A pair of golden-green eyes stared out from between the bale of straw and the wall of Cynthia’s office, then blinked, once.
“Mrrt.”
Doing business out of a barn might not be everyone’s cup of tea but the cats were a perk. Especially when they were kittens.
Cynthia hunkered down onto her hands and knees and nudged the china plate across the concrete floor. The scrawny creature swivelled his ears but held his ground. She was definitely making progress.
Grant proposals and press releases had deadlines, but when it came to befriending strays, you had to take your opportunities when they came.
She gestured to the slice of turkey with her ballpoint pen, then spoke into it, as if it were a microphone.
“Tell me, Mr. Tiny Orange Feline, what makes DMC Solutions the best choice in today’s business climate?”
A simple question, right? The kind of thing a media and communications specialist would be perfectly positioned to answer, right?
She pointed the pen at the kitten. In a high, squeaky voice, she answered.
“Cynthia Henley is poised, polished and perfectly presentable. She uses the right words, in the correct order and never ever embarrasses herself or others.”
She pointed the pen back at herself.
“Thank you, Tiny Feline. We believe you to be biased by turkey-breast interference and thus unreliable, but we appreciate your kindness.”
The kitten stretched out his neck and snatched the turkey, just like the Marietta Weekly journalism intern who posted Cynthia’s recent Interview of Shame on YouTube.
The intern was long gone, but the paper’s online Business Focus column had never had so much traffic.
If only she hadn’t bumped into Chad Anders first. Coming face-to-face with one of her most embarrassing moments had awakened the monster that lay coiled inside her, ready to flick its forked tongue up her throat and spawn new, improved embarrassing moments.
I provide services my clients won’t find elsewhere.
She’d meant to sound earnest but nervous hyperventilation made it come out like a spaghetti western madame offering up a room service special.
I’ll do anything to muh-muh-meet their needs.
Why didn’t someone stop her? Or shoot her?
Ha-ha. I muh-mean, not uh-uh-anything, anything. Ha-ha.
Bray like a donkey. That’ll help.
DMC Solutions is uniquely puh-puh-positioned for today’s buh-business cuh-cuh-cuh-climax.
Oh, the humanity.
It was a mercy for everyone when the snake lurched up from her stomach and grabbed her larynx, shutting it down completely.
Maddie and DeeDee, her stepsisters and partners in DMC Solutions – she used the word partner loosely – had found the whole thing hilarious, reminding her that “any publicity is good publicity.” And they had a point. The viral clip of Cynthia’s stuttering offer of business climaxes had raised their online profile right alongside that of the newspaper. Website and social media hits had gone through the roof.
Serious inquiries, not so much.
Easy for Maddie and DeeDee to laugh; they didn’t identify with the company the way Cynthia did.
“Knock, knock.”
The male voice came from just behind her and she scrambled to her feet. The kitten fled.
The voice was attached to a long, tall figure leaning against her doorway, hat in hand, laughter twinkling in his eyes.
Perfect.
Chad Anders, brother to Eric, former rodeo champion and once the object of devotion for teen girls everywhere. Chad Anders, unknowing link to a more distant and far more humiliating event.
Chad Anders, so far out of her league, he was coming up on the other side.
The snake quivered but Cynthia stuck out her chest and jammed the monster down, deep inside. This was her turf. It would take more than a sparkling grin from a pretty playboy to wreck her composure.
“Yes, hi! Hello!”
Excellent. Yell at him. That’s the way.
His eyebrows went up. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Chad Anders. I’m looking for DMC Solutions.”
He grinned. Every woman in a hundred mile radius knew Chad Anders and he knew it. Worse, he knew she knew it too.
“Cynthia Henley. You found her. It. I’m it. DMC Solutions, I mean. Part of it, at least.”
Communications expert, that’s me.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He lifted his hat. “Though I do recognize you from our first meeting.”
Ha-HA! shouted the snake, grabbing Cynthia’s throat.
“Nuh-no, I’m, I duh-don’t-”
“I saw you at that awards dinner,” he continued. “You might not remember. You were leaving as I came in. You looked like you were in a hurry.”
Relief flooded over her and her throat opened. Not the interview, then. And not... that other thing.
“Of course,” she said, pretending she’d forgotten, that he was just as unmemorable as she was. “The dinner. I almost ran you down, I think.”
He glanced toward the bales stacked against her office wall. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all,” she said, brushing past him into her office. “What can I do for you, Mr. Anders?”
She turned to invite him in, and he bumped into her. Right there and solid as a brick outhouse.
“Oh!” She backed away quickly.
“Oops, sorry,” he said smoothly, with a cheeky sorry-but-not-really tilt to his head. “And you can call me Chad.”
