Summertime on the Ranch by Carolyn Brown (best electronic book reader .TXT) 📕

gorgeous tonight. Maybe we should forget all about cooking and go out to dinner at a fancy restaurant,” he suggested.

She handed the paper bag to him. “I’m cooking tonight, and then we’re making cookies. My mouth has been watering for sugar cookies all day.”

“What are you cooking?” He set the bag in the back seat.

“Chicken Alfredo. And I’m making a salad and I’ve got a loaf of Grammie’s homemade bread to go with it,” she said.

“And the wine?” he asked.

“It’s in my purse. Two bottles. One for supper. One for dessert.” She smiled.

“I always wondered why women liked big purses.” He shut her door and rounded the front of the truck. When he was behind the wheel, he adjusted the AC and shifted the gear into reverse.

“The bigger the purse, the more wine we can bring home,” she teased.

“You think two bottles is enough?” he asked.

“Depends on how much you drink. I’m Irish. I can hold my liquor, wine or even good beer. How about you?” she threw back at him.

“Is that a challenge?” he asked. “Because if it is, honey, I’ve got about five kinds of whiskey, a bottle of coconut rum, one of tequila, and two of vodka, and a six-pack of cold beer in the refrigerator. We can do shots, or even make a vodka watermelon if we run out of wine.”

“Oh, I do love a booze melon,” she said. “It’s crazy that I was raised right here in watermelon country and never had a vodka melon until I went to Nashville. Let’s stop by the watermelon field where the sugar baby melons are grown. They’re the best ones for wine and for vodka melons.”

“What’s the prize for the one who’s still sober enough to drive you home at the end of the evening?” he asked.

“A kiss good night.” She was definitely flirting.

“I don’t shave for a second time in a day for less than at least a thirty-minute make-out session if I’m the winner,” he shot back at her.

She stuck her hand across the console. “If I’m the winner, I get to name the time and place for that make-out session.”

* * *

Becca knew she was playing with fire, but Grammie had advised her to get to know him. What could be better than making out for thirty minutes? Besides, she’d missed him the past three days, and she’d never felt like that about any man in her past. With her work, time for dates was scarce, and there had only been one relationship—if six dates, one weekend in bed, and a couple of quick lunches could qualify as such.

They stopped by the watermelon field closest to the wine shed on the way back to the ranch, and Dalton insisted that he knew the difference between a sugar baby and the other types of melons. “You sit right there, and I’ll put a couple in the back of the truck. You can decide which one you want to juice up with vodka.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He thumped around on a few melons. Each time he cocked his ear to listen for a hollow sound. When he was satisfied that a couple of smaller ones would be perfect, he cut the vine with his pocketknife, tucked each one under an arm, and carried them out of the field. He gently laid them in the back of the truck and then crawled in behind the wheel. “Those should do the trick. After a bottle of wine, I bet we’ll be loosened up enough to dance.”

“We’re not going to the Broken Bit, are we?” she asked.

“No, darlin’.” He reached across the console and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We can dance in the living room and not have to bump into anyone else.”

That fire she’d thought about earlier seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. He drove across the road, parked the truck, and helped her out of the passenger seat. Then he picked up the bag of groceries in one hand and one of the melons in the other. “I guess you’ll have to open the door for me this time, but you’ve got to promise not to tell my mama or my nana. They’d tack my hide to the smokehouse door if they found out I wasn’t a gentleman.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said as she threw the door open and then followed him inside. She set her purse on the kitchen table and unloaded the things she needed to make supper from the bag. “I should have asked you whether you even like Alfredo.”

“Love it.” He uncapped a bottle of vodka, set the lid on the side of the watermelon, and used it as a pattern to draw a circle. Then he carefully cut a plug from the melon and inverted the bottle into the hole without spilling a single drop. A few air bubbles floated up to the top of the bottle and the vodka began to slowly seep into the meat of the melon.

“This is not your first rodeo, is it?” she asked.

“Nope, and I really like for the vodka to infuse into the melon for twelve to twenty-four hours. If we decide the wine is enough for our bet, then we can have this tomorrow night.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned, “Or maybe for breakfast in the morning?”

“I don’t think I’ll be around at breakfast, but you think there’s going to be a tomorrow night?” she asked.

“I can always hope,” he answered. “Now, what can I do to help with supper? I’m starving.”

“You can make a salad and slice the bread while I put the Alfredo together. The wine is chilled, and I see you’ve already set the table,” she replied.

“Did that when I came in for a lunch break,” he admitted. “Today was the slowest day in history. I began to think it was like the preacher said about a thousand years being as one day.”

She found a large cast-iron skillet under the cabinet and dumped the chicken she’d cooked the