Winning The Rancher's Heart. Pamela Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ boy, younger than the girl and with hair as red as his mom’s, skidded to a stop next. “Man, that was loud.”

      “I take it those are the kids?” he asked.

      She glanced back at him. “Yup.”

      Which confirmed that she was Naomi Jones, although her Southern accent gave it away. The friend of a friend that his sister had interviewed and loved, and whom he’d been forced to hire because Lauren felt sorry for the single mom of two. That wasn’t surprising given that his sister had been raising a child all on her own, but that would soon change since she’d met Brennan Connelly.

      “Can I see the inside of your house?” the boy asked, lifting up on his toes as if he might be able to peer over his mom’s shoulder.

      The girl smacked him on the head.

      “Ow!” the boy cried.

      “Come on.” The teen gave them what could only be called a glare of derision. “Let’s let Mom do her housekeeping thing.”

      His gaze caught on the woman in front of him, just in time to see her wince. “I’m so sorry.”

      He’d have to have been a real jerk not to accept her apology. His men might call him a hard-ass, but it really wasn’t true. Well, most of the time.

      “It’s okay.” He stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”

      “Thanks.”

      She glanced around, her gaze coming to rest on a granite water sculpture at the center of the main foyer. The sound of running water soothed troubled souls, his included.

      “I love your house.” She stopped in the middle of the foyer, her eyes—the prettiest shade of blue he’d seen in a long, long time—traveling around the interior. “It reminds me of a guest lodge or something.”

      “Thanks.”

      Those eyes landed back on him. “I’m Naomi Jones, by the way.”

      He could tell she wasn’t sure if she should hold out a hand or simply stand there and keep smiling.

      He took the guesswork away from her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Nice to meet you.”

      He saw something flit across her eyes, something that told him he might have just offended her, or maybe disappointed her. “You, too.” She stuffed her own hands in her pockets.

      Interesting. Usually mimicking someone’s gestures was a sign of submission, but he doubted that was the case here. He’d seen her tip her chin up a tad. Those bright blue eyes of hers had grown a little less friendly, too.

      “So, those were your kids?”

      “Yes. T.J. and Samantha.”

      “And you’ve settled into the apartment?”

      “Well, no. We only just got here. I was told to come straight to you when we arrived. So you could meet me.”

      Check her out, his sister had said, although he hated the way saying the words made him feel. His sister had said she was perfect for the job, but that didn’t mean he would think so, too. He’d agreed to hire her as a favor. He’d been telling himself for the past two weeks that he should trust his sister’s judgment, but as Naomi stood in front of him he wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

      “Why don’t we go talk in my office?” He motioned that she should follow him past the sunken living room that overlooked the front of the property and up some stairs to his left. He’d had very few people to his private retreat. He could probably count the number on one hand, but he wasn’t surprised by her reaction to the vaulted ceilings and the wrought-iron balustrade as she followed him up the wooden steps. It’d taken a year to build the place, and another three months to build the massive covered arena and apartments out back. He’d spent those last several months flying back and forth between his corporate offices in San Francisco, interviewing hippotherapists and psychotherapists, and securing the purchase of the livestock for his ranch. It’d been a hell of an endeavor, but he’d gotten it done.

      “My sister tells me you’ve done this before?”

      “Well, not quite,” she said, taking a seat opposite his desk. He watched as she immediately shifted first left and then right, solidifying his own thoughts about his new furniture. Not comfortable. He’d hired a decorator, and he’d begun to suspect that she valued form over function. He liked things the opposite way, something he’d clearly neglected to convey. In his line of work, things needed to be efficient. Someone’s life might depend on it.

      “I used to work as an event planner, and before that, I worked for a hotel doing the same thing. But I started out in housekeeping. Worked my way up while I attended college, that sort of thing.”

      He’d known that. He’d read her résumé a time or two. “Why do you want to move all the way out to California?”

      She stared into her lap for a moment, resting her hands on her jean-clad legs, sunlight from the tall windows in front of her emphasizing the red of her hair. “The kids’ grandparents are moving out here.” She looked up and met his gaze. “My kids love them. I didn’t want Sam and T.J. to be that far away.”

      “So you chucked it all?”

      He didn’t mean to sound critical, but he could tell by the way she furrowed her brow that she took it that way. “We don’t have anybody else. No other family, no aunts or uncles, and life in Georgia is...challenging.”

      “More challenging than moving all the way to California?”

      There went that chin again. “We needed a change.”

      A big change. At least from the sound of things.

      He leaned back. He sat opposite her since he didn’t need to see the view. “This job won’t just be about housekeeping. I know that’s what my sister told you, but it’s going to be way more than that.”

      She tipped her head, leaned forward a bit. Her body language told him she didn’t mind this change of plans.

      “You’ll still be keeping house to some degree,” he explained, “and managing my household—buying groceries and whatnot—but whoever works here needs to be flexible, too. They need to understand that one day they might be asked to cook for me when I’m in town, or clean a guest apartment, or help one of our guests in some way. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be interesting. You do know how to cook, don’t you?”

      “You wouldn’t ask me that if you’d tasted my Southern pecan pie.” She beamed, and he had to admit she didn’t look a thing like he’d expected. He’d expected older. More...harried-looking. She had two kids and he knew that couldn’t be easy.

      Drop-dead gorgeous, that’s what she was.

      Even in an off-white long-sleeved T-shirt as plain as day. He didn’t normally notice such things, not when all he cared about was if someone could do a job properly, but the visual image in his head was so far from the reality that it startled him.

      “What about you?” he said. “Do you have any questions?”

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