by Sasha Gold
He reminds me of my grandfather who raised me after my parents died. Gramps passed away when I was eighteen and whenever I hear country music, I think of him. He used to joke that his old truck wouldn’t run if he had the radio tuned to my music.
Gramps never went to college. Before he passed, he made me promise that I’d wait until I’d graduated from college to date. He said I was too pretty to date. That I needed to get an education first.
Fellas are going to take one look at you and want to put a ring on your finger the first chance they get. You get your degree. Then you can think about romance.
I’ve abided by his request. I like to think my grandfather would be proud of me, spending my summer working at a prestigious accounting firm.
I never intended to be an accountant. What I really wanted, deep down, and not-so-secretly, was to study Early Childhood Education. I love kids, I always have, but my advisor talked me out of it during my first semester. When she told me my college debt would be near impossible to pay off with a teaching degree, I relented.
If I’d stuck with an Education major, I would never have gotten an interesting job like staying a week on the Branson Ranch. The task shouldn’t take an entire week, but my supervisor told me to plan on giving myself plenty of extra time.
I take in the scenery, wondering if this is what Mr. Branson’s ranch looks like. Rolling hills. Fenced pastures. Horses grazing in some, cattle in others. It’s picturesque and I can’t wait to get back and tell my friends how beautiful Texas is. Several girls from the study group came over last night to help me pack, even lending me a few skirts so I’d have enough office-casual outfits for a whole week without repeating. They told me to post selfies with the hunkiest cowboys, but I made it pretty clear, that’s not happening.
“You like Willie Nelson, Ms. Bloom?”
Davy hadn’t said a word in the past twenty minutes and his voice startles me.
“I don’t really know his music.”
“Oh, he’s one of the greats. Take this song, for example, Blue eyes crying in the Rain. Just Willie playing his guitar and singing about lost love… it don’t get no better than that.”
I listen for a moment. I’ve been so immersed in my own thoughts I wasn’t even aware of the music. The song is simple, and pretty.
“It’s very beautiful.”
“Good, good,” he says with a pause. “You and me are gonna get along just fine.”
We give each other polite smiles. And then he’s quiet again.
My thoughts go back to my job.
None of the higher-ups at the agency could get my name right. The president called me Rachel a few times, then Rhonda. I told him my name is Rebecca four times. Finally, I gave up. One day, when I’m further up the pecking order, I’m sure he’ll get my name right, especially if Mr. Branson tells them I did a good job.
Before I head home, I’m going to ask him to write my supervisor with a positive report. I’ve never asked a client to do that before and it seems pushy, but that’s what it takes to get noticed. I have to distinguish myself from the other candidates.
I told a few of the older ladies at the firm about my assignment and they acted sorry for me. Like working for Will Branson was akin to pulling the short straw. I refuse to think that way. I’m happy to spend the week here on Will Branson’s ranch. I can hardly believe I’m getting paid to spend time near the man I have such a huge, secret crush on.
This summer job is only my second job, ever. The other one was working retail in a lingerie and sleepwear store. While I’d gotten plenty of pretty underthings and nighties, minimum wage doesn’t pay the bills.
“Just another fifteen minutes before we get to the ranch.”
Davy’s voice startles me again. This time I give a little jump.
He chuckles and his smile makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. “You’re a jittery little thing, aren’t you? Don’t you worry. Once you get out in that country air, you’ll settle in just fine.”
“I’m a little nervous about meeting Mr. Branson, that’s all.”
I don’t know what I’d hoped for by telling Davy about my apprehension, but he doesn’t look like he’ll be much help. He just grins and shakes his head. Like he’s enjoying my uneasiness.
Mr. Branson is impossible to get a hold of. He doesn’t answer emails, doesn’t have a landline and the cell service at the ranch is next to nothing. The senior secretary told me she communicated through regular mail and even that takes weeks.
That hasn’t stopped me from dreaming about Mr. Handsome Branson. I made up that name one night while I flipped through the pictures I had of him in his rodeo days. I know he’s scarred, but do I care? Not a bit. In a way, I feel like everything in my life has led up to this. Meeting this man. I know that’s just my silly infatuation, but this day still feels like a turning point.
“You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Davy asks.
I wince, and wonder how much I’m giving away. “Can you tell I’m nervous? I’m one of the newest hires at the agency.”
“Are you now?”
He shoots me a hard look, like he’s appraising me. I have no idea what he’s looking for, but for some reason he’s eyeing me like a curiosity. It’s not a lewd gaze or anything like that. More like puzzled.
“You’re just a young thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m twenty years old.”
He laughs. “I got boots older than that.”
I can’t help but smile. Everyone thinks I’m too young, even in the agency. I take care to dress formally so I don’t look like a kid.
“I just hope you understand what you’re getting yourself into, Miss Rebecca.”
“I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. Thank you.”
I sound huffy. I can’t help myself.
“You haven’t bitten off more than you can chew?”
“Of course not.”
“Mr. Branson will be very…” His words fade off and he coughs and clears his throat. “Very demanding.”
“Good thing I’m good at what I do.”
He holds up his hand to keep me from saying anymore. “I try not to think about any of that business.”
