by HELEN HARDT
“This is perfect. Thanks.” Ashley takes a drink.
And I try not to look as she licks a drop of juice from her lower lip.
But I can’t help myself. Her lips are as luscious as the rest of her. She’s sitting in a tank top and cutoff denims. No bra, of course. Damn. No makeup either, that I can see, and her long blond locks are pulled up into a high ponytail. Her blue eyes are sparkling like aquamarines.
I have no idea how I look. I only have one mirror I use in the guesthouse. In my bathroom, and I didn’t bother looking in it today. I’m still wearing the jeans I had on yesterday. I discarded the green button-down when I got home this morning and traded it in for a black T-shirt, my cowboy boots for leather moccasins.
My hair is probably an unruly mess.
And why do I care?
I don’t.
Except that I do.
I want to look my best for Ashley White.
“Did you sleep well, Ashley?” Dad asks.
“I did, thanks. Your guest room is amazing. I think that’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.”
“That used to be Dale’s room,” Dad says.
Ashley’s cheeks redden as mine warm. Really? They gave her my old room? Granted, they turned it into a guest room when I moved out back, but still…
Why my room?
The thought of Ashley in my old bed…
Of course, it’s not my old bed. Just the frame. I took my mattress with me.
“I want you to know, Ashley,” Dad goes on, “that you’re completely welcome here, and Jade and I are happy to have you. We don’t want you feeling awkward because Diana won’t be here.”
“Oh, I don’t.” Though her red cheeks betray her words.
Silence for a few seconds.
“Where’s Mom?” I finally ask. “And the girls?”
“I can’t speak for Diana,” Dad says, “but Bree should be up. We’ve got some work to do in the orchard.”
“On a Saturday?” Ashley says.
I let out a guffaw. “Apples and peaches still grow on Saturdays. Ranching doesn’t have weekends.”
“My son’s right,” Dad says. “We’re used to working twenty-four seven around here.”
Ashley turns to me. “Do you need me to do something today, then? I thought I wasn’t starting until Monday.”
I open my mouth, but Dad answers for me.
“No, no. Take the weekend. Dale will have you working harder than you’ve ever worked before. Take these last two days off.”
She nods, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.
But I know.
She’s freaked about losing her weekends. Well, what did she expect on a ranch during harvest season?
“As a matter of fact,” I say, “I could use your help today.”
“Dale…” Dad looks at me sternly.
“Hey, she asked. And you’re right. We all work our asses off here.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ashley
Damn, that voice.
I don’t know whether to love it or hate it. I mean, I love it, but it seriously blocks out all other sounds and colors. Such a strange phenomenon for someone who’s used to being overwhelmed by senses all the time.
He’s bluffing.
Maybe.
Or maybe not. I’ll call his bluff.
“Sure, what can I do today?” I ask.
He takes a sip of coffee. Yeah, he expected me to beg off.
“Never mind,” he says. “I have to go into town. My fridge is empty.”
“Why don’t you take Ashley with you?” Dad suggests. “Show her around Snow Creek.”
Dale pauses a moment before answering. Then, “I’m sure she wants to spend the day with Dee. After all, she’s leaving tomorrow.”
“I’d actually love to see the town.”
“Diana’s perfectly capable of being your tour guide,” Dale says. “It won’t take long. Snow Creek’s so tiny that if you blink, you’ll miss it.”
“Diana will be busy packing today,” Talon says.
Why is Dale’s dad pushing us together? I’m not sure, but seeing Snow Creek with Dale sounds…intriguing.
“I’m just going to stop at the grocery,” he says. “Not play tour guide.”
Talon frowns slightly at his son. I get it. He doesn’t want to reprimand a thirty-five-year-old man, but I see it in his eyes. He’s not happy with Dale’s reticence.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “Maybe I’ll go in myself and explore.”
Except I don’t have a car. Dumbass move on my part.
“Morning!” Brianna breezes in, hair damp and pulled into a low ponytail. She holds a pink cowboy hat. It suits her.
“I was wondering when you’d be up,” Talon says. “We’ve got to get out to the orchards.”
“I’m ready. I finished all my packing yesterday. I’m all yours today.”
“Coffee, Miss Bree?” Darla asks.
“Yes, please, Darla.”
Talon stands. “Put hers in a to-go cup. One for me, as well.”
“Of course.” Darla assembles two cups of coffee.
“Thank you, Darla. We’ll be gone most of the day, but we’ll be home for dinner. Are you planning anything special for Diana and Brianna’s last night at home?”
“Miss Jade and I are working on it. Be home by six.”
“Will do.” Talon grabs his cowboy hat and one of the coffees. “Come on, Bree.”
Bree takes the other cup of coffee and then looks over her shoulder at me. “Don’t let Dale give you too hard a time. He’s really a softy at heart.”
Dale stiffens. Will he argue with his sister’s words? I half expect him to have a major cow.
He doesn’t.
I have a feeling his sisters can get away with anything. He adores them.