Her stepsisters would have been madly loading their flirt-guns. Too bad for Chad, they weren’t here. Cynthia had given up shooting, for the good of mankind.
She moved to the safety of her desk anyway, though, sat down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Instead of sitting, he leaned against the doorframe and hooked his fingers in his belt loops, a classic I’m-all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips move. She could see the resemblance between him and his brother in the way he held himself, the tilt of his head, the line of his jaw.
“Chad, then.” She gestured for him to take the seat across from her. “What can DMC Solutions do for you?”
“My brother and I have recently established a charitable foundation,” he said. “You probably know my brother, Eric Anders.”
She bit back a laugh. Surely he was kidding this time. Eric Anders hadn’t been in the Marietta area as long as Chad, but his arrival had caused something of a stir. The screaming fans who’d followed his career were mostly grown and scattered now but there were still those that remembered weeping at the injury that ended his career.
Cynthia had been one of them once. Had a huge crush, to be completely accurate.
Had confessed as much at the awards dinner Chad mentioned, in front of a crowd of listeners. Speaking to him had been a test of strength, a challenge, a reminder that she was not shackled by the past.
Not a single stutter.
She did have to go out for air after, though. Call me Cyn. Really? Who said stuff like that?
Eric was off the market now, in the clutches of Leda, the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo who’d been with him at the ceremony.
Cynthia sighed. No wonder she had no luck with men. Good girls definitely finished last.
And yeah, she remembered bumping into Chad, too. He’d touched her arm in passing. She crossed her arms now, then quickly uncrossed them, aware that she could still recall the warmth of his touch.
“Eric and I want to sponsor a fundraiser,” said Chad. “Are you familiar with the work Logan Stafford does rehabbing heritage houses?”
“Yes!” She swallowed. Easy girl. “I mean, DMC Solutions did the brochures for the Marietta Heritage Society.”
Logan Stafford, local high school shop teacher, had created an innovative program providing work experience to at-risk teens by renovating derelict houses owned by the city. The Marietta Heritage Society loved him, as did everyone else, it seemed. She’d bumped into Logan several times and her opinion of him mirrored that of most women: too good to be true.
And according to his fiancée, Samara, he was every bit as good as he seemed.
The world was so unfair.
“Staff’s program has been wildly successful but funding is an issue. He’s a good friend of ours, so Eric and I want to support him. We were thinking of a dinner-dance. We can host it at Anders Run. We’ve got a huge, covered riding ring that’ll clean up good. I thought we’d call the event the Fixer-Upper Dance. You’ll understand once you’ve seen my house.”
She gave him the smile he seemed to be waiting for. Objectively speaking, Chad was better-looking than Eric and Logan Stafford put together, especially when he smiled. Good-looking, smooth, generous. A sense of humor.
And a total player.
“I want you to run the event,” he said. “But I need a full branding and design package ready before then. Logo, letterhead, business cards, brochures, a website, social media presence, everything.”
Her pulse ticked upward. She loathed event planning, but Maddie and DeeDee could usually be counted on to handle those tasks, if Cynthia watched over them. Everything else fell to Cynthia, and she took care of it all because, well, that’s what you do when you don’t have a trust fund. But graphic design was where she really shone.
And this project was exactly the kind of job she needed to prove DMC’s legitimacy.
“What’s your timeline?” she asked.
He named a date less than six weeks away.
“Design and branding won’t be a problem. It’s short notice for organizing an event, though.”
“I hope you can fit us in.”
She made a show of checking her schedule. “We’re pretty swamped.”
He glanced around the room, taking in her mostly blank Year-at-a-Glance wall calendar.
“So I see. Play much poker?”
She felt warmth rise into her cheeks. Holy smoking glaciers, that man could smile.
“My partners handle special events. I’ll have to discuss it with them.”
“Madeleine and Deirdre Cash, I believe.”
His voice didn’t change a jot, but she felt tension spring up between them.
“That’s right.”
Gorgeous, wealthy and fun-loving, Cynthia’s stepsisters drew men like flies to bug zappers. She wished she could hate them for it, but alas, the worst she could dredge up was irritation. Like you’d feel for an adorable baby who always steals the show, while yanking your hair out by the roots. If that baby also puked on your shoes after parties and did not reliably follow through on promises.
“Will they agree?”
“They will.”
Since Cynthia usually ended up doing most of the work anyway, it hardly mattered. She couldn’t wait until she could ditch the sister act and run the company herself, her way. Love the babies whole-heartedly again.
“This project is important to me, Cynthia,” said Chad. “YouTube notwithstanding, you’re the best. Name your price. I want you.”
