Page 35 of A Rancher's Vow
Fern laughed. “Sweetie, you and Dustin are two of my favourite people, and I don’t say that lightly. I think you’ll be dynamite together, in bed and out. The only part I don’t get is the part where you’re fake dating.”
“To throw off the media and make him safe from the bachelor auction. Were you even listening?” Charity stepped out of the trailer door and headed for the cookhouse.
“I was listening. I meant why are youfakedating? You two should be dating for real.”
“Ha. As if.” Charity slowed, paces away from her first dose of coffee. “We don’t swim in the same circles. Friends, yes. Anything more than pretend partners isn’t in the cards. I need to go, but you don’t think it makes me cold to want him, even if it’s temporary?”
Fern sighed. “Of course, you want him. You two were meant for each other, which means your swimming pool analogy needs a new filter. But go. We’ll talk later. Love ya.”
“Love you too.”
Charity squared her shoulders, pulled open the door, and marched inside in search of the largest cup of coffee she could find.
The cookhouse smelled as wonderful as the night before. It was also ninety-nine percent empty. The sole occupant waved from his place behind a massive cooktop. “There you are. Hungry?”
“A little. I need caffeine more than food.”
“Good thing I can get you both.” He winked. “I’m Sam. I assume you’re Charity. Adam told me to take care of you.”
“Aww, he’s so sweet.”
Sam laughed. “That would be one of the first times he’s been called that. But sure. Let’s get you fed.”
Five minutes before eight, Charity pushed out the door of the cookhouse with a final wave at Sam. He’d turned out to be a great source of information regarding exactly what the cowboys, including Dustin, would be doing that day. She’d also eaten pancakes so fluffy they melted on her tongue. In her hand, she gripped the largest single serving to-go thermos she’d ever seen.
Pretty much a perfect start to the day—other than screwing up the seduction part.
A piece of yellow paper fluttered in the wind as she approached the door of the office. Charity pulled off the teeny sticky note that readGone to town. I put out stuff for you. F.
Well, good. She didn’t need to have the man standing over her watching as she gathered materials, but what if the stuff he put out wasn’t the stuff she needed?
Obviously, she’d be making this up as she went along.
Charity opened the door and headed for battle, quickly deciding that theFon the note hadn’t been shorthand for Frank, but afuck you.
There was no chair in the office.
Charity took her time searching, even checked in the closet, but the room failed to magically spit out anything remotely chair-like.
Also, there were no windows and no air conditioning. With the dark wood paneling on the walls, she now understood Coralee’stombcomment.
There were binders on the side table labeled with some of the years she needed to go through. The three sets of vertical files were open to various drawers full of reports. The desk was covered with loose papers, none of which related to her work.
Oh, this was going to be interesting.
Since help wasn’t being offered, Charity went for the do-it-yourself solution. She found an empty box in the storage closet, neatly labeled itoffice deskand added the date. It was very satisfying to sweep everything off the desk surface into the box and close it up tightly.
She put the box on the top shelf of the closet, label side out. She wasn’t an animal.
After propping open the door in hopes of drawing in some fresh air, she pulled out the list Tucker had sent and began gathering materials to the left side of the desk. Once she had three neat piles, she climbed on the right side of the desk, sat cross-legged, and got to work.
Flexibility in all things was a blessing, she decided.
Two hours later someone knocked on the door. “Charity? You here? Oh, there you are.” Coralee frowned. “How are you in that position and still breathing?”
Charity uncurled her arm from around her right leg. She’d adjusted position a few times as she’d worked. “This is about the most pretzel-like I can get without needing a recovery team to detangle me.”
The young woman stepped up to the desk, swinging her head from side to side. “In my day, desks were used to write on or sit on, but not both at the same time.”
