“I like my life exactly the way it is.”
“I can see that.”
He looked down at Hannah. “If you want to do something productive, you could hold the ladder.”
She smiled sweetly. “Would that be to prevent you from a serious injury or to help it along?”
He made sure Hannah still had a smile on her face before stepping onto the last rung. “This is going to be the longest week of my life.”
“Or the most amazing,” she said with an even wider grin.
Either way, Brett wasn’t taking any chances with the ladder. He wrapped one hand around the metal platform and angled the camera for the best shot.
He took another photo, then turned the camera toward Hannah.
“No more photos of me. My hair is a mess.”
“I thought twenty-first-century women didn’t worry about things like that.”
“This one does. And don’t post the photos on Facebook. I have a professional reputation to maintain.”
He held the camera higher, snapping two more photos of the painting. “Does your professional reputation include skimpy elf costumes?”
Hannah’s outraged gasp brought another smile to his face.
“Bringing my Christmas costume into our conversation is so immature.”
It was Brett’s turn to snort. “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black. Immaturity is thinking you’re okay when you’re dangling from the top of the ladder. A ladder, I might add, that is at least nine feet in the air.”
“If you hadn’t seen me, you wouldn’t be worried.”
“That would have to be the most twisted form of logic I’ve ever heard.”
“But I’m right.”
“You might be right, but you need to be more careful.” He climbed down and gave Hannah the camera. “Tell me what you think.”
She looked at the photos and nodded. “Not bad for an amateur.” When she saw the photos he’d taken of her, she gasped. “I’m deleting these.”
Brett didn’t care what she did with them. He’d already emailed them to his account. “Please yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you have a ranch to run?”
“It’s lunchtime. Even the boss has to eat.”
Hannah crossed her arms. “Mrs. Bennett spoils you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not worried that a grown man of…” her eyes assessed his misbehaving body, “…forty-two, has his breakfast, lunch, and dinner made by a housekeeper?”
“Just for the record, I’m thirty-eight, not forty-two, and I like Mrs. Bennett’s cooking. But that’s probably a generational thing. When you’re barely out of college, it must seem inefficient to eat real food when synthetic, frozen meals are so easy to prepare.”
“I left college seven years ago. I’m twenty-eight.”
“Practically ancient. Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
