Page 202 of Promise Not to Fall for the Rich & Famous

He pulled up to the main entrance labeledfront desk. He parked his truck so that the trailer sat in the shade and hurried inside to see about watering Copper and getting set up.

Nash pushed open the glass door and rolled back his shoulders as he strode toward the receptionist, a redhead in her early 30s, he guessed, probably the one he'd been talking tothrough the intercom. The desk plaque read‘Fern Phillips,Front Desk Manager.’

"Uh-oh, it's Mr.I don't have a keyword."

Nash stopped in his tracks and looked from one side to the next. "Itis,” he said with a shrug. “But you mispronounced my name."

The woman arched a brow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. My name is actually Mr.never got a keyword." His face went red at the sound of his own lame joke.

"Buh-dump-bump." The redhead deadpanned.

“You’re Fern?” he reached out to shake her hand across the desk.

She shook it. "And you’re here to donate eighty full hours of your time.”

Just then, somebody cleared their throat from the far corner of the room. Nash stiffened and jerked a look over his shoulder. He hadn't seen anyone else as he walked in, but he hadn't looked over either.

An attractive middle-aged woman in a pair of fancy-looking Levis and pink Western boots flicked through a magazine.Whoa—not just any magazine, he realized. It was the very tabloid that gave away Ellie Blaire’s supposed whereabouts.

It took a moment for Nash to drag his gaze off of the cover of that tabloid. His face broke out with sweat as he caught eyes with the woman holding it. He meant for it to be a mere glance, but the look on her face made him somehow feel caught.

He cleared his throat and tipped his hat to the woman before turning back to Fern.

"I want you to know,” Fern said, “that we’ve had thirty-six calls about volunteering in the last week alone."

The phone rang, and she picked it up, eyes set on Nash. “Wild Buck’s Ranch.” Her nails drummed. “Oh yeah? You must be an angel straight from heaven,” she said in a monotone voice.“Fill out our online form, complete the steps noted there, and be prepared to donate a minimum of eighty hours of your time.”

The man on the other line stammered, but Fern spoke up again.

“Bye now.” She hung up. “Make that thirty-seven volunteer inquiries.”

Nash gulped. "Oh?" It came out in a squeak.

The deadpan face was back. "Mmm, hmm."

The woman with the magazine cleared her throat again.

Nash was starting to feel cornered. "That's odd. Maybe folks are just…feeling extra generous these days."

Fern studied him wordlessly.

"Well,” Nash said while scratching the back of his neck. “Should I head on back there? My horse needs water?—"

"Not so fast,” she blurted. “You read the article that said acertain somebodywould be here, didn't you?"

Nash’s eyes doubled in size. He remembered Aunt Jackie complaining about the time she went through menopause.My face is a furnace,she’d griped while fanning incessantly. Forget the furnace; Nash had volcano face, erupting with guilty heat.

He began shaking that lava head of his rapidly, feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "No, not at all. I don’t know who you’re talking about."

"You didn't suddenly gain great interest in volunteering because you heard a certainsomebodywas going to be here?"

Nash resisted the kneejerk reaction to ask if thatsomebodyreally was there. "You already asked that,” he said. “And the answer is still no." His heart hammered in guilty succession. He hated lying, even if he was convinced this was more of a white lie type of thing. No one would get harmed by it, and the fact was, Nash would donate eighty full hours of his time either way.

"Good." A broad smile crossed Fern’s bright red lips.

A smile that made his stomach drop.