wiped his damp hands on his thighs. “Do you like working here?” he asked. She certainly got on well with the customers, sometimes too well.
She shrugged, making her gold hoop earrings dance. “It’s better than my last job at the accounting office.” She rolled her eyes expressively. “Boring.”
Mitch joined in her laughter. As long as they talked about jobs and careers, he was on solid ground. His was the world of a businessman who’d built his company from one idea, one clever invention, into a brand that was well-known in ranching and farming circles throughout the country and beyond.
When he attempted to cross over to the other side—the social arena of small talk and flirting—he stepped into quicksand. And never more so than when he talked to Lizbeth.
“Have you ever thought about changing jobs?” he asked, hoping desperately for a few more moments alone with her before more thirsty customers showed up.
There was more than one way to get to know someone. Especially someone as appealing as Lizbeth, idly tracing figure-eights on the surface of the bar carved from walnut burl.
Since her world unnerved him so badly, he hoped to bring her into his.
From her surprised expression when she looked up, he realized he’d managed to throw her a curve. “I think about working somewhere else all the time,” she admitted with a wary glance at Moses. “I’ve already changed jobs so many times that I just didn’t know if it would be a good idea again unless something really perfect came along.”
He ignored the sudden feeling of hesitancy. “So you might be open to suggestions?”
She batted her long lashes, clearly not thinking he was serious. “Just what did you have in mind?”
He resisted the temptation to let his attention wander from her smoky brown eyes to her sweet, full lips. “A legitimate job offer,” he replied. “I promise.”
Liz studied Mitchell Cates, trying to figure out his game. She got hit on all the time in this job, but he didn’t seem the type. He came across as clever, driven, reserved—and every bit as handsome as his brother Marshall. Especially when Mitch smiled as he was doing right now.
Maybe he was more of a player than she’d first thought. She doubted he did his employment recruiting in bars.
Curious, she rested her elbows on the polished wood slab. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to listen,” she replied, ignoring the inexplicable feeling of disappointment that he was probably just like other guys.
At least he was someone to talk to. Once the room started jumping, she and the staff coming on in an hour would be lucky for a moment to breathe between drink orders.
“Are you familiar with my company, Cates International?”
“Sure. You make tractors, don’t you?” She’d driven past the large complex at the edge of town without paying much attention. With her new plan to put herself first, she needed to make a habit of recognizing opportunities, no matter how unlikely.
Especially one involving a dark-haired man with a killer—if fleeting—smile. Damn, but her old habits were hard to break!
“Tractors,” Mitchell echoed. “Close enough, I guess. We actually manufacture hydraulic tables to lift and immobilize cattle. We call them cow-tippers.” He shook his head with a rueful grin. “This is where your eyes start to glaze over and you stifle a yawn.”
Faking interest in some manly subject she found drop-dead boring was a skill Liz had perfected in adolescence. Gaze unflinching, she pretended fascination. “But why would anyone want to tip a cow?”
“Good question,” Mitchell said.
The phone behind the bar began to ring. She glanced at Moses, but he was restocking the Kentucky bourbon. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said.
Mitchell nodded. “No problem.” While he sipped beer that must surely be warm and flat, she took the call and recited their hours by rote.
“Sorry about that,” she said after she’d hung up. “You were talking about tipping cows?”
“Actually, lifting and immobilizing them for various reasons, like trimming their hooves,” he explained. “I won’t bore you with the sales pitch right now.” He slid his beer bottle a couple inches to the right, then moved it back to where it had been. “The thing is that I’m looking for an office assistant. Suzy’s leaving, so I’ll need someone to answer the phone, keep track of my appointments and do some other office chores.”
Liz’s interest surged, but then doubt intruded. “How do you know that I can even use a computer?” she asked.
“You just said you worked in an accounting office,” he reminded her. “I doubt the basics are much different. What you don’t know, you can probably learn. People skills can’t be taught and from what I’ve observed, yours are excellent.”
The compliment was gratifying, especially since it had nothing to do with her face or her boobs. How long had it been since someone had recognized her worth in some other less obvious way than her looks?
He’d certainly snagged her attention, but she wasn’t about to be swept off her feet.
“The work here is easy and the tips are good,” she countered. “Most of the time, it’s a lot of fun.” Never mind the aching feet, rude drunks, occasional pinches and pats, and weekend shifts. “Still, a change of pace might be nice.”
“Why don’t you come on in to the office one morning this week and fill out an application?” he suggested. “We can talk some more.”
It was time to up the ante and see if he was serious, since in her experience most men seemed only to want what they couldn’t have.
“If I were to really consider leaving the resort, it would be for more than just another dead-end job,” she explained as a party of four wandered in and sat around a nearby table.
“I’ll be right with you,” Liz called to them. “Speaking of work,” she told Mitch, “I’d better get back to it.”
“Finish what you were saying first,” he urged her with a brief touch on her wrist, “about what you’re looking for?”
Ignoring again her flare of awareness of him as a man—an attractive, successful, available man, as the old Liz would have noticed first and foremost—she stuck to her new resolution.
“I’m looking for a career opportunity,” she said firmly, “a genuine chance to move up in the world.”
She figured he might laugh in her face as he got to his feet. Imagine someone like her telling a successful entrepreneur like him that he’d have to do better with his offer!
His brown eyes—lighter than Marshall’s and shaded with gold—narrowed for an instant and then he took out his wallet. After he’d extracted a couple of bills, he slid a business card toward her.
“Come and see me,” he urged again. “We’ll talk.”
Bemused, she watched him walk purposefully from the Lounge without a backward glance and then she stared
