Unless she turned him down again.
He let out a sigh. He hoped she didn’t. He couldn’t wait to be close to her once more. Now that he’d given himself permission to think about pursuing her, all his pent-up desire for her had burst free. He’d been keeping it at bay through sheer doggedness, and his self-restraint was fraying fast.
He and Camila had always worked together that way, even if they’d dated only a few months. Since they’d split up, he’d missed hanging out with her, going to hear live music at the Dancing Boot and pulling her close on the dance floor, taking drives on snowy country lanes and talking for hours. But it was the thought of their nights together that haunted him when he couldn’t sleep.
Could he get her alone so he could ask her on a date without everyone else hearing? Fila was working in the back of the tent. Maya Turner was taking orders—which was a problem Carl hadn’t anticipated. When he and Camila had been dating, the Coopers had just returned to town after several years away, and the ancient Turner/Cooper feud had been on a low simmer. It hadn’t interfered with their relationship, even if they’d lived on the rival ranches.
Since then, the feud had heated up. Carl didn’t know the details. Wasn’t sure if it really mattered. Whenever you talked to a Cooper about the Turners, all you got was a laundry list of complaints, some that dated back over a hundred years and others as fresh as last week. Now the conflict was as hot as the eighty-five-degree temperatures that were nudging Chance Creek into an early summer, and everyone knew it would take only one spark to really set off a blaze between the families. Carl had heard about a minor altercation at the Dancing Boot between Lance Cooper and Liam Turner last weekend.
He’d have to watch what he said in front of Maya. No one needed a fight on a day like this.
He had eaten his breakfast around sunup, and by the time he made it to the counter of the concession stand, where Maya manned the till under the large white canopy, he was ravenous. And hot. A trickle of sweat made its way between his shoulder blades under his black cotton T-shirt.
Fila came to deliver a plate of food to another customer, flipped her long black braid over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Carl. How are you doing?” She was sensibly dressed in a light cotton sundress. The heat didn’t seem to bother her.
“I’m great.”
Fila raised her eyebrows at his enthusiasm. “Finally found a ranch?” she quipped.
Hell, what was that supposed to mean?
He told himself to calm down. Fila’s question was innocent; it was no secret he’d been looking for a long time. “Actually, yeah, I did.”
Fila blinked in surprise, leaned closer and asked, “Does that mean you’ll finally ask her out again?” She nodded almost imperceptibly at Camila, still manning the grill, and Carl bit back a groan. He wasn’t ready to take this show public.
“Ask who out?” Maya chirped. “Who’s caught your fancy, Carl?”
Camila looked up from the grill, caught Carl’s gaze and swiftly looked away. Had she heard Maya?
She must have.
Carl sent a pointed look Fila’s way. “No one. Mind your own business, Maya.”
“Fine. Next.” She looked past him to the man standing behind him and waved him forward.
“Maya. Carl’s a paying customer.” Fila shook her head. “What’ll you have, Carl?”
“A plate of your butter chicken nachos.”
“Good choice.” Fila leaned closer again. Lowered her voice. “Sorry about that.”
Carl made sure Maya was busy talking. “I may not be a Cooper, and Camila isn’t a Turner, but it wouldn’t do to rile up that crowd.”
“You think your landlords care who you date?”
“They do if an honorary Turner is involved.” He glanced at Camila again. She was doing a good job pretending not to notice the conversation, but he had a feeling she was trying to listen in. He raised his voice again. “Anyway, I’m putting in an offer on a ranch first thing in the morning. Plan to settle here for good.”
“It’s about time,” Fila said in an equally loud voice before whispering, “You’re lucky no one else has come along to steal her heart, you know.”
“Who’s heart?” Maya asked, startling both of them. Her customer had stepped to the side to wait for his order, and she’d bent closer to hear their conversation.
“No one’s,” Carl growled.
“It could happen, you know,” Fila told him with an admonishing shake of her head. “There’s a lot of fish in the sea.”
He knew that all too well. Had been bracing himself for three years against the possibility Camila might pair up with someone else. Get married.
Be lost to him forever.
“Who. Are. You. Talking. About?” Maya demanded.
Carl paid for his order and stepped aside to wait for his food without answering her, and Maya let out a little huff. “Coopers,” she said derisively.
“Carl’s not a Cooper,” Fila told her.
“He might as well be. He worships them. And he acts like them, too. Stubborn as a mule.”
Carl kept his cool. He’d never understood the feud between the two families or how someone as level-headed as Maya could fall under its sway.
But all the Turners were like that. Dead set against the Coopers. And vice versa.
Was that why Camila wasn’t looking at him? He knew she got a great deal on rent from the Turners. Maybe she didn’t want to put that in jeopardy just to chat with him.
Or maybe he was too late.
Fila leaned toward him again. “Do you want to talk to her?” she asked in a low voice, keeping an eye on Maya, who had waved another customer forward.
“Hell, yeah.”
“Hold on.” Fila moved to Camila’s side and said something to her. Camila shook her head, but Fila kept talking until Camila finally straightened.
“Fine,” he heard her say.
“Here you go. One plate of butter chicken nachos,” Fila said a moment later, delivering his meal, a satisfied gleam in her eye. “She’ll meet you over there in ten minutes. Keep out of sight of the booth.” She pointed in the direction of the portable toilets set a discreet distance away from the rest of the festivities. “Next,” Fila called out.
Carl walked away. The portable toilets might not be his first choice as a rendezvous spot, but who cared? This was his chance to repair the damage between them—and he meant to make the most of it.
He’d gone only about twenty paces away from the food tent, however, when something sharp prodded him in the side.
“Carl!”
“Hell!” Carl nearly dropped his nachos as a sharp-eyed, gray-haired woman poked the tip of her umbrella into his rib cage again. He sidestepped her third attempt to spear him. “Virginia—you nearly made me lose my food!”
Carl’s anger didn’t faze her. Nothing fazed Virginia Cooper, matriarch of the Cooper clan and his landlord at Thorn Hill. Since he’d moved onto the spread, he’d come to enjoy the younger generation of Coopers, despite their ready tempers, but Virginia was another matter. Virginia would try the patience of a saint. It wasn’t her age—her eighty-four years hadn’t slowed down her keen acumen, her fast stride or her sharp tongue.