Loving Dallas(4)

The younger of the two rolls his eyes so I narrow mine.

My blood pressure skyrockets as he hops down from the ladder and smirks at me. “Think you can do it better, Red? Knock yourself out.”

He’s cocky in a way that reminds me of a southern boy who made me a woman. Taking a deep breath, I glance at the older gentleman still arranging the display. With the labels turned every which way.

“You know what? Why don’t you fellas take a break?”

“Gladly,” the one glaring at me says before walking away in a huff.

“Don’t worry about me. I got this,” I call out after him, causing several people in the Midnight Bay Bourbon Distillery to turn and look at me.

“My apologies, ma’am,” the older man tells me, scratching his beard as he climbs down from the ladder himself. His gray T-shirt has “Sanderson & Sons Convention Services” stamped on the pocket. “This is the family business, and believe me, not his first choice.” There’s heavy regret in his voice and I can see the resemblance. Junior is his son, apparently, and I just made an already tense situation worse.

Well now I feel like an *.

Sighing, I give him a genuine smile instead of my usual resting bitch face. “It’s okay. I’m just really particular. Y’all did great on this setup. I can handle arranging the bottles from here.”

He nods, but tense lines of worry are etched into his aging face. “We need this job, ma’am. The last thing we need is to lose Midnight Bay’s business because of an attitude problem. Please—”

“It’s Robyn,” I say, reaching out a hand and realizing I never introduced myself. I greeted them when they arrived by giving orders. Maybe bitchy has become my default setting. Damn fiery hair. “And no worries, Mr. Sanderson. It looks great.” I glance up at the nine-foot tower of bourbon bottles. It does look pretty fantastic, minus some hidden labels that can easily be fixed.

“I’ll just go, um, deal with—” He gestures toward the direction where his son stalked off.

“Good idea. Sorry if I was a little snappy. I’ve only recently been promoted to the head of this huge campaign and the stress must be getting to me.”

“Just doing your job, ma’am. Can’t fault you for that.” He winks, giving me a tired grin before following after his son.

The real reason I’m stretched within centimeters of my breaking point is the meeting I had with my boss this morning.

“This is huge for Midnight Bay. There is no safety net, no acceptable margin of error where this tour is concerned. Is that clear, Miss Breeland?”

I’d “yes, sir’d” my way through the half-hour meeting that detailed just how high the stakes were. It was made abundantly clear that my career would either rise or fall based on my performance heading up this campaign. For nine months I’d planned the pre-release, launch luncheons, and post-party events down to every last infinitesimal detail.

I got this. I fought for this opportunity and I’m not going to screw it up just because this particular client makes me a little twitchy. The promotion to public relations specialist is as good as mine.

But every other week it seems the king of country music wants a change. Two of his opening acts have been replaced within weeks of each other for undisclosed reasons, so that meant all new print materials. He didn’t like his picture on the life-size cutout for the display so it had to be reshot several times. He also didn’t care for the original placement of Midnight Bay’s logo on the art for the entourage of eighteen-wheelers that hauls his tour equipment, and I’m pretty sure he’s here today to discuss the shirts and hats he’s supposed to wear on the tour to promote the company.

I get heartburn just thinking about his next request.

I used to have plants in my apartment. They all died. Because I was never home to water them.

But that’s okay. It will all be worth it eventually. And if you want something done your way, you have to do it yourself, as my dad was fond of reminding me. Which reminds me of the display towering beside me.

The ladder dares me to climb up and gift everyone in the reception area a flash of my lace panties. My OCD brain tells me to get over myself and get my ass up there and fix those labels. Slipping out of my stilettos and tugging my skirt down, I grip the metal rails and make my way up several rungs. No one seems to be paying much attention to me, so I continue my ascent.

My equilibrium dances out of my reach for a split second, but I compose myself and angle the top two rows as they should be before taking a step down. Once I’ve completed the top four rows, I breathe a little easier.

There. The hard part is over.

I step down a rung, but I must’ve misjudged the distance because my foot slips and I see myself fall through the air before it happens.

As every muscle in my body tenses, the air whooshes out of my lungs and I flail hopelessly in an attempt to grab something solid.

Surprisingly, I don’t hear the crack of my skull on the slate floor. What I do hear is a man grunt out a noise on impact when I land in his arms.

“Whoa there, darlin’,” my knight in shining denim drawls. “Not that I wasn’t enjoying the view, but I’d leave the stunts to the professionals.”

From underneath a black Stetson, crystal-clear green eyes gleam with a twinkle of mischief and flirtation.