I want to tell him he’s not alone. Most people hate thinking about their finances.
A few minutes later we pull into the driveway and a tremendous wrought-iron gate swings open. The ranch is magnificent, fields of green rolling up to the base of a rocky escarpment. A house sits atop a ridge with a Texas flag snapping in the wind.
“We’re home,” Davy drawled.
The house is a fortress of limestone. Immense. It looks like it’s been carved out of the rocky bluff. My heart jumps into my throat and I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to beg Davy to take me back to the airport. What was I thinking, offering to make this trip to Texas? And then I think about him. My secret, guilty fascination.
“All right, Miss Rebecca, let’s see if we can rustle up the boss man.”
I get out of the truck and sway on unsteady legs. “Yes,” I say softly. “I’m ready to meet Mr. Branson.”
Chapter Two
Will
As the sun begins its descent, I turn my horse back the direction of the barn and I think about the girl.
The agency sent all sorts of files with pictures and biographical information, like they thought I wanted to sort through that pile of lies. The pictures might be accurate, but the personal info was nothing but a load of bull. I read one of the girl’s profiles and was ready to call the whole thing off.
Candice or Candy or some such shit, said she liked walks on the beach and quiet evenings at home. Right. What she liked was cosmetic surgery. A lot. I’m pretty sure she had her plastic surgeon on speed dial. Her smile was more grimace than smile and if she was twenty-two, well, so was I.
And I’m not.
I’m thirty-two.
I told them to send me someone real. I’ll take authentic over plastic any day of the week. I didn’t want to s
ort through the hundreds of applicants and I told them they could go ahead and pick out a potential Mrs. Branson for me. They could damn well earn the twenty-grand finder’s fee I was paying.
They sent me a file and a note that she’d come this week. I haven’t looked through the file. I want to see her first. Look in her eye. I’ll know then if she’s the right one.
All I want is a woman who is reasonably smart, reasonably attractive and most of all gets along with Ben. It’s also important Ben likes her. I’ve raised my nephew since he was one, when my sister and brother-in-law died. He’s four now.
The one time I mentioned Ben to a woman I took out for dinner, she’d told me flat-out she thought he should go to boarding school when he was old enough. Like eight years old, she suggested. Who sends an eight-year-old boy to boarding school? Not anyone I’d want around, that’s for damn sure.
The woman I marry doesn’t need to be a virgin. I won’t hold it against her if she has a little experience. In fact, I like the idea. I like things a little rough and don’t want her complaining about my requirements in the bedroom.
Everyone tries to warn me off, talking about gold-diggers. I suppose there are women who get into this for a quick buck, but there are others who sign up for other reasons. Maybe they want to skip dating. I don’t care. If Ben and I like her and she likes us, we’ll figure out the rest. I’ll spend my days just trying to spoil her silly.
I have plenty of money. A fortune. The money is a blessing and a curse. I don’t spend much except on my nephew.
The girl signed a confidentiality agreement. I don’t want her to share anything about my life with the outside world. She’ll come to the ranch for a week. If we’re compatible we’ll proceed with the marriage. The agency said I can’t touch her until we’re married and by that they mean fuck her, because their reputation matters, and they don’t want people to think they’re running a prostitution ring.
Right.
Do they really think I’m not going to sample the whiskey before I buy the barrel?
I don’t even know the girl’s name, but I will by the end of the evening, maybe a whole lot more. My blood stirs just thinking about having a woman in my bed again. It’s been a while. I like to keep to myself but the nights out here get lonely. This arrangement is perfect. Both of us understand exactly what we’re signing up for.
If Ben likes her and she checks out in the other areas, the arrangement should be perfect.
I trot my horse up an arroyo and down a ridge that runs parallel to the fence line. I wonder if this girl rides horses. Would she want to learn? The ranch is secluded and a good distance from town. Not everyone likes to be so far from things.
Ranch life is particularly hard on women. Davy’s wife likes the ranch well enough but also made a habit of leaving for a week here and there to visit her sister in Florida. Plenty of the other ranch hands’ wives did the same, escaping the solitude for a few days of hustle and bustle in a city.
My mother loved the ranch, but maybe that was because she and my father had such a strong marriage. They were each other’s best friend. I can’t think of any other couple that were as close as my mother and father. When Mom passed away, Dad followed the next day.
No, I don’t expect to find that sort of relationship. Not with a woman who was basically selling herself.
When I get to the barn, I dismount and hand the reins to one of the new cowboys, hired to round up cattle from the back acreage.
“Is Davy back?” I ask the young man.
“Yes, sir. He got back from town twenty minutes ago.”
I turn to the house, the gravel crunching under my boots as I walk. Ben and his nanny sit on a porch swing and he waves to me. They’re reading and swinging gently.
“You being a good boy?”
He gives me a thumbs up.
The nanny, Mrs. Gustafson, holds up the book. “Robin Hood.”
She gives me a cheerful smile, despite the fact she’s probably reading the book for the fifth time this week. She’s a saint, part of the team of people that help me with Ben. The most important thing to me is that the girl loves Ben and Ben loves her. But, with all the help, we can make it work even if the girl is just a good part-time mom.
