and hugged her lightly. “See you tonight,” he said, as if he took it for granted that she would be staying. “Your suitcases are in the car, I guess. Don’t bring them in. Barton will be here in an hour or so, and he’ll be glad to do it.”
Bree nodded. When she’d been in town for the wedding, she’d met their general manager, a courtly older man named Barton James who used to own a successful dude ranch in Crested Butte. It was probably true that he’d be glad to help. He had come out of retirement because he couldn’t stand being idle.
Dallas smiled, as if to reassure Bree one more time that she was welcome. Then he stepped to Rowena and kissed her hard on the lips, apparently not in the least deterred by her dirt-smudged face and sweaty hair.
Bree looked away from the intimacy of that simple touch, and her gaze met Alec’s. He rolled his eyes again, eloquently, with all the disgust a nine-year-old could express for the mushiness of adults.
“Might as well get used to it,” he said morosely, extricating another bit of eggshell. “They’re like this all the time.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Rowena pulled free of Dallas’s embrace, though she kept one hand against his naked chest, as if she couldn’t bear to lose the connection entirely. Her head turned sharply toward the front of the house.
“Oh, my God. Has my interview showed up early?” She glanced at the clock on the stove just behind Alec and moaned. “Oh, no. It can’t be. It’s not really eight-thirty?”
“It’s really eight-thirty,” Dallas said. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you it was getting late. You always lose track of time out there.”
Rowena had begun brushing her palms together, as if she might be able to whisk away the crusting of soil, but her hands remained shadowed with dirt. She touched her chin, checking for dirt there, but she seemed to realize she was only making matters worse.
“I need a shower. I can’t interview anyone like this, but especially not—”
“I’ll let him in,” Dallas offered quickly.
But Rowena shook her head. “You’re half-naked, and you know you two have never really gotten along. Besides, you’re on chicken duty.”
“I’ll do it,” Alec piped up eagerly, trying to clamber to his feet, but once again finding it difficult. Apparently even playing butler seemed exciting compared to mopping egg gunk off the floor.
“You most certainly will not.” Dallas held up his hands emphatically to freeze his son in place. “You’re the most disreputable member of the family right now. And that’s saying something.”
“I can let him in,” Bree heard herself saying. She felt a little like Alec, jumping at the chance to leave the room rather than continue an awkward encounter. But her event-planner side had kicked in, and her intervention was the only answer that made sense.
The doubt in Rowena’s eyes wasn’t exactly flattering. “Bree, I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering. I promise I won’t blow your chance to hire this guy, whoever he is. This is the kind of work I do all the time. I’ll handle the meet and greet, then dance him around a little, maybe tour the property while you guys pull it together in here.”
The doorbell rang again.
“That would be terrific. Thanks, Bree.” Dallas nodded toward Rowena, who still frowned, obviously uncertain. “You shower, Ro. I’ll get the chickens. Alec will fix the kitchen.” He impaled the boy with a sharp glance. “Or else.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Like any good salesman, Bree took the yes as final. She dropped her purse on the counter and picked her way carefully toward the great room on the other side of the kitchen. “Oh...I guess I should know which job this guy’s applying for.”
Rowena hesitated. “Assistant social director. Part time. Thirty hours. Minimum wage.”
Pretty menial job, Bree thought, to be causing such a stir. So what if he didn’t like Ro’s grubby fingernails or a little chicken poop in the hall? If he got scared off, so what? Surely qualified candidates for that job were easy to find.
“All right,” she said neutrally, determined not to show her confusion. She wasn’t here to criticize, remember? She had to stop forgetting that, stop lapsing into her old ways. This was Ro’s dream, Ro’s decision, Ro’s hire. “And his name?”
Rowena blinked, her dark lashes shadowing her green eyes. She opened her mouth, closed it, then blinked again. The doorbell sounded its two-note call a third time, which apparently agitated the chickens, who were closer now, close enough that Bree could hear the flutter of wings above their clucking.
“I probably should know his name, Ro.”
“Of course.” With one deep breath, Rowena seemed to snap out of her weird spell as quickly as she’d fallen into it. “Actually, you know him, or at least you used to. Remember...remember old man Harper’s grandson, Gray?”
Bree frowned. Everyone remembered Gray Harper. The bad and beautiful new kid in town. Part jokester, part heartbreaker—all trouble. The heir to the Harper Quarry millions who had become a local legend when he kissed the money goodbye rather than, as he put it, kiss his grandfather’s “arrogant ass.”
“Gray Harper? Applying to be your part-time assistant social director? You’re kidding, right?”
Rowena shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. Still want to dance him around?”
“I...well, sure,” Bree said with a careful smile. No judging, remember? No criticizing. And definitely no being afraid of a formerly snotty teenager who probably wouldn’t even remember what he did to her. “Of course.”
She left the room, determined to reach the foyer before he pressed the bell again. She smoothed her skirt and checked her hair in the hall mirror. Everything tidy. She’d do fine.
But honestly...what was Rowena thinking?
Gray Harper?
CHAPTER FOUR
JUST WHEN GRAY thought Rowena must have changed her mind about interviewing him, the front door finally opened.
But the elegant blonde knockout who stood there, smiling coolly, wasn’t Rowena. No way Rowena could have changed that much, not even after sixteen years, not even after the mellowing experience of falling in love and getting married. Gray considered himself a connoisseur of beautiful women, and even when he was only thirteen he’d understood that Rowena’s fiery good looks weren’t a product of cosmetics, clothes or hairstyles. She was all dramatic, gypsy bone structure and primal energy.
And, of course, there was the problem of the coloring. She might have dyed her hair, but no way even contact lenses could transform Rowena’s flashing eyes, which had been the color of melted emeralds, into this cool pair of iced-sapphire blue.
Cool. Ice.
The words triggered something. He dug around in his psyche for a couple of seconds, then pulled it out. Aw, heck. Wouldn’t you know it would be one of
