“Go back to the house. I’ve got more than enough here to get me started,” I said, looking around his cluttered office.
My dad had never kept his space clean, saying he had more important things to do on the ranch. I’ve tried to bring some organization to his madness, but it hasn’t been much use.
It was little more than a clustered shoebox with a too-big desk and a computer. Dad had a collection of old photographs lining the wall, most from his rodeo heydays. Still, there were a few personal touches from family vacations over the years.
“Josie, sugar… I don’t want you to overwork yourself.”
“I’m not, Dad. I promise. You just might see me a little less over the next week. I want to get this over to them as soon as possible.” The chair creaked as I sat down and booted up the computer. I looked up, seeing my dad still hovering in the doorway.
“If you’re allowed to be worried about me, then I can be worried about you. I’ve seen you throw yourself into this project like you’ve got something to prove, sugar. And I want you to know I don’t give a shit about the money.”
“Ido. It’s the principle of the matter. Daddy, someone—and I’m not saying it’s Charles—but someone took advantage of you. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
He sighed. “Your ass better be back in that house for dinner. Don’t make me come looking for you, alright?”
I’d concede to that, especially since Cleo was going to make Mom’s Mississippi Pot Roast. “I promise. No later than seven.”
Dad narrowed his eyes. “Try no later than five. You’re taking the evening off. Boss’s orders.”
“Whatever you say!” I called out as he walked from the office. I’d just turned back to the computer as footsteps sounded outside the doorway. “Dammit, old man, I told you a deal was a deal?—”
But it wasn’t Dad who strode around the corner.
josie
. . .
Lincoln leanedagainst the door jamb, smiling. His white tee was dirty, caked with what looked—and smelled—like motor oil and grease. Dirt stained fingers fiddled with a sheet of paper in his hands.
“I know I have a few years on you, but old man?” He clutched at his chest. “That’s a deep wound.”
“Obviously, I wasn’t talking about you,” I muttered, nodding at whatever he held. “What’s that?”
“You know how Bishop was on my ass last week about turning in my timesheet for payroll?”
I leaned forward, crossing my arms over the desk. “Uh-huh.”
“And you know how I told him time and again that I’d turn it in by Friday morning?”
“Yup.”
His eyes dropped to the paper. “Well, I might’ve forgotten to do that.”
“Shocker,” I said, holding my hand out. “Give it here.”
Lincoln stepped inside. “You see, in a roundabout way… This is your fault.”
“My fault? How is it my fault?”
He dropped into the chair in front of me, even though I don’t remember inviting him to stay. “Yeah, you were too damn distracting in those little denim shorts?—”
“I know you’re not about to blamemyclothing foryouractions,” I said, sitting back in my chair.
His face fell. “No, no, no, not like that. I mean—shit. It was supposed to be a joke?—”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Honestly, those are my favorite shorts. I’d have been distracted too.” I took the paper from his hands. “I can go ahead and get this in, but your check will be late. I can try to get it to you by midweek, though.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got everything I need here.” Lincoln stared at me with unwavering conviction as I met his gaze. He wasn’t talking about groceries or vices.