She had the sudden urge to stab herself in the skull with a pie fork. Or better yet, stab him with it.
YouTube notwithstanding?
She did a quick calculation for a quote that would bring her goals into reach, then added a hefty surcharge for pain and suffering. Name her price? No problem.
Without pausing for thought, she printed out the estimate and pushed it across the table.
He glanced down for a quick moment, then looked up and held her gaze, as if considering it. And her.
Wait. I want you. Had he really said that?
His eyes were the lovely, deep blue of Cherry Lake in springtime and smiley, to match his mouth. She felt as if she were being pulled into them, somehow, like she could dive into those clear depths and swim, lazily, like a castaway on a forgotten island paradise...
I want you.
Had he meant it to sound so... silky, so seductive? Or was it just how he talked?
Fantasy Island dissolved and she shivered. Men like him said stuff like that to girls like her all the time and it meant nothing.
Chad’s lips turned up as if preparing a counteroffer. Had she just quoted herself out of a job? As buttery-smooth as he seemed, she sensed that this was a man who got his way, not through force, but because those eyes made a person want to agree with him, be on his team. Please him.
She opened her mouth to laugh and say, ‘Kidding, here’s the real quote!’ but he spoke first.
“Done,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let’s discuss the details over dinner.”
She laughed, relief making it come out louder than she’d intended. Dinner? That’s what he’d been thinking about while she was torturing herself? What a player!
I want you.
Right. She knew who he really wanted.
“Here’s our contact info,” she said, handing him her stepsisters’ personal business cards. “I work best by email, but I’m sure either of my partners will be happy to oblige you with a personal meeting.”
He pulled his hand back.
“Excuse me?”
“Maddie and DeeDee. My partners. Isn’t that...?”
She stopped, suddenly confused, embarrassed by her assumption and what she may have inadvertently revealed about her own insecurities.
“I asked you, Cynthia.”
He had, hadn’t he? The blue depths beckoned again, tickling her, like water lapping at her toes on the beach. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about her stepsisters at all. Maybe he was thinking about...
“You can invite them to join us though, if you like,” he added.
Oh, he was good. She should have quoted higher.
She handed him her own card. “Email me the pertinent files so I can get started.”
“How about I give you the files at dinner.”
“Email.”
“Dinner. You and me. Or no deal.” He smiled and something low in her belly clenched with yearning. Oh, sweet, stuttering self-delusion.
She shook her head to dislodge the falling sensation but the ache remained. “If you insist. Don’t forget the files.”
“How could I?” The smile turned to a grin. “It’s the reason for our meeting. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She thought of the money this job would net DMC Solutions. Thought about how she’d be able to jettison the D and M and finally put the C first.
She extended her hand. “I look forward to working with you.”
As they shook, he leaned in close and a wall of testosterone hit her, taking her breath away. His grip was warm and firm, the friction from his work-roughened skin just enough to tingle, to reawaken the spot on her arm where he’d first touched her.
She could see the bands of grey and jade and gold in his blue eyes, not cool lake water after all but a warm tropical sea, instead. She could see the bit of stubble on his chin and the laugh-lines that crinkled up as he smiled. She could see his lips sliding over those perfect teeth and behind them, just for a moment, his tongue.
Handsome?
As a prince, but that didn’t nearly cover it. He was like the hero of a book, or a movie. Captivating, over-the-top, unrealistic. Fantasy. Without a doubt.
“Not nearly as much as I do, Cynthia.”
And then, he was gone, leaving her with a lasting image of his denim-clad backside striding out the door.
Chad, who’d cured her of her crush on Eric.
Chad, a guy who ran through women like gumballs from a dispenser.
Chad, who’d witnessed her most embarrassing moment, the one that made all others pale in comparison, her first, worst and only drunken attempt at seduction.
And didn’t even know it.
Chad Anders walked out to the corral, his boots kicking up little swirls of dust behind him, thinking about the DMC Solutions contract sitting on the kitchen table. Not thinking about the many ways he could take advantage of the situation.
Eric’s Australian shepherd, Blue-Girl, trotted beside him, lonely with her master out of town. She watched with keen interest when he kicked at a stone, knowing she wasn’t allowed to chase it, but deeply wishing she could.
“Sorry, girl,” he said. “No rocks. You bust a tooth, the big guy will have my head.”
Though he was actually a half-inch taller than his older brother, to him, Eric was always the bigger man.
Certainly, he was the better man. At least, where women were concerned.
Chad pulled open the door to the horse barn, letting the dog go ahead of him, wishing he’d had a chance to speak to the Cash sisters himself. He hadn’t thought of them in years, but there was a time when he couldn’t close his eyes without imagining them naked.
