"Noted," Liv said, then realized the woman was teasing. Clearly the tall, virile cowboy leaning against the granite counter with a sexy smile curling his lips was the true master of this kitchen. Even though she wasn't quite sure how to react, she liked the banter and camaraderie zinging around the room.
When the timer dinged, she opened the oven. A billow of steam kissed her face. The biscuits were gorgeous, perfectly formed, rising tall and proud, tops bronzed like the horizon just before dusk.
Steam unfurled as she broke a biscuit open, passing halves to both Arletta and Mike.
They ate without talking, then made a single shared sound, a low, ridiculous moan of appreciation.
"Hell," Mike said softly. "You make a really good biscuit, Liv Ramsey."
Arletta sniffed. "She makes a fool look like a genius, is what she does."
Liv laughed—really laughed—and the sound startled her. When was the last time she'd done that? Not the polite laugh she used for investors. Not the nervous one she'd used when the detective told her to run.
This one came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere she'd thought she'd locked up for good.
She took a careful breath. "So… do I have the job?"
Mike's smile was decisive. "You do." He stuck out his hand again, and when she took it, his grip was firm and warm, a tether. "Seasonal to start. Room upstairs. We wake early, we work hard, we eat well. Might be some egg gathering and helping out during down times. You good with that?"
"I'm good with that." She tried to hide the relief that flooded her. Although the egg gathering and helping out part gave her pause. She was used to eggs coming from the supermarket and animals had never been part of her life as her parents had allergies and Manhattan apartments weren't conducive to keeping pets.
"Well, come on, then," Mike said. "I'll show you to your room."
Mike led her upstairs with a quiet ease, explaining as they passed framed photos and leather furniture that the upper rooms of the main house were reserved for family on the west wing and guests on the east wing. It was difficult to concentrate on his words when the majority of her concentration was wrapped up in the way his boots scuffed against the staircase and his jeans molded to his hips. This man screamed 'cowboy' without even trying. And that was incredibly sexy. Something she hadn't anticipated noticing about her new boss.
"We've added on to the house over the years. This was our original family home and we did some remodeling when we turned it into a guest ranch. We're a fairly new operation, so you're the first live-in staff we've hired. I'm putting you in the family wing."
"I don't mind staying in staff's quarters."
He grinned. "Well, I mind. My mother would turn over in her grave if I put a woman out in the bunkhouse with the wranglers."
"Oh, I'm sorry for the loss of your mom."
He nodded, but his body language said that particular subject was closed. "Here we are." His hat nearly brushed the door frame as he opened the door and preceded her into the bedroom, placing her suitcase by the bed.
The room was cozy and had a slightly masculine feel with polished pine floors and a bedspread that smelled of fresh linen and lemon soap.
"It's not the Waldorf," he said with a shrug, watching Liv take it in. "But the water pressure’s good, the well water’s clean, and the coffee in the morning's real enough to start wars over."
Liv smiled, truly smiled for the first time in days. "It's perfect. Thank you."
"Well, I better go check on that roast. Take your time and settle in. Supper's at six."
Mike didn't go back to the roast right away.
He stood in the hallway outside Liv Ramsey's door longer than he should have, hat in hand, staring at the scuffed toe of his boot like it held the answers to the questions he hadn't asked yet. Shoot, he’d hardly asked her anything besides her name.
What the hell are you doing, Watkins?
She’d been fairly quiet on their walk up the driveway, her blonde ponytail cascading out the back of her ball cap like a sleek mare’s tail, the brim pulled low, nearly resting on her designer sunglasses. As though she was trying to be invisible.
He'd hired her because they needed help. That was the story he'd tell Joe and Lyle when they asked. And they would ask. The Watkins brothers didn't let much slip by, especially when it came to women and the ranch.
But standing there in the drive earlier, watching her face go pale when Tiny charged, watching her square her shoulders and stand her ground. That's when he knew.
Years of military training taught him to read nuances. This woman was running from something a hell of a lot scarier than a goat.
Mike turned and headed down the stairs, boots heavy on the pine. He could still smell her in the kitchen—vanilla, brown sugar, something floral he couldn't name. Her biscuits were cooling on the counter, and he broke off a corner of one, letting it melt on his tongue.