“Can I ride Dusty later?” Ben asks.
I stop at the top of the steps. Ben slips from the porch swing. He runs and the Superman cape I bought him flutters behind him. When he reaches me, he wraps his arms around my legs and looks up at me, pleadingly. That angelic expression is trouble. I already can’t say no to him. What’s it going to be like when he’s older and asking for his own truck, or for money to buy land, or flying lessons?
“Please, Daddy.”
“Sure thing, buddy. We’ll go for a ride before dinner.” I tousle his hair and turn my attention to the nanny. “I have company.”
Mrs. Gustafson sits up a little straighter. “Yes, I saw her arrive with Davy.”
She smiles. Her eyes spark. She’d love to be a fly on the wall when I meet the girl. How many times has she sighed and moped and talked about poor Ben needing a mother-figure, not just a nanny. The minute I turn my back, she’ll probably rub her hands together and run off to gossip with my cook.
“This will be your first evening together.” She tries to sound casual but her smile is as wide as a country mile.
“I’d like to have dinner with her tonight.”
“Of course. Dinner. Sounds romantic.”
“I hope so. I’d like to have dinner with just the two of us tonight.”
She sinks back in the swing. “I see.”
“I’d like to wait a little before I make introductions.”
“Certainly.” She frowns and purses her lips. “That sounds prudent.”
Mrs. Gustafson would love to come to dinner and I can just imagine her scrutinizing the girl. Ben would have a million questions, and he’d try to ask every one of them. No, I don’t want them in the dining room at supper tonight. I want to have the girl all to myself.
I bend down and kiss Ben on the top of his head. “Go finish your story. We’ll have fun this afternoon.”
He smiles and returns to the porch swing. I draw a deep breath and turn to go inside. Slamming the door, I enter my house and stride down the hall to my living room. But it’s empty.
I rub my hand over the side of my face, absentmindedly, and realize what I’m doing when my fingers brush the ragged scars. These fucking scars. I got them three years ago in a plane crash that practically wiped out my family. Ben and I were the only members of the Branson family to survive. I thank God, every day, that he didn’t get injured.
I never have gotten used to the ridged scars on the side of my face. They feel like the skin of some sea creature. I can hardly look in the mirror, it’s so ugly. People react too, and I can’t blame them. I look like I was in an accident in a chemistry lab. It just pisses me off when I see their reactions. I can’t get used to it, probably never will. A burn of fury crawls across my mind as I imagine the girl recoiling in fear or disgust. I curl my hands into fists and let a growl loosen from my chest as I turn into my study.
Davy stands by the window, sipping a glass of scotch he’d helped himself to. The girl stands at the other window, looking out. The room is silent, neither of them noticing me in the doorway and I have a moment to study her.
She’s beautiful.
Stunning.
My breath stops. I know nothing about her, this woman standing in my house, who agreed to this bride audition. The only thing I knew about her 30 seconds ago was how much it cost me to have her come here. But now, immediately, I know a lot, and I have a feeling this might work out. Fucking crazy, but something about seeing her there makes me think that.
She is trim, and young, and her blonde hair hangs past her shoulders almost to the small of her back. When she turns and smiles, she’s so pretty it hits me hard, like I’ve been kicked by a mule.
I’m vaguely aware of Davy’s laugh.
“Mr. Branson
,” she says. “Your ranch takes my breath away. I feel like I’m dreaming and any minute I’m going to wake up back in my one-bedroom apartment with a view of a brick wall.”
She laughs at her own joke and extends her hand. “I’m Rebecca Bloom. Pleased to meet you.”
I lift my hand and take hers in mine. Her hand is small and soft and sends a jolt of searing awareness up my arm. Lust sparks and flares, burning my blood. Her eyes are blue, the color of a summer sky. Her lips are full and make me want to taste them, to pull her into my arms and kiss her. I could. I’d be within my rights after the money I paid, but I don’t want the first kiss to be in front of my foreman.
If she notices my scars, she shows no sign of being bothered. Nothing makes me angrier than some do-gooder, making an obvious effort to ignore the scars, but I’m too distracted by the soft curves under her silk blouse to care. She’s all winning smiles and cheerfulness but I see the way her pulse beats at the base of her neck. She’s skittish. I’d like to wind her long hair around my fist and tug her head back. I’d kiss her there too. Bite and mark her.
I realize I’ve been shaking her hand for too damn long and I let go of it like it’s hot.
“Your flight went well?” Fuck, I hate small talk. Almost as much as I hate planes.
“Lovely. No turbulence. I read all the way and before I knew it we were preparing to land.”
Her eyes sparkle and a smile plays along her lips.
My gaze drifts down her slim neck to a string of pearls. “Who gave you the pearls?”
I step closer, lift the strand and rub the pearls between my thumb and forefinger. Her smile vanishes and she blinks several times rapidly. It’s taken me about three seconds to decide she’s my girl.
A shot of jealousy floods my system as I imagine some former boyfriend giving my girl jewelry. She shouldn’t be wearing anything other than pieces I’ve picked out for her. From now on, I’ll be the person who drapes her in jewels. She’s mine. I knew it the moment she turned to face me.