Page 60 of The Mistletoe Kisser
He was appalled. No, more than appalled. He was downright horrified. “You hung on to a ratty scarf that some douchebag gave you fifteen years ago? You don’tactuallythink you’re in love with him, do you?”
“What? God, no! It was a nice memory and a great scarf. Jeez! And you said you liked it!”
On closer inspection, maybe it had been a great scarf at one time. Now it was missing more fringe than it had. There was a distinct bite mark in the hem. Probably llama. “Yeah, well, you put me on the spot, and I lied. I don’t like it. It’s a shitty scarf, and you should get rid of it.”
“I’m confused, is this you being nice?” she quipped.
“Get out of the car, Sam,” he growled.
They exited the vehicle. And Ryan took a deep breath of winter air. Despite his frustrations—sexual and otherwise—with Sammy, he felt like they were finally back on an even keel. She was happy. His hangover was almost gone. He had a starting point for Carson’s problem. He’d had the best Italian meal of his life. And he’d kissed a woman breathless.
It couldalmostbe labeled a good day.
Sammy led the way into the barn. As he stepped inside, he marveled that it was his second barn in one day.What the hell was happening to his life?
Inside, it was warmer than he expected. Cleaner too. Practically livable. It smelled better than the dairy barn, which, to be fair, hadn’t been terrible either. But this sweet aroma was almost good. The scents of hay and horse and sawdust tangled together to create something interesting. If there were a horse barn candle, he’d consider buying it for his condo.
He thought of the scents of his own workplace. Fresh paper, stale coffee, the ghosts of cologne and furniture polish that lingered behind in the conference rooms. It didn’t smell likelife. Not like this.
The order of it all piqued his interest too. He appreciated the organization that was evident. There was an entire room of horse-riding equipment—a tack room, according to the sign next to the door—all shined and hung. Glossy black wheelbarrows and no-nonsense tools dripped dry on the stone floor. The hose that had cleaned them was coiled neatly on the mount on the wall.
Horse heads, huge yet dignified, poked out of stalls and eyed them as they passed. A big, black steed stared imperiously at them then gave the stall gate a hard gouge with his front hoof.
“Watch out for this guy,” Sammy warned with a grin. “He’s a biter.”
“I know nothing about horseflesh, but that’s one hell of a horse,” he said, eyeing the beast.
“This is Apollo, the resident stud. He’s a royal pain in the ass, but I love him. Don’t I, big guy?”
Ryan flinched when she gave the stallion a scratch under the chin, expecting the horse to snap off a few of her fingers. Instead, he tolerated the affection for a few seconds before pretending to try to take a bite out of her shoulder.
But Dr. Sammy was a professional and accustomed to the trickery. She danced out of the horse’s reach. It was all for show, he realized. A flirtation between stubborn and loving souls. The stallion practically had hearts in his eyes when he tossed his head arrogantly and looked away from Sammy.
“Come on,” she said, waving. “The office is this way.”
They turned a corner and found a small office with an open door and a glass window that overlooked the indoor riding ring.
“Bullshit,” barked the woman refilling a mug of coffee in the office. She was long-legged like one of the fine specimens of horse in the stalls. Her dark hair was stick straight and pulled back in a long tail through a dirty ball cap. She wore those tight riding pants that horse people preferred, knee-high boots, and a heavy sweatshirt.
“It’s not bullshit,” the girl behind the desk argued. “You called the distributor a mercenary dictator and threatened to feed him his own balls last month.”
“I have a feeling you’ll like Joey,” Sammy predicted before knocking on the door frame. “You pissing off distributors again?”
Joey snorted over the rim of her coffee cup. “No one would have to get pissed off if people did their damn jobs in the first place and weren’t so damn sensitive about perfectly reasonable criticism.”
Sammy was right. Ryan felt an immediate kinship with the woman. He bet she hated Christmas movies, too.
“I keep telling her she should let me take over the ordering so we wouldn’t have to switch suppliers every few months,” the girl said.
“I agree with Reva,” Sammy said, leaning against the door. “You might need to finally accept that you suck at peopling and dump that responsibility on someone who doesn’t make grown men cry at least once a week.”
“You both can kiss my ass,” Joey said with a toss of her long tail of hair. The movement reminded Ryan of Apollo’s disdainful head toss.
“But you’ll think about it,” Sammy predicted.
Joey grunted. “Maybe.”
Sammy winked at Reva, who looked smugly triumphant.