Still, Bree’s description doesn’t ring true. A softy at heart? I don’t think so. Dale Steel may be a lot of things, but soft isn’t one of them.
Not in the least.
We sit alone at the large kitchen table, Darla scuttling in the background, until Dale finally stands.
“I should go.”
“Okay. What time should I report on Monday?”
“Eight, at the offices. Dee can show you where everything is today.”
“She’ll be packing,” I remind him.
He lets out a slight scoff. Then, “For God’s sake,” under his breath.
I force a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll report. You can drive over on Mon—”
“I…”
“What?”
“I don’t have a car here. I drove from Cali with Diana.”
“Fuck. All right. You can drive with me, then, but I usually go in early. Between six and seven.”
Living on a ranch definitely has its drawbacks. Sure, I’m an early riser, but I like to spend the first couple hours of the day with orange juice and a good book.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll meet you at your house at six.”
“I may not be ready right at six. I said I go in between six and seven.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“That’s silly,” he says. “I’ll just swing by here and get you. Just be ready by six.”
Hmm. So he doesn’t want me waiting at his house. Whatever. I’ll be ready at six a.m. on Monday as if my life depends on it. Leave it to Dale Steel to show up right at six on my first day.
“Come on,” Dale says. “Let’s go. I’ve got shit to do today.”
I rise and follow him out the back door and up the pathway to his guesthouse.
“Stay here,” he says, once we get inside. “I’m going to take a quick shower and change.”
Damn. Just what I don’t need. An image of naked Dale Steel, water pelting his gorgeous body.
“Why am I here, then?” I ask, bending down to let Penny lick my face. “You could have picked me up at the house.”<
br />
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t thinking. Make yourself at home. The fridge is empty, but there’s coff— Hell, you don’t drink coffee. Well, there’s water.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t.” He walks down a hallway and disappears into what I presume is his bedroom.
Curiosity washes over me. What does Dale’s bedroom look like?
And this house is huge. This is a guesthouse? I may live in LA, but I don’t live like the elite. I spent many years not having a home at all.
He did say to make myself at home. I look around the kitchen, for starters, since we came in the back door and that’s where we landed. It’s nothing compared to the kitchen in the main house, but it’s about five times bigger than the tiny galley in my LA apartment. A carafe of coffee sits on the burner, but the coffee maker has already turned itself off. I open the refrigerator. Whoa. He wasn’t lying. Condiments line the shelf on the door, but the inside is pretty bare, save for some cans of Diet Coke—since when does Dale Steel need to drink anything labeled diet?—and a few bottles of white wine.
Definitely a bachelor pad.
The freezer holds mostly beef wrapped in white butcher paper. He also has a bag of chicken breasts and a few pints of ice cream. Funny. I wouldn’t have thought Dale the ice cream type.
A door to the left of the fridge turns out to be a pantry. The first thing to catch my eye is a massive spice rack. The man has everything from allspice to something called za’atar spice, which I’ve never heard of. In fact, he has quite a few I’ve never heard of. What the heck is ras el hanout?
I’m not overly surprised, though. Dale did say his interest in wine began with an interest in cooking and seasoning. He clearly has an amazing sense of flavor and aroma.
Which obviously makes him a master vintner.
Funny. After looking in his empty fridge, I called this place a bachelor pad. His pantry tells a much different story. Extra-virgin olive oil—three kinds, no less—and every kind of vinegar under the sun, including an ornate bottle of Steel red wine vinegar. I had no idea Steel Vineyards made vinegars. White and black truffle oils, truffle salt, and myriad kinds of dried mushrooms. Unsweetened and bittersweet chocolate. Flour, sugar, dried egg whites. Does Dale bake?
I close the pantry door. I shouldn’t be snooping around. At least not to the point of opening doors. I walk out of the kitchen and into a short hallway leading to the front door. To the right is a formal living room, complete with a baby grand piano. Does Dale play? Or is it just for show?
The Steels are billionaires, but they’re also—from what I’ve seen—very down-to-earth people. I have a hard time believing they do anything for show.
I sit down at the piano and pluck a few notes. I always wanted to play the piano, but growing up homeless on the streets of San Francisco pretty much precluded that. My elementary school music teacher let me borrow a recorder, though, and I learned to play that. A far cry from the piano, but it gave me some joy as a child.
“Do you play?”
I nearly jerk off the bench at Dale’s voice, all low and wine-red around me. His presence fills the room. His hair is damp and hangs around his shoulders. He wears a green T-shirt, and man, does it bring out the emerald in his eyes. Jeans and boots complete the picture.
My God, he could be a model.
“No,” I finally respond. “I always wanted to. Do you?”
“If I didn’t, why would I have a piano?”
My instinct was right. He plays. It seems to fit him. “How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was about twelve. Donny wanted to learn, so our parents started us both. Turned out that I had the knack for it and Donny didn’t. He quit after six months.”
“So you have a lot of artistic knacks.”