Like every guy who’d ever met them, probably. There was always room in the male brain for gorgeous, sexy twins, identical or not. Especially with the story that had circulated about them, once upon a time.
Especially since he happened to have vivid, first-hand – if incomplete – knowledge that it was more than just a hormone-fuelled legend.
The image was seared into his memory: a girl fleeing around a corner, naked but for the towel covering her head. And the four moles, in a diamond shape, on her back. Rumors had abounded about the Cash sisters crashing Eric’s party following the Marietta Rodeo ten years ago and while stories ran rampant of them skinny-dipping in the hotel pool, no one had actually seen them.
Except him.
It was just before Eric got hurt, just before they’d received the rundown property that would become Anders Run, a conscience-appeasing, death-bed attempt by a grandfather they’d never met to provide for the boys his own son had abandoned.
It had been a few years before Chad was willing to settle at Anders Run. He hadn’t even realized the Cash family lived in the Marietta area until recently, which explained the resurrection of his mysterious flasher-girl dreams.
At the moment though, it wasn’t the twins but rather their stepsister, Cynthia Henley, who was needling him. If he were being honest, she’d been in the back of his mind since their brief meeting at the town awards banquet. She’d brushed him off then, and she’d been all business now, refusing to flirt, accepting his dinner invitation under protest.
What was that about?
A hoof slammed against the third stall wall and Chad could hear the whiffling sound of the horse inside. She heard him coming and wasn’t thrilled about it. Good thing he had Blue-Girl, otherwise he’d be worried he’d lost his touch with all females.
The mare tossed her head, her eyes white around the edges.
“Hey, sweet thing,” he crooned. Slowly and carefully, he moved closer, the lead rope loose in his hands. Once he got it snapped on to her halter, she settled down enough for him to lead her out of the stall. Working with the horse would make him feel better, he hoped.
He’d never had woman problems before. Keep things light, treat them well, make no promises, break no hearts. Simple. Satisfying.
Safe.
He’d seen how love had treated their mom, first with their dad, then with boyfriend after boyfriend, always seeking something they weren’t willing to give. He wouldn’t get caught in that same trap, nor would he cause that kind of grief. He never dated more than one at a time, and was crystal clear that he wasn’t looking for long-term anything. He was happy being footloose and fancy-free.
Or had been. Dumped in the morning, ignored in the afternoon.
The mare reared up, narrowly missing him with her front hooves.
Maybe he’d get kicked in the head now, for a hat trick.
The mare, Maisie, settled, and in a minute, Chad had her trotting around the ring at the end of the long lead, while he encouraged her, teaching her to watch him and listen for his commands. A dark bay with four white socks, she wasn’t a true mustang, but likely one of the many feral horses that ran with the wild horse bands dotting the valley. Young and healthy, she had the potential to be an excellent saddle horse.
Life was good, he told himself. Thanks to Granddad Dearest, he was free to pursue his woodworking. He had his rough stock, his beehives and the gardens and orchards he shared with Sweet Montana Farms, next door.
He had everything he wanted and then some. So why did he feel like something was missing?
Chad flicked the lead and clucked until the mare broke into an easy lope. She moved well and her responsiveness indicated a good transition, no excess trauma in the capture process.
It was energetic work for both of them and just repetitive enough to be soothing. Blue-Girl waited at the sidelines, her head on her paws, watching.
So he’d been dumped. Big deal. His pride was dented, that was all. It was never going to be more than a mutually-agreeable, casual weekend thing. But even casual relationships require a certain amount of attention. His lack thereof had earned him a glass of cold water in the face.
At least it hadn’t happened in Marietta. The only ones who knew him in Lutherton were the people at Three River. And of course, the bed-and-breakfast owner who’d referred to the woman with whom he’d been enjoying breakfast by the wrong name. And Chad hadn’t noticed.
Cue the ice water.
Maisie shied, rearing up and yanking the lead rope nearly out of his hand.
“Whoa!” He grabbed it, getting a nice rope burn in the process, and pulled the mare in, carefully avoiding her dancing feet, talking slowly and softly until she calmed down. He patted her neck, now warm from exertion, and turned her around to run in the opposite direction.
His head was definitely not in the game, hadn’t been, for some time. Was it really that obvious?
The B & B woman had tossed him a towel and a mop and suggested he figure out his life before his next trip to Lutherton.
Figure out his life.
His life was just fine.
Except here he was, ruminating, unable to focus on the task at hand. And he knew why, though he didn’t like admitting it.
It was Cynthia Henley, a woman nothing like the ones who usually caught his eye. A woman who’d run up to Eric, gushing about his championship bull-riding past and looked straight through Chad.
As if he didn’t even exist.