Focus.
“Pretty sure that’s what you were going to say, which is why I asked the question. You’re good at your job and I’m just a little flabbergasted, is all. You’re young, maybe a couple years younger than me, yet you already have a masters? It took me five years to get my bachelor’s degree in business management. Of course, I was competing on the PRCA circuit full-time, but still. You must have started college in preschool.”
She clutched her tablet as if she wanted to hit him over the head with it. “I was home schooled,” she admitted. “I started college when I was sixteen.”
Sixteen!
“Did my first two years of college from home through a university extension program. Transferred at eighteen to Berkeley. Graduated when I was twenty with a bachelor’s in geology. Spent the next two years working on my masters in engineering. I’m twenty-four and I was hired by Baron Energies right after Lizzie was put in charge, which is probably why I was hired. She understands that a woman can do a man’s job.”
Yes, his sister did. And J.C. was the same age as him, which made it easier to do the math. “So what have you been doing for the past two years?”
“Excuse me?”
“If it took you two years to get your masters that means you graduated when you were twenty-two. I’m just curious what you’ve been doing for the past two years.”
It was as if he’d turned her into a block of ice, or at least her eyes. “My point is, I’m qualified to do the job.” And her words were the frosty equivalent of “it’s none of your business.”
Interesting.
“My sister wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t qualified.”
“Your sister strikes me as highly intelligent.”
Unlike you.
She didn’t say the words, but he could have sworn he heard them. It didn’t offend him. Not in the least. He liked that she didn’t give a fig that he was Jet Baron, Brock Baron’s son, heir apparent to Baron Energies—if his dad had anything to say about it. His last name meant he had his choice of women. And if his last name didn’t work, he could usually charm the pants off the opposite sex with a simple smile. Not J. C. Marks.
“What does the J stand for, anyway?”
None of your business, her eyes said.
“Just-ina leave me alone?” he quipped.
She stared at him.
“I don’t Juan-ita anything to do with you?” he added.
She crossed her arms. She held the tablet in front of her as though it was some kind of shield.
“You’re a Jac-queline-ass?”
The arms unfolded.
“Me,” he clarified. “I’m the Jac-queline-ass.”
“It stands for Jasmine. Jasmine Caroline Marks, and if we’re through here, I have an appointment.”
He could tell he wasn’t getting anywhere—and he kind of liked it. Challenges were what made the world go around, he thought, although he’d never let it get any further than a flirtation. The last thing he needed was his dad breathing down his neck over a sexual harassment lawsuit.
“Sure. Okay. I think we can call it a day.”
“Great.” She gave him a smile nearly as frosty as a summer soda. “I’ll have a cost analysis ready for you in the morning.”
“Why don’t we meet for breakfast? There’s this terrific little coffee shop right down the street from the office.”
“I’ll see you at the office.”
“But the pastries there are terrific. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to, though. I’ll listen while I chew.”
“How does eight-thirty sound?”
“I don’t think well on an empty stomach.” He really didn’t. He was one of those “eats a truckload of food” kind of guys, or so his family claimed.
She headed back to her vehicle. “Then eat before our meeting.”
“I’d rather eat with you.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she called, opening the door to her vehicle. He watched her slip inside, grab her cell phone from somewhere, check the display, then tuck it back away.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, reaching for her door to slam it closed.
“Looking forward to it.”
She started her truck.
“Damn,” Jet muttered. Maybe going back to a desk job wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Handsome, arrogant, spoiled son of a gun.
Jet Baron.
Jasmine pointed her truck toward a barely there strip of road, telling herself to forget the man in her rearview mirror.
Why don’t we meet for breakfast?
Okay, so she could admit he was beyond gorgeous. And okay, so she hadn’t been prepared for the walking mass of masculine virility that was Jet Baron. Seriously. No wonder he’d been voted bachelor of the year two years running by Dallas magazine. The man was serious heartthrob material. So what?
You’re going to have to work with that walking mass of male virility.
The back end of her truck kicked out. She gasped, then took her foot off the gas. The flat, sun-baked Texas pasture stretched out around her like something from the Old West, nothing but open space for miles, but if she wasn’t careful, she might wrap her truck around one of the rare trees that dotted the landscape.
Why did he have to be so good-looking?
And why had everything inside her frozen the moment she’d realized who was behind the wheel? She’d seen pictures of him before. Of course she’d seen them. Who in the business hadn’t heard of Jet Baron? And he’d thought she was a stripper. A stripper.
It had taken nearly a year to find a job in the male-dominated industry. A year. And in the end it’d been a woman who had hired her. She wasn’t going to blow it because, miraculously, there appeared to be one latent hormone floating around her sex-starved body.
Sex starved?
Yes, she admitted to herself, turning onto the main road, a long stretch of blacktop so straight it ended in an arrowhead.
