Page 31 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"She's going to be in the guest cabin."

Dean emerges, looking mouthwatering in Levis and dark blue plaid. He's wearing an apron over his clothes, which, funnily enough, only adds to his appeal. Strong and masculine, but not afraid to show a more nurturing side.

God, all three men are devastating. It's a wonder they haven't been snatched up already.

Then again, their terrible attitudes might have a lot to do with it.

And honestly, how do I know they haven't been? There's nothing to say they're not dating... or even permanently attached.

I don't like that thought, so I shove it aside.

Reed frowns. "You sure that's a good idea for her to stay out there?"

"Damn right I'm sure. She's hardly going to fit in with the others in the main bunkhouse, even if there are a couple of girls there already. If we put her in the guest cabin she'll have her own bedroom and bathroom, and she can eat with us."

"We have space here, in the main house. Why doesn't she stay here? Because of Lennon?"

"Because I said so. I'm also going to remind you that she's here to be our trainee and not your plaything. Understood?"

Reed's annoyance shows in the way he clenches his jaw, but he bites his tongue, winking at me before he heads to the front door. "See you later, 'Princess Ice Cream'."

"Bye." I smile at his cheeky use of the name Grace has given me that he must have overheard as he came down the stairs.

After the door shuts behind him, I face Dean once more.

"So," I say, trying to cover the awkward silence. "What's the order of business today?"

"You had breakfast?"

I nod. "I had some leftover breakfast bars I bought at the grocery store."

He raises an eyebrow. I shrug. "I'm not much of a breakfast person."

"You are today."

Dean heads toward the kitchen, leaving me no choice but to follow.

It's a ranch-style kitchen, with an open feel to it—pine wood cupboards and drawers, wooden worktops, earth-toned floor tiles, and an honest-to-God solid fuel range. Bacon sizzles in a pan on the hot plate, on the warming plate sits a steaming coffee jug.

Lennon sits at the head of a very solid old oak kitchen table that looks like it might have come off the Ark and was probablysecondhand then. He has Grace in his lap. She swings her legs rhythmically and smiles happily at me when I walk in. He's making airplanes with a spoonful of eggs, and she giggles as her eyes track the movement. When he brings it to her mouth, she clamps her lips shut, claps her hands, and says, "Again! Again!"

"That's the thirtieth time," he says, smiling despite the frustration in his voice.

But when he glances up and sees me watching him, every trace of humor vanishes. Damn. What did I ever do to deserve this hostility? As far as I know, all we had was a giant misunderstanding and overreaction—on his part. If anything, I should be the one who's pissed off. Instead, he acts like I kicked his puppy or something.

Whatever. I'm not here for his approval. I'm here to do a job—and I'm going to do it.

"Sit," Dean orders.

His bossy tone rankles, but I figure it's not a smart move to defy my new boss on my first day, so I bite my tongue and sit.

He pulls a plate from the cabinet above the sink and dumps the bacon onto it. Then he cracks a few eggs into the pan, opens the oven to pull out whatever he is baking, and stirs a pot of beans simmering on the stove.

A few minutes later, he sets a plate down in front of me—bacon, cornbread, scrambled eggs, and beans, piled high. I stare at it and exclaim, "There's no way I'm finishing all that."

"You have to," he says. "You're going to be working hard today, and you might not have time for lunch. You'll need all the fuel you can get."

He pours himself a coffee from the jug, then passes it across to me along with the milk.

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