“Not a lot. I already told you I can’t draw for shit.”
“When I asked you about your creativity yesterday, you didn’t mention the piano. Why?”
“You asked how I got involved in winemaking. I told you that story. Piano didn’t really have anything to do with that.”
“All creativity is interwoven,” I say.
“Maybe, but my music isn’t part of my wine story.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn to play piano,” I say wistfully, hoping he’ll offer to play something for me.
“It’s never too late.”
I sigh. “It’d be a waste of time now. I’ve chosen my path, and I’m happy with it.”
“Your path can have offshoots,” he says. “You’ve chosen wine as your career. No law says you can’t have a few hobbies. My playing has nothing to do with my career either.”
“But you’ve been playing for years. I’d have to start at the beginning.”
“Everyone starts at the beginning,” he says.
“I’d need lessons.”
“You would. I think there are about a million piano teachers out there.”
I smile and shake my head. “You and your family seem so down-to-earth. I think you are, but you’re also products of your upbringing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can’t afford piano lessons, Dale. I’m a student. I don’t have any disposable income.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stares at me, and then at the piano, and then back to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t always have this life.”
“You were adopted. I know.”
He closes his eyes for a moment and then reopens them. “I try not to think about my life…you know. Before I came here.”
“Why?”
His gaze turns to a glare. “I have my reasons.”
Okay, then. I thought we were understanding each other for a hot minute. Clearly I was wrong. Makes me wonder what his life before the Steels was like. “I’m sure you do.”
“Let’s go,” he says.
So much for him offering to play something for me. Of course, I could have asked.
I nod, rise from the piano bench, and follow him out the front door. We get into his truck, and he starts the engine.
“Your ranch is so beautiful,” I say, as we retrace the trip we took last night. “I couldn’t appreciate it as much last night, but now, with the sun shining overhead… It’s amazing.”
“It’s Colorado. You California kids can keep your beaches. Give me the Rockies any day.”
“Don’t knock beaches. They’re just as beautiful.”
“They’re polluted,” he says.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. “Some parts are, but in others, the ocean is as blue as—”
“Your eyes?” he says.
My skin tingles. Did he just give me a backhanded compliment? “Well, I’ve never actually heard the ocean described that way.”
“You shouldn’t color your hair,” he says.
Where did that come from? “My natural color looks like a dishrag.”
He laughs. Actually laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound dripping with the color of Syrah. “I find that hard to believe.”
My natural color isn’t too bad, but it’s what’s commonly known as dishwater blond. Meaning, I was a cute little towhead as a kid, but my hair darkened with each passing year, the way it does for most blonds.
“Most blonds in Cali color their hair.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to.”
He’s got me there. “My hair isn’t as beautiful as yours is. Your natural color is—”
“Mine’s lighter. I get it. My brother has that dishwater color, and he looks great. You’ve probably seen photos.”
“It’s different for men.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed? How am I supposed to answer that? “It just is.”
He doesn’t reply, but his lips tremble a bit. He wants to laugh again, but he’s stopping himself.
“You should laugh more often,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because la
ughing is good for the soul.”
No reply.
“And I’m not going to stop coloring my hair. I like my hair the way it is.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
“Absolutely.”
At least he’s talking sense, now.
Chapter Eighteen
Dale
Ashley’s hair is beautiful. Hell, my mother colors her hair to cover the gray. So do my aunts, and my cousin Ava dyes her hair pink, for God’s sake. It works for her.
I have no idea why I’m being such an asshole. Ashley’s hair is perfectly lovely just like it is. It looks like flaxen silk. A few strands that have come loose from her ponytail sway in the wind from the open passenger window. She’s not wearing makeup, and in the sunshine, a small spray of freckles is apparent across both her cheeks.
A definite girl-next-door trait, but Ashley isn’t the girl next door. She’s not cute. She’s beautiful. Lovely. Spectacular. Not the kind of woman I ever thought I’d be attracted to, but spectacular nonetheless.
I knew long ago I’m not cut out for a relationship. I’ll watch Donny, Diana, and Brianna marry and have kids, and I’ll be a doting uncle, but that’s it. Children of my own are out of the question. I’m not father material, and I’m certainly not husband material. Not even boyfriend material.
I’ve had a few women in my day, mostly one-nighters, a couple of one-weekers. I have needs like any other guy, but I’ve never been serious with a woman, and I don’t plan to start now.
No matter how attracted I am to Ashley White.
She’s not for me.
I’d just ruin her. Take away her loveliness.
I can’t do that to her. I can’t do that to anyone, but especially her.
I pull into the parking lot next to the Steel building. It’s pretty big, for a building in the middle of a ranch. We do all our business here except when we need to go to Grand Junction or Denver to sign documents and whatnot. My dad and all my uncles have offices here as well as in their homes. Truth be told, though, they’re all more comfortable outside, doing the real work.
They always have been, and so am I.
Today, though, I’ll show Ashley where she’ll be doing her busy work.