She waltzed through the bedroom door in that regal manner of hers and Reese almost felt as if he’d been dismissed. The woman was enough to make a man chew nails and spit rust.
He frowned. What the hell did she mean, develop a new menu? He had a terrific menu, with plenty of variety, if he did say so himself. Why fix it if it ain’t broke? And besides, she was supposed to be doing what he said, not messing with his menu or improving the efficiency of his kitchen.
Oh, no. The kitchen. If Sydney started rearranging things in the kitchen, Corky would kill him. He had to get down there before the woman caused too much trouble or any blood was shed, though that blood was probably going to be his own, Reese knew.
Whatever Corky did to him—and it was probably going to be painful—Reese figured he’d earned it. It was his own stupidity that had started this ridiculous bet. He’d made his own bed, so the saying went, and he’d have to sleep in it.
But the thought of beds brought his mind back around to the look in Sydney’s eyes as she’d admired his. Those lips of hers that had gone soft, those long, slender fingers moving on the bedpost….
Dammit! He bet she’d done that on purpose, just to get to him. Well, he refused to let Sydney Taylor get the better of him. He wasn’t interested in her like that, anymore than she was interested in him.
But now that he thought about it, when she’d told him that he wasn’t her type, she’d tilted her head and touched her chin. Exactly what she’d done last night every time she’d bluffed.
Nah. Reese laughed at the possibility of anything more than an adversarial relationship with Sydney. Besides, as annoying as it was, it was also great fun sparring with her. Why spoil a good thing?
Boomer chose that moment to come bounding through the open bedroom door. With a shrill bark, he jumped on the bed and slipped his head under Reese’s hand.
“Thanks a lot, pal.” Reese rubbed the dog’s ear. “This is all your fault I’ve got Sydney the Hun driving me insane.”
Boomer slapped his tail on the blanket.
Shaking his head, Reese chuckled as he slipped out of bed. If there was one thing he could be certain of, the next two weeks were certainly going to be interesting.
War had been declared, and there was no question in Reese’s mind who the victor would be.
Outside Reese’s small carriage house, Sydney leaned back against the closed front door. Beside a black wrought-iron porch column, one large pot of rose-pink bouvardia sweetly scented the cool morning air, and a family of sparrows chattered excitedly in a nearby maple. Weathered clay pots of flowering cabbage dotted the moss-lined brick walkway that led back to the tavern, and a rusted metal tub nestled beside a concrete bench spilled the fading blooms of purple crocus.
Any other time, Sydney would have stopped to admire the beauty of the English-style garden with its double-tiered fountain and rose arbor. She’d had no idea such a lovely spot existed behind the tavern. But then, she’d never been in Reese Sinclair’s bedroom before, either.
Her senses still reeled from the experience.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow, calming breath. Even now, outside in the fresh morning air, she could still see him as vividly as when she’d stood in his bedroom. The blush she’d managed to hold back inside now bloomed on her cheeks. Her skin felt warm and tingly. Heavens, but the man was something incredible to look at. Long and lean, with broad shoulders and a wide chest sprinkled with coarse, dark hair. His arms were muscled, his stomach tapered, without an ounce of fat.
When the blanket had slipped down, her heart had skipped rope. He’d been naked under those covers, she was certain of that, and standing in his bedroom, surrounded by that masculine scent of him, staring into his sleepy, sexy eyes, she’d found it difficult to breathe.
And then she’d wondered what it would be like between those warm, rumpled sheets with him. What those sculpted muscles would feel like under her hands, how his tall, hard body would fit against her own.
She’d distracted those wayward thoughts by fawning over his bed. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, but the only reason she’d known specifics was because she’d actually been at the auction and she’d admired it then, as well. She’d picked up a French Victorian buffet herself that she intended to use in the entry of her restaurant.
But that buffet had definitely not been on her mind when she’d been kneeling beside Reese’s bed. In spite of her yammering on about carvings and stains, she’d had more lascivious thoughts in mind. And she’d walk naked through a blizzard before she’d let Reese know that.
Honestly. If the man’s empty head got any bigger, he’d have to wear lead shoes on a warm day to keep from floating away. The last thing Reese Sinclair needed was another female admirer. And the last thing she needed was to have her head turned by a superficial, immature rake whose single most recurring thought was about sex.
Tip her tiara, indeed.
Not likely.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched back to the tavern, determined not only to honor her end of this ridiculous bargain, but to put all prurient thoughts about Reese Sinclair out of her mind.
She hadn’t spent nine months in culinary school and restaurant training for nothing. Squire’s Tavern was distinctly eighteenth-century English: Tudor design with dark woods, rough-hewn oak beams, peg and groove floors, and a massive stone fireplace. There was a warmth to the tavern that welcomed its customers, and the food was very good. She was particular to the hamburgers and French fries herself.
Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t areas that could stand a little improvement. A tweak here, a nip there. Why not pass along a few of the ideas that had popped into her head as she’d walked through the main restaurant area this morning?
And anyway, Sydney thought as she let herself in the back door of the tavern, no matter what she did, Reese probably wouldn’t notice at all.
Three
“Who the hell put tablecloths on these tables?”
Fists on his hips, Reese stood in the center of the tavern and glanced around the room. Crisp, white linen tablecloths covered the black oak plank tables. In the center of every table, small crystal vases each held one single pink rose. Though he kept the tablecloths and vases in his back storage room, he’d only used them a few times for private parties.
“Sydney!”
He’d left her alone too long, dammit. He’d showered in record time, threw on a white shirt, his Sunday blue jeans and black bullhide boots, then hightailed it over here. And still that wasn’t fast enough to keep the blasted woman from causing trouble.
Tablecloths and flowers, for God’s sake.
“Sydney!” He turned and stalked toward the kitchen door. “Where the devil—”
He was going in as she was coming out. The door slammed into his nose with a loud thwack. An arrow of hot pain shot straight through his skull, then exploded into thousands of tiny, blinding white stars. His oath was loud and raw.
“Reese Sinclair, what kind of talk is that?” Shaking her head, she moved past him, a small blackboard and easel in her hand, oblivious to the fact she’d just rearranged his septum. “Are you always this cranky in the morning?”
“Cranky?” Holding his nose, he followed her to the front door. “You haven’t even begun to see cranky.” His growl was nasally. “But I guarantee you, Syd, it’s coming in on a fast-moving train.”
She clucked as she slid open the heavy wrought-iron latch on the front door. “Maybe you should have slept in. Lord knows you shouldn’t be around people if this is how you behave in the