The Man Who Had Everything. Christine Rimmer
shoulders again to put her gently away from him. “I don’t know what the hell my problem is. I shouldn’t have done that.”
And she smiled, a smile that trembled a little at first, and then grew wider. A smile that became so bright, it blinded him. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “You should have. And I’m real glad you did.”
For the first time ever, Marie’s famous pot roast had no taste.
Not to Grant, anyway. The last thing he could think about that evening was food.
In his mind, there was only Steph: her smile, her laughter, the memory of her kiss, the look in her eyes across the table whenever their glances happened to meet.
He had a really big problem here and he knew it. He kept almost forgetting who she was, kept losing sight of the fact that he was sworn to look out for her, that he could never, ever hurt her, that the last thing he would ever do was to take her to bed.
He was all wrong for her and he knew it. She was a find-the-right-guy-and-marry-him kind of girl. An innocent in her heart. Hell. He was reasonably sure she was still a virgin.
A virgin. Oh God.
Grant didn’t go out with virgins.
And wasn’t up for the whole marriage-and-family deal. Not now. Not ever.
And even if she didn’t expect him to marry her, a girl like Steph would at least want something approximating what women liked to call a relationship. Grant didn’t have relationships.
When it came to women, he liked things free and easy, fun and open-ended.
And sitting at the dinner table that evening, he felt trapped. Boxed in by his own burning lust for sweet little Stephanie Julen.
He needed to stay away from her. Oh, yeah. Since he couldn’t keep his hands off her once he got close, the solution was simple: He would keep his distance. Yeah. That should work. If he just stayed away…
He poked more food he didn’t taste into his mouth and resolutely chewed.
Marie asked, “Grant, are you feeling all right?”
He swallowed. Hard. “Uh, yeah. I’m just fine.”
“You’re looking a little strange. Is the pot roast okay?”
“The best. As always.”
Rufus let loose with one of those low, knowing chortles of his. Grant sent him a dark look.
The old cowboy shrugged. “Hell, Marie. This is the best you ever made. Nothin’ wrong with this here pot roast, nosirree. It’s tender and juicy. Perfect in every way. Just like the potatoes and the carrots and these rolls of yours that are fluffy as little pillows. Uh-uh. If the boss has got a problem, it’s not with the food.” He forked up a big bite and stuffed it into his mouth.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man. I’ve got no problem at all.” Grant scowled at Rufus for all he was worth.
“Hear that?” Rufus grinned good and wide. “Boss says he ain’t got a problem.” He raised his beer. “I’ll drink to that.”
Grant looked away from the old man—and saw that Jim, the new hand, was staring at Steph. Grant resisted the urge to tell the fool to get his eyes back in his head where they belonged.
After all, who was he to tell Jim not to look at Steph? The cowhand seemed like a nice enough guy. Steph had mentioned after she hired him that he was a good worker. Rufus said he kept his area of the bunkhouse clean and in order. Maybe Jim was hoping to settle down, find himself a suitable woman and ask her to be his wife. If so, he’d be a lot better match for Steph than Grant ever would.
But Steph wasn’t looking at the hired hand. Steph was looking at him. And every time she looked at him, he wanted to jump up and grab her and carry her off someplace nice and private, someplace where he could peel off that red shirt and those snug jeans and have another long look at what he’d seen down by the creek.
He covered pretty well, he thought. Except for Rufus’s sly remarks and the occasional shining glance from Steph, they all kind of carried on as usual.
There was pie and ice cream after the meal. Grant dutifully packed it away. And then, at last, Marie started clearing off.
“It was great, Marie. Thanks.” He slid his napkin in at the side of his plate and pushed back his chair. “And it’s an hour’s ride back to the resort. I think I’d better get moving.”
Rufus grunted. “Your horse is ready to go. Tacked him up before I came in to eat.”
“’Preciate that.” He pushed his chair under the table, and turned for the entry hall. The hat he’d borrowed waited on the peg by the front door. He grabbed it, yanked the door back and fled.
Too bad Steph was right behind him.
She caught up with him out on the porch. He didn’t know what the hell to say to her. So he said nothing. She didn’t seem to mind, just strolled along at his side across the yard to the post beside the barn where Rufus had hitched Titan.
As they reached the big gelding, she spoke. “Nice out now. Cooling off a little…”
The sun was just sliding behind the mountains, but it would be a while yet till dark. “Yeah,” he said, without actually looking at her. “Nice.” He took the reins and mounted. Then he made the mistake of glancing down at her.
She smiled. That wide, glowing, happy smile. Something tightened in his chest.
“How about a picnic?” she asked. “I can’t tomorrow. We’ve got too many fences that need fixing around here—not to mention a couple of ditches that have to be burned out so those fat yearlings I’ve been bragging on won’t die of thirst. But I could get away Tuesday. Say, noon? I’ll meet you out by that big, dead cottonwood over in the Danvers pasture.” He’d ridden by that tree earlier on his way to the ranch. Once, it had been on Triple J land. She asked, “You know where I mean?”
Tell her how you just can’t make it. “Yeah. I know.”
“It’s about midway between here and the resort, so it won’t take you all that long to get there. Over the fence from that pasture is Parks Service land and some nice shade trees. I’ll bring the blanket and Mom’s cold chicken. And the beer.”
Tell her no, you can’t make it. Tell her it’s just not possible. Tell her now.
“All right. Noon on Tuesday,” he heard himself say.
“Good night, Grant.” She stepped back.
He tipped his hat and turned his horse to go.
The whole ride back, he called himself a hundred kinds of damn fool. Now, he’d have to call her. Tell her how something had come up and he just couldn’t make it on Tuesday, no way.
He was so busy stewing over how he shouldn’t have kissed her, shouldn’t have agreed to any damn picnic, that he didn’t even think about what he’d forgotten to do until he was back in his suite at the resort, changing his clothes. He stopped with one leg out of his Wranglers and gaped at his image in the wall-to-wall mirror of his dressing area.
He’d never told them he was selling the ranch.
“Mom?” Steph leaned in the archway from the front hall.
Marie looked up from her mending and smiled a tired smile. She took off the dimestore glasses she wore for close work and rubbed the bridge of her nose. In the pool of light cast by the lamp, her round face looked shadowed and lined, older than her forty-nine years. “Off to bed?”
“Mmm-hmm.” It wasn’t quite nine yet, but Steph—and her mother, too—would be up and working long before first light. “Just wanted to say good-night.”
Marie set her mending in her lap and reached to pat the arm