Chapter Eleven
ELLY
HE PULLS his ball cap out of his back pocket and claps it on his head as his broad frame disappears through the dining-room entry way.
His worn blue flannel shirt stretches tight across his tense shoulders, and the edge of the baggy hem is tucked into the crease over his belt, revealing a perfect, muscular butt in his jeans.
My face heats as I realize I’m staring at his ass like he’s part of dessert.
Jesus, I need to get a grip.
The oppressive quiet in the room lingers as everyone turns back to their plates and keeps their eyes lowered. He asked me not to mention why I’m here and I was doing a good job of keeping conversation light. So why is he mad at me?
You know why.
The food that was just so delicious a minute ago is now unappealing. The heat of embarrassment and anger is climbing up my neck, for just a second I’d forgot I’m not welcome here as I relaxed and enjoyed the comfortable conversation with everyone.
I’ve never sat down to a family dinner like this, these people are nice and, from the look of the ranch, hardworking, too. When I stepped out of my rental car yesterday and looked around the property, I could clearly see a lot of love and hard work has been put into this ranch.
And by a family who clearly loves each other.
How am I supposed to stay in this house and pretend I’m not here to take their home? How the hell do Harris and my father do this? This is not who I am, and I’m not sure how to pretend to be something I’m not.
Mr. Harlow sets his water glass down and turns to Lainey Rai, her eyebrows are pulled together, and she is still looking at the empty door frame in confusion.
His gravelly voice booms across the room through the silence like a megaphone.
“So, sweetheart, do you already have your snow days planned out?”
My memory tries to pull up any occasion when my father was interested in my plans or activities in the slightest, but there’s nothing. Since I’m a girl, it was my mom’s job to be interested in any of that, but she was so unhappy that her attention was always focused inward. Or on her wine glass.
This little girl has no idea how lucky she is.
Lainey Rai smiles and starts to answer him.
I vaguely hear her talking about the horses in Marley’s stable, specifically one that arrived early this morning, but my thoughts are still on the way Gray was looking at me the whole time he was at the table.
I tried to ignore the irritation billowing from him, but I could feel his stare on me like a predator watching its prey.
I glance at Sloane across the table and give her my signature smile, she gives me a tight smile back that doesn’t reach her eyes before she turns her attention to Mr. Harlow and Lainey Rai.
I’m not sure if I’m more angry at myself for being here in the first place, or Gray for pointing out what he really thinks of me in front of everyone.
Can I blame him for hating me?
No.
I don’t let any of my colleagues get to me, not even my father gets this type of reaction from me. Why should a man I don’t know bother me? The anger I’m trying to smother just keeps bubbling, and my heart is in my throat.
What does that even mean, anyway?
‘That explains a lot.’
It wasn’t just the words; it was the way he said it, the animus unmistakable in his tone.
Damn it! Why does it bother me he doesn't like me?
Pushing down the sting of the jab, I take a deep breath, push my chair out, and try to be as polite as possible. “Please excuse me.”
When I step into the hall, I look in the direction he went and see a door softly close at the back end of the corridor. The house is enormous, and everything is carved out of wood of every shade and size, it reminds me of a lodge. It’s beautiful, but everything is big.
The chatter from the dining room is behind me and I pause in the wide hall and wonder if I want to pursue this. Or do I just go back to my room? No. It’s his room. I need to see if there is another room I can stay in, I know he doesn’t want me here, so I sure as hell am not staying in his room.
Slowly walking down the hall toward the door, I wonder if I have a right to confront him. I wouldn’t let anyone I work with get away with treating me this way. How is he different? Who does he think he is? Why does he get to be an insulting asshole?
Because you’re the asshole who wants to take his home.
Sucking in a deep breath, I walk to the closed door, my heart beating out a stoccado rhythm with each step. My hand falters over the knob as I reach to grab it, but before I talk myself out of it, I grasp it and turn.
He’s standing in front of a large window behind a desk in a room that is set up as an office.
