was positively sour. Frowning all the time. All but growling at his children.
But, my, oh my, she thought with a lusty sigh, he was one prime hunk of man.
She shivered just thinking about the way he’d looked when he’d walked into the kitchen that morning, his eyelids still heavy with sleep, rubbing a wide hand over the soft mat of dark hair that swirled over a muscled chest. She wondered if he realized that the first button of his jeans had been unfastened. She wondered, too, if he realized how sexy she had found that glimpse of navel shadowed by dark hair, the equally dark V that seemed to point below the waist of his jeans and to the soft column of flesh that lay beneath a strip of fabric faded a slightly lighter shade than the rest of the denim.
With a delicious shiver, she leaned to pluck a bachelor’s button from the tangled weeds and straightened to tuck the bloom behind her ear.
“What are you doing?”
She jumped, startled, and turned to find her new employer standing behind her watching her, his arms folded across his chest, his hat shading his eyes. She huffed a breath. “Mercy! You might warn a person before you slip up on them unsuspecting. You scared a good ten years off my life!”
He narrowed an eye. “How old are you, anyway?”
She snatched the flower from behind her ear, sure that it was her foolishness that made him question her age. “Twenty-six.”
He snorted a disbelieving breath. “Try again.”
Mindful of the stickers that might be hiding beneath the tangle of weeds, she made her way carefully back to the gate. “I am twenty-six. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my driver’s license.” She reached the gate and opened it.
He stepped back, eyeing her suspiciously as she passed by. “You don’t look a day over eighteen.”
She chuckled, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted. “Thanks…I think.” Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, she tipped up her face to smile at him, having to squint against the glare of the sun to do so. “How old are you?”
He stared down at her a long moment, making her aware of the skimpy tank top she wore, the Daisy Duke cutoffs, her bare legs and feet. Then he dropped his arms from his chest, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turned for the house. “Old enough to stay clear of young girls like you.”
She sputtered a laugh. “Young girls like me?” she repeated, following him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
He lifted a shoulder as he opened the screen door, then stepped back to let her enter the house first. “When I was younger, we called ’em jailbait. But I guess now I’d just call ’em trouble.”
“Trouble?” When he didn’t offer an explanation, she stopped in front of him, folding her arms beneath her breasts and arching a brow, stubbornly refusing to enter until he had clarified that last comment. His gaze dropped to her chest and breasts that strained against her tank top’s fabric. She bit back a smile as a blush rose to stain his cheeks.
“Trouble,” he repeated, emphasizing the single word, as if it alone explained everything, then gave her a nudge with his shoulder, urging her through the door ahead of him.
“Okay,” she said and crossed to the sink to wash her hands. “Granted I’m younger than you. Even I can see that. But what’s wrong with a young woman, and why do you consider one trouble?”
“Woman?” He snorted at her choice of word. “I said girl. I would hardly classify you as a woman.”
She snagged a dish towel from the hook above the sink and dried her hands as she turned to peer at him. “And what does a girl have to do,” she asked, placing emphasis on the word as he had, “in your opinion, before she is classified as a woman?”
He elbowed her aside and hit the faucet’s handle, then stuck his hands beneath the water. “Live. Get some years on her. Some experience.”
Enjoying the conversation, but unsure why when she knew she should be insulted by his chauvinistic attitude, she rested a hip against the counter and watched as he scrubbed his hands. “And what do you consider experience?”
He scowled and hit the handle with his wrist, shutting off the water. He stood, dripping water into the sink, and Annie pushed the towel into his hands. He shot her a look, his scowl deepening. “Live,” he repeated. “Life offers its own form of experience.”
She angled her body, watching as he crossed to the refrigerator. “Oh, really?” she posed dryly.
“Yeah, really,” he muttered, his reply muffled by the interior of the refrigerator. He pulled a gallon jug of milk from inside, closed the door, then lifted the jug, drinking directly from the container.
Clucking her tongue at his lack of manners, Annie pulled a glass from the cupboard, crossed to him and snatched the milk jug from his hand.
Scowling, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, removing a white moustache. “What did you do that for? I’m thirsty.”
She filled the glass and handed it back to him. “Unsanitary,” she informed him prudently and opened the door to replace the jug of milk. “And a bad example for the children. Now I know where Clay picked up the habit.” She pulled out a bowl and crossed to the table. “I hope you like pasta, because that’s what I made for lunch.”
Still frowning, he followed her to the table and sat down in his chair at the head of it, eyeing the bowl’s contents with distrust. “What’s in it?”
“Pasta curls, grilled vegetables, some herbs, a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar.”
He reared back, curling his nose and eyeing the bowl warily. “I’m a meat and potatoes man, myself.”
“Really?” she asked, nonplused, and sat down in the chair at his right. “I’d think after working around those smelly old calves all morning that you’d have lost your taste for beef.”
He jerked his head up to glare at her. “I’ll have you know those smelly old calves help pay the bills around here.”
She lifted a shoulder and spooned a generous serving of pasta onto his plate. “If you don’t eat the merchandise, then that just means more profit, right?”
His thick brows drew together over his nose. “What the hell kind of thinking is that?”
She lifted a shoulder as she served her own plate. “Rational. The less you eat, the more beef you have to sell.” She lifted her shoulder again as she set the bowl back on the table. “Makes sense to me.”
He huffed a breath and picked up his fork, shaking his head. “Yeah. I guess to a girl like you, that would make sense.”
Heaving a long-suffering sigh, she turned to look at him. “Are we back to that topic again?”
He scooped up a forkful of pasta and shoveled it into his mouth. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
Stretching across the table for the breadbasket, she tore off a section of the still-warm loaf and dropped it onto his plate before tearing off a piece for herself. “If that’s all you can think to talk about, your conversational
