on thirteen.”
The man laughed. “God help us,” he said.
Kelly made a mental note to reassess her ideas about the nonexistence of happy families in today’s warp-speed world, but that would have to wait. She needed to stay focused on her next goal—convincing Mace Carson she knew her stuff when it came to marketing fine wine.
They reached the lobby, and the doors opened.
She stepped out, turning to the picture-perfect family. The pool was another floor down. “Have fun swimming,” she told them.
“We will!” the boy cried as the doors closed again.
She was still looking back, smiling, when she collided with a hard and distinctly masculine body.
Mace immediately gripped her shoulders, steadying her.
He grinned when Kelly faced him, all too aware that she was blushing again.
“Oops,” she said. “Sorry.”
“I was about to say the same when you beat me to it,” Mace said, dropping his hands to his sides now that she was in no danger of ricocheting off all that man-muscle. “Except, maybe, for the ‘oops.’”
Perhaps it was the smile in Mace’s eyes, or his easy manner, or the prospect of an afternoon visiting the winery and walking through the vineyard, but Kelly felt a subtle shift. She finally relaxed, let go of the self-doubt she’d been feeling for nearly twenty-four hours.
In short, she was herself again. No less attracted to Mace Carson, admittedly, but herself, focused and positive and brimming with creative ideas.
“The truck’s out front,” Mace said, gesturing for her to precede him. “And, by the way, you look great in those jeans.”
She sent him a sidelong look as they headed in that direction. “I’ll be taking my own car,” she said. Yes, the doctor had advised her to wait a few days before driving, but she felt fine. “The last time I drove, I almost went over a cliff. I guess this is the automotive version of getting back on the horse after being thrown.”
“Makes sense,” Mace said. “Think you can keep it on the road between here and the ranch?”
Kelly laughed. “We’re about to find out,” she said.
Outside, under the huge portico in front of the hotel, Mace’s truck awaited. A blue compact was parked behind it, and Kelly supposed it was her rental car, since there were no other vehicles around.
Sure enough, one of the parking attendants, a pretty young girl about the same age as Cindy, who’d served their lunch, hurried forward.
“Ms. Wright?”
“That’s me,” Kelly said, pulling out the tip she’d tucked into her jeans pocket during the five-minute wait upstairs in her room. The girl smiled, walked over to the driver’s side of the blue car, Kelly following, and opened the door for her.
Kelly slipped behind the wheel, took a single deep breath and handed over the gratuity. “Thanks...” she said, squinting at the valet’s name tag, “Maggie.”
“Thank you,” Maggie replied, accepting the tip. About to close Kelly’s door, she turned her smile on Mace, who was standing beside his truck, an expectant grin on his sexy, unshaven face.
Maggie laughed. “You can open your own darned door, Mace Carson—sir.”
Mace shook his head, as if to lament the state of today’s youth.
Then he climbed into his late-model truck, with its extended cab and outsize tires. It was black—Kelly hadn’t noticed many details the night before—and would’ve looked fancy if it weren’t for the mud splatters left over from yesterday’s bad weather.
Maggie turned back to Kelly and smiled. “You have a nice day, Ms. Wright,” she said, shutting the car door.
Kelly’s palms were moist where she gripped the wheel and, for a moment, she was almost queasy as muscle-memory reminded her, in no uncertain terms, of the terrifying sensations she’d felt when she’d lost control of the other rental car on that slippery country road.
That was then, she reminded herself firmly, and this was now. The sky was clear and achingly blue, the sun was bright, the mountains majestic in the near distance.
Kelly kept her eyes on the road, following Mace’s lead. Her brief trepidation was gone, and good riddance. She was a California native, after all, and she’d lived in the LA area since college. If she could handle those infamous freeways, the 405 included, she could certainly manage the highways and byways around Mustang Creek, Wyoming.
She was back on the proverbial horse and ready to ride like the wind.
Ten minutes later, Kelly found herself in an alternate dimension, surrounded by open spaces and dazzled by breathtaking scenery. She took in the ranch house, which looked more like a midsize hotel, the stables Mace would probably describe as a “barn,” the rail fences and windswept pastures populated by cattle and a variety of horses.
She’d visited many vineyards in connection with her job, but this place was more than that.
She parked at the top of the long gravel driveway, alongside Mace’s truck. Shut off the rental car and climbed out.
Kelly was a city mouse; she liked shopping malls, upscale boutiques and trendy bars. She enjoyed attending corporate meetings, flying first class, staying in fine hotels, although, for all that, she wasn’t particularly status conscious. She was responsible; she had an impressive investment portfolio, owned her condo outright and paid the balances on her credit cards in full every month.
Her wardrobe was carefully coordinated and yes, expensive, and her handbags cost more than the car she’d driven in college—no knockoffs for this girl.
As the cliché had it, clothes didn’t make the woman, but there was something to that idea about dressing for success.
All of which meant she was out of her element on a cattle ranch.
And fascinated by the differences.
As she and Mace met up between their vehicles, she felt that same dizzying sensation, but instead of questioning the reaction, she simply enjoyed it.
Was Mace her type?
The men she’d dated, although there weren’t many of them, had been smooth and sophisticated, wearing tailored suits and driving sleek foreign cars, but Mace was off that grid. Sure, he was intelligent and articulate; he was also an enigma, wealthy in his own right, even without the wine operation, yet comfortable in jeans, boots and shirts that probably came from a modest Western store.
The man had nothing to prove to anyone, and he knew it.
While Kelly, her undeniable success notwithstanding, had to shift mental gears in every new place or unfamiliar situation, Mace seemed comfortable in his own skin, as that other old saying went. He was flexible, certainly—his innovative wines proved that—but deep down, he was as solid as the mountains of Wyoming.
He loved this