The room is masculine, and the desk itself looks like it’s hand carved, I’ve never seen anything like it, it looks like a slice out of a large tree, the rings of the tree in the beautifully stained wood the focus.
The disarray of papers, pens, and other objects scattered over the surface of the desk makes my fingers twitch with the need to organize everything to give me some semblance of control, so I quickly move my gaze back to him.
He has his back to me, his arm crooked up against the widow edge as he rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, his other hand hangs on his hip.
The ball cap he put on as he walked out of the dining room is flipped around with the bill in the back, and I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look so subtly and powerfully sexy at the same time.
Warmth spreads through my insides at the picture of rugged masculinity in front of me, and for a second, I forget why I’m mad.
Something about the way he is standing calls to me, there is more anger in him than just why I’m here.
He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I want to comfort him, touch him, but I curl my fingers into my palms and square my shoulders with a deep breath instead.
When he hears the door open, he turns halfway like he is expecting someone else, but when he sees me, his eyes narrow, and he turns to face me fully.
“Do people knock in California?” His deep voice rumbles in his chest and I lift my chin, refusing to let him intimidate me.
“I knew you would ignore me if I knocked.” I take a step into the room and the smell of smoke and sandalwood tickles my nose.
Dropping his hands to his sides, he says, “Here in Oklahoma, a closed door usually means the person on the other side doesn't want to be disturbed.”
Cocking my head to the side, it’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him. “So, you make a habit of being obnoxiously insulting at the dinner table before you go hide in another room?” I take a step deeper into the room. “You asked me not to mention why I’m here and I did as you asked.”
His neck turns red before he turns his head with a grunt to the side to look at the bookcase on the wall before he looks back to me. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”
The sincerity in his voice takes me by surprise; I expected righteous indignation like I would get from my father or one of the people I work with. I’m so used to navigating my argument around ego driven jerks that I have to mentally pivot my thoughts for my next words.
In this light, his hazel eyes is more green with brown flakes and they are locked on mine. The intensity of the stare makes my heart skip. “Look, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here…”
I don’t get to finish my thought before he huffs a laugh and interrupts, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Then why in God’s name did you drive here in an ice storm?”
Good question.
This whole situation has thrown me off my game, I take a breath and put on my mask of diplomacy. “I’ve never been in an ice storm before, it was just sleet and was melting on the ground when I left the hotel. I wasn’t expecting to get stuck.”
“The warnings have been crawling across the TV since before you showed up here yesterday.” He fans his arms out to his sides with the palms open like it should have been obvious, “Only a foolish person would drive around on ice.”
Foolish?
The insult pushes my molars together, and anger sends a hot flush over my skin, up my back, and to the top of my head. “I beg your pardon?”
He shifts his weight to one foot and hangs his hands on his hips, the movement stretching the cotton t-shirt across his chest, outlining all the dips and lines.
His eyes don’t leave mine as he presses his lips together in a tight line like he is weighing his words carefully or trying to curb his anger.
“You were told not to come back, why are you here?”
If I were my father, I would let the insults roll off my back and focus on why I’m here, try to soften him up or change tactics. But I’m not my father.
Schooling my features, I shake off the hurt and lift my chin and try to keep my voice even. “It was an error in judgment. I’m sorry I’m intruding on your family and home, I didn’t plan to be stuck. I’m just doing my job.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. He’s got me so flustered that my filter is only half working. And, damn it, he smells good.
Narrowing his eyes further, he steps around the desk so we are just a few feet apart. “Is that what my family is to you? My home? A job?”
Anger is flowing off him in thick, hard waves again, making me suck in a breath at my error. I resist the urge to step back away from him. He’s right, I just reduced his life and his family to a job. Rubbing my forehead, I close my eyes. “That’s not what I meant…”
“Then what did you mean?” He slowly growls, interrupting me again as he punctuates each word.
Damn it. I think I just lost any foothold I may have had on smoothing things out between us.