CHAPTER ONE #2
“Are you saying your employees are dangerous?”
“I’m saying they’re men. And I don’t need complications.”
“I think your ranch hands will survive my presence without losing their minds.”
She was trying to look all buttoned-up and professional when any man with eyes could see the soft curves and warm skin underneath.
“You’d be surprised,” I said, my voice dropping lower. “Pretty woman shows up on a ranch full of men who haven’t seen one in weeks? You’ll be a distraction. And distractions get people hurt.”
Color rose in her cheeks, but her gaze didn’t waver. “I’ll stay away from the bunkhouse. Any more rules?”
Yeah. Stop looking at me like you’re not afraid of me. Stop making me notice things I don’t want to notice. Stop sitting there smelling like sunshine when I’m trying to remember why I don’t let women close anymore. “No.”
“Good.” She pulled a notepad from her bag. “Can I see the files now?”
“In a minute. I have a few more questions.”
She set the notepad on her lap and waited.
“You married?” I asked.
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is if he’s going to show up here demanding to know why you’re living with another man.”
She gave me a look that was somewhere between amused and annoyed. “There’s no boyfriend. No husband. No exes. No one who’s going to show up here.”
“Good.” I didn’t know where that feeling of relief came from, so I pushed it away. Shoved it down deep where it belonged. “There’s just one more rule. There will be no mention of Valentine’s Day in this house.”
I could see my statement, my order, surprised her. That meant Rhett hadn’t warned her about my hatred for that particular date.
She blinked. “What?”
I nodded toward the calendar on my desk. “Valentine’s Day.”
She followed my gaze to the calendar. February fourteenth was circled, with a sharp slash of red through it.
When she looked back at me, something had shifted in her expression. Understanding, maybe.
“That’s a little harsh, but I agree with the sentiment. I think the day is a commercialized waste of time designed to make people feel inadequate if they’re not in a relationship or guilty if they don’t spend enough money proving their love.”
That was the best answer I’d heard in years. And it made her even more dangerous because now she wasn’t just attractive—she was agreeing with me.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you hate it so much?” She gestured to the calendar. “That’s not just dislike. That’s active loathing.”
I could have shut the conversation down right there and told her mind her own business. But something on her face, in her eyes, told me she just might understand.
Instead, I said, “Because people make promises on Valentine’s Day they have no intention of keeping. And I don’t trust promises anymore.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Fair enough,” she said finally. “For what it’s worth, I don’t trust them either.”
Something in my chest shifted. I ignored it. Locked it down.
“Good,” I said, my voice flat and cold. “Then we won’t have a problem.”
“I wasn’t planning on having a problem, Mr. King. I’m here to work.”
“Dalton.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Call me Dalton. You’re going to be living here. No point being formal.”
“All right. Dalton.” She tested the name, careful and precise. “Can I see the files now?”
I gestured to the filing cabinet against the wall. “Top two drawers. Every file from the last six months. Some of them make sense. Most don’t.”
She stood and crossed to the cabinet, pulled out a handful of files and flipped through them. Her expression grew more serious with each page.
“Well,” she muttered. “This is worse than Rhett said.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes. But it’s going to take time.” She looked up at me. “And I’m going to need access to your bank statements, tax returns, any contracts or agreements you have with suppliers or buyers. Everything.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll also have questions. About payments you remember making, purchases you authorized, anything that might help me figure out what’s legitimate and what’s not.”
“Whatever you need. You can give me a report each evening.”
“Where should I set up?” She pressed the file against her chest. The movement pressed her breasts together, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. I forced my eyes away before I could notice anything else.
I gestured to the desk on the other side of the room. “That’s my brother, Cade’s, desk. He doesn’t use it much.”
She moved to the desk and set the files down. I followed, standing beside her as she sat down in the chair. It was a bit too big for her. She couldn’t be over five-five and my brother and I both stood at six-foot-three. I didn’t look, but I knew her feet would be dangling off the floor.
“You’ll need to log into the network and the accounting software.” I leaned over her shoulder to bring up the websites and immediately regretted it. That citrus scent hit me full force—her shampoo, maybe, or just her skin. No cloying perfume. Just clean and female.
Fuck. This was torture. Totally unexpected, and fucking torture.
I was acutely aware of how small she was in that chair, how my body caged hers in from behind.
How easy it would be to let my hand drift from the keyboard to her shoulder.
Her neck. Lower. How easy it would be to lean down and press my mouth to that spot where her neck met her shoulder, see if she tasted as good as she smelled.
I gritted my teeth against the impulse. I had apparently been too damn long without a woman for release.
She’d gone still. Holding her breath. Was she as aware of me as I was of her? Did her pulse jump the same way mine did?
I forced myself to focus on the screen, but I could see her reflection in the monitor. Those brown eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted.
Fuck.
I typed in the password and pulled up the accounting software. “This is what the last guy used. When I reviewed last month’s paperwork, something seemed off.”
I was close enough to her now to notice details I shouldn’t.
The way her hair wasn’t quite as neatly pulled back as I’d thought—small pieces were escaping around her face.
The sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
The fact that she was wearing very little makeup.
She looked innocent. Young. Untouched. It also didn’t escape my notice that she was holding her breath.
I wrote down the passwords on a sticky note and handed it to her. My hand brushed hers. Just a graze of skin on skin, barely a second. But a jolt went through me, immediate and unwelcome. I pulled back as if I’d been burned, but not before I saw her fingers curl around the note.
Yeah, she’d felt it too. Which meant I needed to get the hell out of this room. “Don’t lose them.”
“I won’t.” Her voice was steady, but she still wasn’t looking at me.
I nodded. “You need anything else to get started?”
“No. I’m good.” She was already pulling a laptop from her bag, setting up her workspace with the same efficiency I’d noticed before. She barely glanced at me.
Just like that. Dismissed.
I stood there for a second longer than necessary, waiting for—what? For her to look at me again? Ask me to stay? Smile at me? Women didn’t dismiss me so casually. I was Dalton King, former rodeo champ and owner of the King Ranch.
The fact that she’d already forgotten I was standing there shouldn’t have bothered me. But it did.
I left before I could say anything else or keep standing there like an idiot watching her work. Outside, the February air hit me like a slap. Cold. Clean. Exactly what I needed to clear my head. To freeze out the heat that had pooled in my gut the second I’d gotten close to her.
Thirteen days.
It was thirteen days until Valentine’s Day.
Thirteen days to keep my distance and remember why I didn’t do this anymore.
Why I didn’t let women get close.
Why I didn’t make promises.