8. Emergency Brownies and Bad Decisions #2
Maybe it was the secondhand sugar high from Selma’s “emergency brownies,” or maybe it was the fact that Dean was there, hunched over the tangle of wires and mismatched adapters with the same stoic, unflappable intensity he used to discuss quarterly earnings reports.
They say adrenaline makes you do strange things.
I’d always assumed those things involved lifting cars off infants or running barefoot through fire.
Apparently, in my case, the only thing adrenaline made me do was get irrationally comforted by a Lockhart.
Dean remained calm as a cucumber, never getting frustrated, he just continued working a problem until it was solved. “Who designed this system, a retired Soviet spy?” He shot me a look over one shoulder, just long enough to catch my smile.
“You’re not allowed to be funny, this is serious,” I reminded him, even though I absolutely loved that he was.
He cleared his throat, eyes back on the sound system. “I’m never funny. You’re just delirious from lack of sleep.”
“How do you know how much sleep I’ve had?” I knew it was probably just a guess, but somehow whenever I looked at Dean, it felt like he was seeing right through me. Or that he could read my mind.
“You showed up here a little after five in the morning, and you were logged in to SaddlePoint at 2 a.m.”
SaddlePoint was the online system used to handle staff schedules, ranch activities, guest itineraries, maintenance requests, housekeeping status, dining reservations, transportation, horse assignments, event calendars, internal messages, and task lists—basically the ranch’s entire day-to-day operation.
It was true. I was working that late, or early. But to know that meant he was up at that time and since he’d already been in the office when I showed up this morning, it meant he hadn’t slept either.
“For the record, every event planner I’ve ever met has been less... hands-on.” He looked me up and down, the compliment concealed in the way his lips quirked. “I’ve never met one yet who climbed up to the rafters to hang fairy lights when they are clearly scared of heights.”
“How did…” I started but then stopped. I was scared of heights, and the dark, and, if I was being honest, not a huge fan of spiders.
Every time Dean spoke, he surprised me. I’d never told anyone about my complicated relationship with altitude.
I’d kept my aversion to being anywhere gravity could make a point, to myself.
I’d learned at a very early age that, like my Miranda rights, any weakness could and would be used against me in the court of life.
It was just one more piece of evidence that Dean Lockhart could read my mind.
“Is that your subtle way of saying I’m neurotic?” I tried to play it off as if he hadn’t just made me feel extremely vulnerable and seen.
“If the color-coded planner fits.”
I laughed. I actually laughed, even though my brain was screaming about the clock, the impending rush of guests, and the fact that we were standing in a glorified cathedral-ceiling warehouse pretending it was a suitable place for a wedding.
He pressed the ‘Power’ button again with the air of a man defusing a bomb.
The receiver sparked to life, and with a little creative cord surgery, the sound system shrieked to existence.
I winced at the feedback. It took him less than sixty seconds, fiddling with the mixer, and when the opening chords of the bride’s processional song came through the speakers—surprisingly clear—I smiled and let myself relax for a nanosecond.
We’d done it. The “chapel” wasn’t just functional, it was magical, at least that’s what I was telling myself.
Dean came from around the makeshift sound booth and walked onto the parquet dance floor, listening to the acoustics, probably gauging if he needed to adjust, and then just... looked at me.
With everyone else gone, even the air felt quieter.
I was suddenly aware of how I must look.
I’d thrown my hair in a ponytail, which, after the manual labor, had stragglers falling out, my shirt was half un-tucked, my pants were dusty, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a smudge of brownie on my lips.
He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
He cleared his throat. “You know, there’s a Lockhart tradition.”
I arched a brow, unsure where this was going. “Lockhart tradition?” I repeated.
He nodded, an actual smile slipping across his lips. “Yep. Before the guests arrive, you always test the dance floor. Make sure it holds.” He bounced his heels on the floor.
Was he flirting with me? He’d barely spoken to me the past three weeks. Surely, this is just a joke.
He stepped closer, and for a second, I thought he was going to inspect the window caulking. Instead, he offered his hand. Not mocking, not performative. Just a hand, palm up, as if daring me to take it.
My pulse sped as I lifted my arm and settled my hand into his. It was big, warm, calloused exactly what you’d expect for a guy who doubled as a ranch CFO and a general contractor. I heard from Wes, who was in charge of maintenance, that Dean had G.C. license, which was not typical for finance guys.