I hang up and take a breath. Coffee. I need coffee before I can?—
“The vet’s running late. He was supposed to be here at seven.”
Daniel fills the doorway—six-foot-three of broad shoulders and sharp gray eyes, his muscular arms crossed over a chest that has no business being that distracting at seven-thirty in the morning. The office seems to shrink the moment he steps inside. His presence gobbles up every scrap of oxygen in the room—right down to the tiny alveoli trying to do their job in my lungs.
“Dr. Blake’s daughter has strep throat. I moved him to two. The pregnant heifer isn’t going anywhere.”
“You should’ve told me.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m telling you now. You’re welcome.”
Something flickers across his face before his jaw tightens. “And the feed delivery?”
“Half today, half Thursday. I’ve already adjusted the rotation to compensate.” I flip open my notebook and show him the scribbled schedule. “Ethan’s crew can handle the north fence this morning instead of this afternoon. It works in our favor because the afternoon heat’s been brutal lately?—”
“That’s not the schedule.”
“It’s the new schedule which takes reality into account instead of the previous system.”
His eyes narrow. “My schedules work.”
“Your schedules are color-coded fantasy. They only work when nothing goes wrong. Things go wrong, Daniel. That’s literally the definition of ranching.”
“If you’d just follow the protocols I set up?—”
“Your protocols assume everyone else is a robot. Newsflash: they’re not. Dr. Blake has a sick kid. The feed supplier had a mix-up. It happens, but I handled it because it’s my job.”
“You were hired to coordinatewithme, notaroundme.”
“Hard to coordinate with someone who’s never in the office.”
His shoulders tighten. The pen he always carries appears in his hand, tap-tap-tapping against his thigh in that rhythm I’ve learned meansDaniel is Processing Things He Doesn’t Like.
We’re close now. Way too close. I don’t remember him moving, don’t remember myself leaning in, but here we are—breaths tangling, heat sparking. My nipples tighten against my bra, a sharp, traitorous ache. Heat pulses low in my core like my body has just noticed the size of him, the scent of him, the fact that his focus is locked entirely on me.
It’s absurd—this office, this argument, this full-body reaction—yet neither of us backs down. We’re squared off like boxers before a match, except I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m in danger of is throwing myself at him and calling it a tie.
“You two need a room or a referee?”
We spring apart.
Miss Maggie stands in the doorway Daniel just vacated, two mugs of coffee in her weathered hands and a knowing smirk on her face. Her white braid is pinned up in its usual crown, and she’s wearing a flannel shirt over what I’m pretty sure is a sequined tank top.
“Coffee,” she announces, like she didn’t just catch us inches from either murder or... something else.
She sets the mugs on my desk and gives us both a look that makes me feel like I’ve been busted trying to microwave a fork.
I lower my gaze. “Thanks, Miss Maggie.”
Daniel clears his throat. “I need to check on the north crew.”
He’s gone before I can respond, boots heavy on the wooden floor. I’m left standing in the office with Miss Maggie’s thoughtful gaze on me and heat crawling up my neck.
“Seems neither of you has the sense God gave a goat,” Miss Maggie says cryptically. She pats my arm. “Drink your coffee, honey. You’re gonna need it.”
I escape to the barn.
It’s not running away. It’s strategic relocation. I need to check on the supply inventory anyway, and if that happens to put two hundred feet and several walls between Daniel Sutton and me, well, that’s just efficient multitasking.
