The Maverick - By Jan Hudson Page 0,1

dimples that made him almost pretty. “Griff. Griffin Mitchell.”

She stuck out her hand. “Cass. Cassidy Outlaw.”

“How about I buy you breakfast?”

“Thanks,” Cass said, “but that’s not necessary. I need to get home and dress for work.”

“What time do you have to be there?”

“Oh, nine-thirty or ten.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s only seven-thirty. We’ll make it quick. What do you like?”

“There used to be a great little place on the next block that served the best breakfast tacos you’ve ever tasted, but it’s gone now. That monster of a hotel gobbled up most of the neighborhood.” She nodded toward the lakefront and the several stories of concrete and glass where several small businesses had once stood.

“I take it you don’t approve.”

“You take it right,” Cass said. “I miss those tacos.”

“How about we try the coffee shop at the hotel?” Griff asked. “My treat.”

“Like this?” She looked down at her shorts and dirty T-shirt. “Austin is a supercasual town, but I doubt if they’d let us in the door as grungy as we are.”

“Let’s storm the gates out of spite.” Those blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “I understand the coffee is good and the omelets are first class.”

Never one to back away from a challenge, Cass said, “You’re on. Let’s go.”

He paid for the items in his basket, and the cashier, a middle-aged woman with a severe underbite, didn’t even mention that they’d been opened. In fact, she was so busy gawking at Griff she could barely wield the scanner. “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Paul Newman?” she asked, drool practically dripping from the corners of her bulldog mouth.

He smiled. “Once or twice.”

Cass hadn’t been around for Paul Newman’s heyday—she was more familiar with his salad dressing than his early movie roles—and she didn’t get the connection at first. Then she remembered a couple of classic films she’d seen on cable. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, of course, and another one in which he’d worn some sort of short toga. She couldn’t recall the name of the movie, but she remembered those eyes. They were the same mesmerizing color as Griffin Mitchell’s. No wonder women went ape over Newman back then.

“Ready?” Griff asked, touching her back. “Shall I get a taxi?”

She chuckled. “I think I can make it a block or two.”

They crossed the street, and she favored her knee slightly as they walked.

“Are you in pain?”

“It smarts a little. Nothing serious,” she said. “I’ll take a Tylenol later.”

“Damn,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I should have thought of that. If you’ll wait here, I’ll run back to the drugstore and get some.”

“Whoa.” Cass grabbed his arm. “Not necessary. You’re making too much of this. I have some in my car.”

“If you’re sure.” He seemed ready to sprint through traffic at her signal.

“Very sure.”

She felt a little strange going into the upscale hotel, but Griff walked in as if he owned the place. “Want to wash up first?” he asked.

“That would be great.”

They parted at the restrooms, and Cass cleaned up as best she could. She’d give twenty dollars for a brush right then, but settled for a finger comb, then rejoined Griff.

The hostess met them at the door of the coffee shop, to turn them away, Cass figured. Instead, she smiled brightly. “Good morning, Mr. Mitchell. Your usual table?”

“Yes, thank you, Helen.” He steered Cass to a window table overlooking the lake and the jogging path.

When they were seated, Cass lifted her eyebrows. “Your usual table, Mr. Mitchell?”

“I often stay here when I’m in town. I’ve been here a lot lately.” He opened his menu. “Are you a bacon and eggs person or a fruit and yogurt type?”

“If I can’t have breakfast tacos, I’m a French toast and sausage lover. You?”

“I like the omelets here.”

Coffee and a pitcher of orange juice arrived, along with a waiter to take their order.

Cass sipped her coffee. “Ahh. Caffeine. So you’re in Austin on business?”

“I am.”

“What business are you in?” she asked.

“I’m a lawyer.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I might have known.”

“You don’t like lawyers?”

“Some I do, some I don’t. I’m a recovering lawyer myself.”

He grinned. Why did he have such devilishly adorable dimples? “How does one become a recovering lawyer?”

“One gives it up for a healthier lifestyle.” Cass poured herself some juice.

“I see. And what do you do now?”

“I sell chili.”

He laughed. “With beans or without?”

“Bite your tongue, Yankee. No self-respecting Texan puts beans in chili.”

“Sorry. Where do you sell this chili?”

“In a little café called Chili