“We’re going to Chili’s for supper. Is that okay with you?” Lauren asked.
“Sure. They’ve got decent salads,” Rachel said. “I try to avoid eating too much red meat.”
Go figure. P.T.’s daughter was a health nut. A half hour later, Rachel changed Clint’s mind when she ordered a salad with chicken meat and devoured her share of chips and salsa.
“More chips?” the waitress asked, stopping at their table.
“Sure.” Lauren handed over the empty basket.
“Don’t eat too many chips or you won’t finish your supper,” Clint said.
Lauren made a tsking sound. “I think I’m old enough to monitor my food intake.”
“Then you’d better finish your meal, since I’m paying for it.”
“If you’re going to make a big deal out of a few chips, I’ll pay for my supper.” Lauren tossed her napkin on the table and said, “Move. I have to use the bathroom.”
Clint slipped from the booth then exhaled loudly after his daughter walked off.
“You shouldn’t do that,” Rachel said.
“Do what?”
“Let your daughter disrespect you.”
Clint’s hackles rose. “Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Then you shouldn’t be doling out advice.”
“I work with angsty teenagers. You have to stand your ground and demand their respect or they’ll walk all over you.”
He opened his mouth to tell Rachel to mind her own business but was cut short when Lauren returned to the table. With half an ear he listened to the females chat, fuming over Rachel sticking her nose into his and Lauren’s business.
The check arrived and he insisted on paying for Rachel’s meal, even though she protested. When they hit the outskirts of Yuma, Lauren put in her earbuds and listened to music on her iPod. Clint focused on the road, ignoring Rachel’s stare. Ignoring the clean, fresh scent of her perfume was more difficult. It had been forever since he’d sat next to a nice-smelling female. Assuming she had more parenting suggestions to offer him, he said, “Spit it out.”
“Spit what out?”
“Whatever’s bugging you?” When she remained quiet, he said, “You’ve been staring at me since we left the restaurant.”
“We need to clear the air between us.”
“I didn’t know it was polluted.”
“Funny. I’m being serious.”
What was it with females—always overanalyzing or making a big deal out of nothing?
“You’re not comfortable with me running P.T.’s rodeo company.”
He should have known a woman with a psychology major would find a way inside his head. “P.T. has his reasons for choosing you.”
“But you don’t like me.”
He liked plenty about her physical appearance.
“There’s annoyance in your eyes when you look at me,” she said.
Really? Rachel must not have had much experience with men if she misinterpreted his appreciative glances as irritation. “I apologize for being rude.”
“I wasn’t asking for an apology.”
Jeez. Following the woman’s train of thought was like trailing Curly into the desert—he never knew which direction the bull might mosey. Honesty was the best course of action. “You want to clear the air? How about this—P.T. made a mistake handing over the reins to you.”
She stiffened. “You know nothing about me.”
Exactly. “Have you ever been to a rodeo?”
“No.”
“I rest my case,” he said.
“Just because I’ve never seen cowboys ride bucking stock doesn’t mean I lack business sense.”
“Do you have experience putting on large events?”
“I organized a fundraiser for the weight room at the high school. We collected four thousand dollars for new equipment.”
“You got any idea how much money is involved in producing a Five Star Rodeo?”
“No.”
“The average cost runs between a hundred-fifty and two hundred thousand dollars.”
Rachel’s face paled.
“Like P.T. stated earlier, the rodeos have to turn a profit or there won’t be enough money to support the sanctuary ranch the following year.”
“My father never mentioned his business was struggling.”
“Things are tight, leaving little room for mistakes. That’s not to say there isn’t more competition in the rodeo business these days, because there is. Some of the production companies are using expensive gimmicks to increase attendance.”
“What kinds of gimmicks?”
“Drawings for free vehicles. Time-shares in the Bahamas.”
“Can you recommend a dealership that might be willing to donate a truck to one of our rodeos?” she asked.
He could but why should he help Rachel look good in P.T.’s eyes? “Sorry, I don’t have any connections to car salesmen.”
“There has to be a way to increase attendance without breaking the bank,” she said.
“Guess you’ll figure something out. That’s why P.T. put you in charge, right?”
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