The Fantasy Factor by Kimberly Raye Page A

ask a man out to dinner. This woman’s definitely got stalker written all over her.”
    “She’s just lonely. Why, Myrtle told me that she hasn’t been out with a decent man in ages. Just that pesky old Norman Ritter, but he’s hardly a decent catch. He’s got big ears.”
    “What do ears have to do with being a decent catch?”
    “‘Decent’ implies good manners and good looks and a good work ethic. Norman’s got good manners and a good work ethic, but he’s only two out of three. You’re three out of three.”
    He peered out the window again and looked for movement before passing a hand over his face. “I can’t believe this.”
    “Dear, you look stressed. Sit down. Please.”
    He sank down into the chair, but he didn’t relax. He couldn’t because he had to tell the only maternal figure he’d had in his life to butt out. Even more important, he had to tell the most stubborn woman in his life to butt out, and he knew she wasn’t going to take it very well. “Miss Marshalyn, I know you want me to stick around.”
    “Of course, dear.” She patted his hand. “You belong here.”
    “That’s the thing. I don’t. I have an entire life away from here. I have to be in Vegas in two weeks for the PBR finals.”
    “You’ve already won that.”
    “You don’t just do it once. You have to go back every year to do it again. To prove you’re still the best.”
    “You already know that. What do you really need to go back for?”
    “Because this will be my tenth win if my rides go well.” If? He forced the question aside. “ When my rides go well. That’s a record. That’s a big deal. Don’t you see? I can’t stay here.” Can’t? “I don’t want to stay here.”
    “Not on an empty stomach.” She pushed a plate at him. “Have some breakfast and then go take a nap on the sofa. Afterward, you can have some sweet rolls.” She beamed and wiggled her eyebrows, obviously through talking about anything beyond her kitchen. “Homemade.”
    “You’re not listening….” His words faded off as her words struck. Sweet rolls? He sniffed and the funny aroma made his nose wrinkle. “You made sweet rolls? ”
    “I’m making them right now.” She walked to the stove and pulled open the oven door and the pungent aroma filled the kitchen, chasing away the appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon. “Mixed ’em up myself just a few minutes ago.”
    “Really?” He eyed the multicolored canisters sitting on the counter next to measuring spoons and a measuring cup. One held cinnamon and another flour and another salt.
    A notion struck and he lifted the measuring cup and eyed the white granules. His nose wrinkled and he ran a finger around the rim. Bitterness exploded on his tongue when he lifted his fingertip to his mouth. “Um, Miss Marshalyn?”
    “Yes, dear?”
    “Exactly how many cups of salt go into a batch of sweet rolls?”
    She laughed and closed the oven. “Why, you don’t put cups of salt in sweet rolls. Only a teaspoon. You put three cups of sugar.” She came up beside him. “Whoever heard of putting even a cup of salt in a batch of…” Her words faded as he handed her the measuring cup and she tasted what was left on the rim. “That’s salt.”
    “That’s what I thought.”
    “But it’s supposed to be sugar. I always keep the sugar in my navy canister.”
    “I hate to tell you, but this canister’s green.”
    “Green?” She squinted and held up the canister. “This is navy if I ever saw it.” She opened the lid and dipped her fingers into the contents. Her lips puckered. “This is salt.”
    “I know.”
    “There’s salt in my navy canister.”
    He started to tell her it was green, but then he saw the flash of fear in her gaze and he caught the words before they passed his lips.
    She shook her head and her lips thinned. “Why, I bet it was that Constance Sinclair. She’s always trying to prove to any and everyone that her pie is better than mine, and she knows I’m taking a