only?” she asked.
“Unless you find me irresistible and can’t keep your hands off me,” he countered, offering her a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “In that case, we’ll have to keep it a secret so I don’t get fired.”
“I’m pretty sure I can keep my hands off you, as long as you keep those lips off me.”
Grant winced. “Ouch, you really know how to drive a hard bargain. But I want you to relax, so I’ll keep my lips to myself.”
She raised a brow and twisted her lips as she contemplated. “Fine. Dinner. One evening and nothing more.”
“What night and time?”
She slid her phone from her pocket and searched. No doubt she had her spreadsheet on that damn thing, too.
“Tomorrow at seven.”
“Perfect. Don’t wear anything too fancy, and come by my cottage.”
“You’re not going to pick me up?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t want you thinking this is a real date. It’s just dinner, remember?”
“As long as you remember, that’s what matters.”
Grant suddenly felt as if he’d won the lottery. Of course, a miracle had been performed. Tessa had not only agreed to spending downtime with him, she’d agreed to relax.
And he might have to keep his lips off of her, but she’d said absolutely nothing about his hands.
Grant glanced at the spreadsheet on the kitchen counter in the guest cottage he was staying in. Although “cottage” was a loose term for the two thousand square foot home, complete with patio overlooking the stables and a massive walk-in shower in the master suite.
As he raked his eyes over the colorful paper, he took another sip of the strong coffee he’d just made. Little Miss Country Organizer would be pissed. He was already five minutes late...which may or may not have been on purpose.
Of course, she’d given him the spreadsheet a day late, so it wasn’t as if she had a leg to stand on in her defense.
Yesterday, after he’d lost control and kissed her, he’d walked around on his own, and by the time he returned to his guest cottage, she’d taped the schedule to the front door.
But in defense of his tardiness today, he’d had an early-morning call from Bronson Dane regarding a hiccup in the crew’s plans for arrival, and he’d had to deal with that. Grant took another sip of the coffee and placed the half-full cup back on the counter. No time to finish it, and he had a feeling Tessa wouldn’t care about his excuse for being late.
Why did he feel as if he was heading to the principal’s office? She was a grown woman, she had no control over him and he wasn’t going to get suspended. So why get all wrapped up in the details of a color-coded piece of paper?
Grabbing the house key and shoving it into his jean’s pocket, Grant headed out the door and made his way toward the massive two-story stables. The stone building, with its dark wood trim and weathered wooden doors, would make an impressive backdrop for many scenes. It suggested power and wealth, much like the great Barrington patriarch himself.
When Grant stepped over the threshold, he saw Tessa heading toward the opening of the stables atop a Thoroughbred. Without a word, he stood still and admired the scene, both as a producer and as a man.
She had her dark red hair pulled in that low ponytail again. The crimson strands slid back and forth as her body shifted in the saddle. Her simple white shirt was tucked into jeans that looked perfectly worn in all the right spots. Grant’s palms literally ached to feel those slim hips beneath them. For someone so petite and delicate looking, she had curves that would make any man drop to his knees and beg for anything and everything she was willing to give.
“Are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?” she asked without turning around.
He couldn’t help but smile. “I’m actually observing right now.”
Throwing a glance over her shoulder, Tessa quirked a brow. “Observing the barn structure or my rear end?”
Unable to stop himself, Grant laughed. “I was taking in all the structures.”
“Are you going to make an excuse as to why you’re late?”
Grant shrugged as he moved along the side of the aisle and closed the gap between them. “Do you care about an excuse?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t offer one.”
“Perfect.” Taking the lead line, she moved the Thoroughbred toward the open door to the riding ring. “I assumed you weren’t coming, and I was going to take Romeo out for a run. But if you want to talk, I’ll put him up.”
Grant didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to ask questions. He found himself wanting to watch her work, watch how she moved so gracefully and efficiently. The woman had a rare talent, and she was so damn beautiful. Stunning women were everywhere in L.A., but the majority in the circles he ran in were surgically enhanced. None had that porcelain skin, deep blue eyes, a cute little dimple and dark red hair. None of them wore cowboy boots with body-hugging jeans and Western shirts. And none challenged him the way Tessa did.
For once in his life, he was the pursuer.
“I’m ready to work if you are,” he told her.
She turned the beautiful horse around, dismounted and led him back to his stall.
After her saddle was back on the wall, she took a brush and started grooming the animal in large, circular strokes. “Romeo is going to learn to race. His father was a winner, and I can’t wait to see him fly.”
There was love in her tone, Grant noted. “How long will he train before he can race?”
“Cassie’ll have him ready to go next year. He’s not quite there yet.”
With ease and care, she moved around to the other side and repeated her motions. Her delicate hands were so gentle, and if he’d stop fantasizing about those hands on him, Grant might actually concentrate on the fact he was here to do a job.
The world of racing and horses was certainly glamorous to some, but not to him. Nothing about this sport appealed to him...except the sexy jockey in front of him.
If he didn’t start compartmentalizing soon, Tessa would suck him under, and he honestly didn’t think he was strong enough to climb back out.
“Do you have a favorite track?” he asked.
Her eyes met his over the back of the horse. With a wide grin she replied, “Yeah, the one where I win.”
Grant stepped closer, but still remained outside the stall. “How old were you when you started racing?”
“Officially?
