settling in a beige club chair across from the desk, Paris set her case on the floor, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt and prepared to make her pitch. She decided to begin with casual conversation and in the same instant, assuage her natural curiosity. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s coming up at the end of the week?”
“I turn thirty-eight on Saturday,” he said as he retrieved a crystal highball glass from the upper cabinet.
Six years her senior. Not too bad. Not that it mattered. “Big party planned?”
Once he filled the tumbler with ice from a bucket on the counter, then poured water into it from a pitcher he pulled from the built-in stainless refrigerator, he returned to the desk and set the glass on a coaster before her. “I hope like hell that’s not going to happen. I’m not one for having people making a big deal over my birthday.”
She sensed he would be that kind of man. “I have a feeling your stepmothers might be planning a big deal.”
He dropped down into the chair behind the desk, leaned back and affected a relaxed posture, but his expression said he didn’t exactly appreciate her conjecture. “They know better than to pull that on me.”
Paris gathered he might be suffering from a severe case of the birthday blues. “Are you sure? It sounded as if at least one of them wants you to have a date for some soiree, hence the nice girl comment.”
He sent her that sexy, crooked smile again. “If that’s the case, are you volunteering to fill the role?”
If she were only that brave. Then again, if it helped her secure the job... “I generally avoid mixing business with pleasure, although your family seemed to jump to the conclusion that my business is pleasure.”
He narrowed his eyes and studied her straight on. “Speaking of that, what exactly do you do for a living?”
The suspicion in his tone ruffled her feminine feathers. “It doesn’t involve a nine hundred number or a pimp, I promise you that.”
Now he looked amused. “Glad you cleared the air.”
So was she, and she planned to be perfectly clear. “In reality, I’m—”
“Wait. Let me guess.” He inclined his head and pointed at her. “You’re a stockbroker and you want to get your hands on my investments.”
She might like to get her hands on something of his that happened to be a far cry from his portfolio. Since when had she become a purveyor of naughty thoughts? “Not even close.”
He rubbed a palm over his chin. “I would bet the back forty you have an accounting degree.”
If he only knew about her lack of accounting skills, he would never have assumed such a thing. That downfall had landed her in deep trouble and served as another reason for being there, about to beg for employment. “Believe me, math is not my forte.”
“Marketing?”
In an effort to clear her parched throat, Paris took a quick sip of water. “Try again.”
His gaze landed on her fingers still wrapped around the glass. “Considering your perfectly manicured nails, I’m guessing you’re not a ranch hand.”
“I haven’t even seen a cow up close.”
“Not even on your dinner plate in the form of filet mignon?”
“I’m primarily a vegetarian.”
“I’m strictly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”
What a shocker. “I won’t judge your food preferences if you won’t judge mine.”
“Agreed.” He took off his hat to place it brim up on the desk, then forked a hand through his dark brown hair that worked well with those deadly blue eyes. “If you’re a beautician, I don’t need one. Just a quick round with the clippers and I’m good to go.”
Yes, he was. Good enough to go anywhere he might want to take her. “No, I’m not a hairstylist. Do you give up now?”
“Yep. I’m all out of guesses.”
The time had come to lay all her cards on the table, less a few secrets he didn’t need to know. “I’m a commercial interior designer.” Disgraced designer.
“No kidding?” he said, sounding somewhat awed over the admission.
“No kidding. And that’s why I’m here. I wanted to speak to you about—”
“Hey, Dallas, I’m about to head out.”
Paris shifted in her seat to see a young, buff blond guy filling the doorway. Aside from the tattered jeans and worn cowboy boots, he looked more surfer than rancher. Or body builder in light of the fit of the lime-green T-shirt hugging his muscled arms and torso.
“Where are you going now?” Dallas asked, looking and sounding none too pleased.
“To the beach for the weekend,” the stranger replied as he strode to the wet bar.
Aha! Paris had pegged him right on his surfer status, though she still didn’t know his relationship to the Calloways. He certainly didn’t resemble Dallas.
“Did you talk to Fort yet, Worth?” Dallas asked.
“I called him,” the man with the unusual name said as he pulled a soda from the fridge and popped it open. “But he’s still pissed I left him high and dry and came here. He refuses to call me back.”
“Figures,” Dallas muttered. “By the way, does Houston know you’re leaving?”
“Yeah, and Austin’s agreed to hang around in case any of the heifers calve.”
“That’s good because Tyler’s going to be gone until Monday.”
Paris felt as though she’d just gone on a Cities of Texas tour. Without further hesitation, she stood to face Surfer Worth and smiled, bent on introducing herself since her potential boss evidently wasn’t going to do the honors. “Hi, my name is Paris Reynolds.”
Worth grinned and shook her extended hand, revealing the same dimple Dallas sported. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Are you a friend of my big brother’s?”
That confirmed her supposition that he was a Calloway sibling, although she couldn’t recall any mention of him in any of the press releases she’d recently read. “Actually, we just met today.”
Worth winked. “Well, if he doesn’t treat you right, you’re welcome to come to Padre Island with me. I’m a helluva lot more fun.”
And way too young for her, Paris decided. Plus, she had always been attracted to brown-haired men, like the one seated not far away.
Dallas pointed at the door. “Get out, Worthless. Ms. Reynolds doesn’t need you coming on to her.”
Worth backed toward the exit with hands held up, palms forward. “All right. And when you find out where the hell you left your
