Arrogant Devil(25)
“And you’d trust me with it?”
“Do I have a reason not to?”
His gaze is so warm, and yet so cold all at once. Meeting it makes me feel like a tiny fist is punching me repeatedly in the gut. I’m surprised I still sound normal as I ask, “What’d you think of lunch?”
He shrugs, glancing down at the shirt I have knotted off at my waist, yet another of his hand-me-downs. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly before his gaze finds mine again. “I don’t usually like salmon.”
There’s a compliment in there somewhere, but I’d have to use a pickaxe to find it.
“Right, well, I saved the skin. It’s good for dogs.”
His brows rise as if he’s impressed. “Going to give it to Alfred?”
“Give it, drop it out back through the cracked door—tomato-tomahto.”
He shakes his head and pushes off the counter. “We really gotta work on that fear of yours.”
“Total avoidance is working out pretty well,” I quip. “I’ll just continue that forever.”
“Forever, huh? Strong words for someone on their second day.”
I try not to smile. “That’s how long I plan to stay—either that or until we’re so sick of each other that you fire me.”
“That’s how you think this is gonna end?”
Now we’re both fighting smiles. “I won’t be quitting, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He rubs the back of his neck as he turns for the back door. “We’ll see.”
It’s a cheeky little sendoff, and just like with everything else concerning Jack, it digs under my skin. We’ll see, I mouth snarkily to his back like a snotty grade-schooler, all the while watching him walk away. He reaches for his baseball cap on the hook by the door, slips it on over his chestnut brown hair, and then he’s gone.
Later that evening, after I’m done working for the day, I find an envelope tucked halfway underneath the door of the shack. Inside, there’s a small advance: $500 in cash.
Jack’s jagged handwriting adorns the front of the envelope: Stop wearing my clothes.
10
Jack
With summer in full swing, we’re right in the middle of our busy season for Blue Stone, and the restaurant is more popular than ever. This morning I went over there to meet with the head chef and the GM, and I approved a new seating layout so we can fit a few more tables out on the back porch.
Our vineyard and winery have been expanding for the last few years as well. I’ve been working on opening up a distribution channel between us and a few regional grocery store chains, but we’re still working out the terms. The dry weather last year hit us hard, and we weren’t sure we’d be able to keep up with supply. Funny enough, the shortage sparked more interest than usual, and what wine we were able to stock sold out as soon as it hit shelves. I’ve hired a few more growers to ensure that this season fares better than the last.
The manager for our wedding venue assures me we have more events booked than ever, says brides are having to inquire a year in advance to secure their desired dates, and even then, most of the highly coveted weekends are already double-booked with a wedding in the morning and another in the evening.
The fact is, with everything going on with the various Blue Stone businesses, I rarely find time to step out from behind my desk. It’s a shame considering how much I enjoy working outside, so I take advantage of every opportunity I can get—like right now, I’m in the middle of an all-hands meeting, checking in with the guys about the progress on a few projects around the ranch.
Too bad not a single one of them is listening to me. A few yards away, Meredith is stealing the show.
She’s out on the front porch with Alfred, attempting to conquer her fear by treating him to some of the salmon skin from yesterday’s lunch.
“Sit!”
Alfred sits for two seconds, gets overwhelmed with self-pride for obeying, and then leaps excitedly at her outstretched hand.
“I said sit! Sit!”
The problem is she’s holding the treat way over her head to keep it out of his reach, but he thinks she’s giving him a challenge: Oh! You want me to jump higher?!
“Very bad!” she admonishes, wagging her finger as if he’s fluent in sign language. “I’ll feed it to you as soon as you can hold a sit for more than a blink!”
He jumps up again and she squeals and flings the salmon skin away like it’s a hot potato. Alfred makes it disappear in two seconds.
It’s pitiful. None of us can look away.
“Where’d you find her, anyway?” Garrett, my ranch manager, asks. “They got mail-order California brides now?”
“She’s his new housekeeper,” Chris, my youngest ranch hand, interjects. “She just started a few days ago.”
He’s wearing a proud smile I find confusing.
Garrett wags his thumb toward her. “Why’s she wearing your shirt?”
Yes, why is she wearing my shirt? I groan thinking of the note I left on her doorstep yesterday afternoon. Apparently she decided to disregard it. Even worse, it looks like she’s actually cut the sleeves off of this one. Now I don’t even want it back.
“So is she a Russian bride or is she single?” someone else asks, inciting a round of snickers.