Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
By day three, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my boss is definitely avoiding direct contact with me.
The sticky notes have continued multiplying like rabbits. Every morning, there’s a fresh one waiting for me on the kitchen island, each written in the same aggressively masculine block letters. Most are just reiterating his early instructions. Some tell me I’m doing a great job, and some give tips on doing it better next time.
For some reason, the notes with tips really get under my skin.
I’m halfway through loading the dishwasher, hot coffee in hand, when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Not boots. Softer, like the whisper of slippers on those shiny wood floors. When the tiny, silver-haired woman appears in the doorway, I nearly yelp.
She smiles at me. “Morning,” she says warmly. “You must be Sierra. I’m Marianne.” She picks up a mug, pours herself coffee like she owns the place, and perches on a kitchen stool. “I thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell her, and she grins back like we’ve been friends forever.
“How are you settling in? Rogan hasn’t scared you off yet?” She sits at the breakfast bar and sips her coffee.
I crack a smile. “So far, so good. I haven’t seen much of him, honestly. I think he’s allergic to direct communication. He just leaves me these sticky notes.” I nudge the stack.
She snorts, nearly spilling her coffee. “That sounds like Rogan.” She rolls her eyes. “But he’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
God. I hope she’s right. I’m not sure I’ll be able to take six months of silence and Post-it notes.
We finish up our coffee, and Marianne tells me, “I’d better head over to the operations building before they come looking for me.” She points at the list of numbers hanging next to the main phone. “My cell phone number’s on the ranch list. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as she heads out the back door.
The rest of the day flies by, and I end up finishing my list by early afternoon. Since I don’t have anything else to do, I grab my new book and slip out onto the back patio to read.
When the sun starts to slip from the sky, I head back into the house. I take a nice, long bubble bath and attempt to relax, but my mind refuses to forget about my grumpy boss. Knowing I have to do something to change the situation, I decide to write him a note. Let’s see how he likes it.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROGAN
I come through the front door just as the last light leaks out of the sky and the world goes that electric shade of indigo you only get in Texas. My rubbery legs barely hold my ass up, and my shoulders burn from shoveling out the goddamn cattle barn in triple-digit heat. I just want to eat something cold, take the longest shower on record, and collapse face-first onto my bed. That’s the plan. That’s always the plan, but the second I clear the foyer, I spot her through the wide kitchen doorway, standing at the sink, backlit by a column of gold dust and the dying sun.
I instantly turn into a goddamn statue. Not breathing, not blinking, not moving. There’s no logical reason for my brain to short-circuit over a woman rinsing a glass, but here we are. Shit out of logical reasoning.
She’s in soft, worn-in yoga pants that hug every damn curve and a faded T-shirt that looks three sizes too big but still manages to hint at the stunning curves underneath. I can almost hear her humming. I definitely hear my pulse trying to punch its way out of my chest.
For a full ten seconds, I just stand there in the hallway, staring, then realize she’s about to turn and catch me. Without thinking, I wheel around and bolt straight for the side hallway, boots thumping so loud on the floorboards that I wince. I’m six-foot-six and built like a linebacker, and I just ran away from my own kitchen because I was too chickenshit to look a woman in the eye. The shame is almost enough to drown out the crazy fucking feelings pinging through me, but not quite.
I hit the foot of the stairs and let out a long, slow breath. Fucking pathetic. I run a million-dollar operation without blinking an eye, but the sound of a woman’s laugh through an open window makes my spine liquefy.
After making my way upstairs, I breathe a sigh of relief when I step into my cool room. I toe off my boots and just stand there for a second, letting the stillness bleed some of the crazy out of me. My bedroom is the only place in the house that feels safe. The only place where I can pretend like I’m still in control of my own thoughts.