',” Cal said, “I've got a question for you. If you could be any kind of vegetable, what would you be?”
“Broccoli,” the woman said without missing a beat while she set the other Danish on the table.
“See!” Holly yelped.
Cal glowered at her. “What do you mean ‘See’?” He looked up at Coral and snarled, “Why the hell would you want to be broccoli?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. It was just the first vegetable that popped into my head. It's a really dumb question, Cal. Can I bring y'all anything else?”
“No, thanks, darlin'.” He flashed a fairly smug grin across the table at Holly. “I rest my case.”
Putting her pen down and closing her notebook with a solid thump, Holly said, “You're just not into the spirit of the interview.” She reached for the Danish and took a bite.
Across the table, her companion didn't begin eating, but rather leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, all the while aiming a smile at her that struck Holly as inappropriately amused if not slightly arrogant. Okay. So she wasn't Barbara Walters. Maybe it was the vegetable part of the question that didn't quite work, she thought. Maybe she should have asked what kind of dog he'd like to be.
He was still giving her that nasty grin, so she swallowed the food in her mouth, then took a sip of orange juice. “What?” she demanded.
His head cocked a bit more to the left, slanting his grin. “What kind of vegetable would you be?”
She thought about it a minute, and the more she thought, the more she wanted to laugh. Dammit. Nobody in their right mind wanted to be a vegetable of any kind. “All right. All right. You win,” she said finally. “It was a dumb question. There. Are you satisfied?”
“Reasonably.” He sat forward and picked up his Danish. “How many people have you interviewed?”
“Hundreds,” she lied. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
They finished their meal in silence, and then—after a brief tussle over the check, which Holly won, by God—they walked out into the warm sunshine.
“What are your plans for the day?” Cal asked her.
“I thought I'd just wander around town and get some ideas for backdrops for camera shots. That sort of thing.” She was sorely tempted to ask if he'd like to join her, but decided she really shouldn't be distracted. She needed to focus on Honeycomb itself, not Honeycomb's favorite or least favorite son.
“Okay. Well, I guess I'll head back out to the ranch. Thanks for breakfast.”
“You're welcome.”
She tried not to feel sad or disappointed as she watched him walk away from her down the sidewalk. This was business, not pleasure, after all. She wasn't here to have fun. She tried, too, not to think about those long, obviously powerful legs heading in the opposite direction or the way the worn, sky blue denim of his jeans hugged that oh-Lordy just-right butt.
When he was a hundred or so feet away, he stopped and turned slowly back toward her.
“Zucchini,” he called.
“Excuse me?”
“The vegetable I'd want to be. Zucchini.” Then he laughed and walked away.
Holly laughed, too, then shook her head, wondering how she was going to get
that
image out of her head during the next week or so.
Chapter Seven
A fter Cal
“If you could be any kind of vegetable,” she blurted out, “what would you be?”
He laughed, then rolled those deep blue eyes toward the ceiling. “What kind of dumb question is that?”
“It's not a dumb question.”
“Yes, it is.”
Holly gripped her pen and stared at him belligerently. This never happened to Barbara Walters. “There are no dumb questions,” she said. “Only dumb answers.”
“Right,” he said, just as Coral approached their table. “Well, let's get one.”
“Here's your Danish, hon,” the waitress said, sliding a plate in front of Cal.
“Coral, darlin',” Cal said, “I've got a question for you. If you could be any kind of vegetable, what would you be?”
“Broccoli,” the woman said without missing a beat while she set the other Danish on the table.
“See!” Holly yelped.
Cal glowered at her. “What do you mean ‘See’?” He looked up at Coral and snarled, “Why the hell would you want to be broccoli?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. It was just the first vegetable that popped into my head. It's a really dumb question, Cal. Can I bring y'all anything else?”
“No, thanks, darlin'.” He flashed a fairly smug grin across the table at Holly. “I rest my case.”
Putting her pen down and closing her notebook with a solid thump, Holly said, “You're just not into the spirit of the interview.” She reached for the Danish and took a bite.
Across the table, her companion didn't begin eating, but rather leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, all the while aiming a smile at her that struck Holly as inappropriately amused if not slightly arrogant. Okay. So she wasn't Barbara Walters. Maybe it was the vegetable part of the question that didn't quite work, she thought. Maybe she should have asked what kind of dog he'd like to be.
He was still giving her that nasty grin, so she swallowed the food in her mouth, then took a sip of orange juice. “What?” she demanded.
His head cocked a bit more to the left, slanting his grin. “What kind of vegetable would you be?”
She thought about it a minute, and the more she thought, the more she wanted to laugh. Dammit. Nobody in their right mind wanted to be a vegetable of any kind. “All right. All right. You win,” she said finally. “It was a dumb question. There. Are you satisfied?”
“Reasonably.” He sat forward and picked up his Danish. “How many people have you interviewed?”
“Hundreds,” she lied. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
They finished their meal in silence, and then—after a brief tussle over the check, which Holly won, by God—they walked out into the warm sunshine.
“What are your plans for the day?” Cal asked her.
“I thought I'd just wander around town and get some ideas for backdrops for camera shots. That sort of thing.” She was sorely tempted to ask if he'd like to join her, but decided she really shouldn't be distracted. She needed to focus on Honeycomb itself, not Honeycomb's favorite or least favorite son.
“Okay. Well, I guess I'll head back out to the ranch. Thanks for breakfast.”
“You're welcome.”
She tried not to feel sad or disappointed as she watched him walk away from her down the sidewalk. This was business, not pleasure, after all. She wasn't here to have fun. She tried, too, not to think about those long, obviously powerful legs heading in the opposite direction or the way the worn, sky blue denim of his jeans hugged that oh-Lordy just-right butt.
When he was a hundred or so feet away, he stopped and turned slowly back toward her.
“Zucchini,” he called.
“Excuse me?”
“The vegetable I'd want to be. Zucchini.” Then he laughed and walked away.
Holly laughed, too, then shook her head, wondering how she was going to get
that
image out of her head during the next week or so.
Chapter Seven
A fter Cal
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