Grant didn’t move. He didn’t give an inch of ground. “A rancher,” he corrected, his voice a low, gravelly rasp she felt in her toes.
Izzy gestured at the immaculate white cupolas and pristine black fencing. “This place is ridiculous. Do you all live in an expensive boot ad, or does it always look this perfect?”
A flicker—barely there—touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile; it was a challenge. He folded his arms, the movement making his work shirt strain across his shoulders. His gaze slid briefly to the silver convertible, then back to her.
“Boots are cheaper,” he said.
The wit was dry. Sharp.
Izzy almost smiled, but she caught herself. She wasn’t here to be charmed by a man who could’ve been carved out of the mountain and finished with sandpaper.
She turned her attention back to the stone cottage near the treeline, a small sanctuary of moss and storybook charm that may as well have been a hundred miles from the high-stakes precision of the main barn.
“Is that where I’m staying?” she asked, looking at Burke.
Before Burke could draw a breath to answer, a voice cut in—low, gruff, and as welcoming as a barbed-wire fence.
“Nope. It’s not.”
Izzy turned back to Grant. He was still standing with his arms folded, looking at her like she was a line of credit he hadn’t approved.
She lifted a brow, her “Isabella” armor clicking into place. “Well, then. Where am I staying? With you at the house?”
The word house felt heavy, too intimate for a man she’d known for all of three minutes.
Something shifted in Grant’s expression.
He didn’t answer right away, his eyes doing another slow, efficient sweep of her silk blouse and the heels currently losing their battle with his gravel.
“I’d rather stay in that little storybook cottage,” she added, gesturing toward the stone walls.
Grant’s eyes flicked to the cottage and, for half a second, something unreadable crossed his face—gone so fast she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
“That little cottage isn’t ready,” he rasped. He took a step toward her, his presence a heavy, sun-warmed warning. “Needs a roof. Among other things.”
“Well, I’m only here for a couple of days,” she countered, meeting his gaze with a cool, savvy smile. “I can make it work. And that way, I won’t be in your way.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. He leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping to a deadpan murmur.
“I’m worried about the ghost.”
Izzy didn’t blink. She’d spent the last year staring down millionaire board members.
“The what?” she asked, dry.
“Mabel’s sister,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before lifting again toward the cottage. “Doesn’t like strangers. Especially the kind that show up in heels.”
Izzy narrowed her eyes. “Who the hell is Mabel?”
Grant’s mouth twitched, a smile appearing and vanishing. “Never mind. Just a local legend.”
He was good, but she was better. “I’m Italian,” she said evenly. “Ghost stories aren’t exactly our biggest problem. I’ll take my chances.”
Grant straightened, turning back toward Burke. “If she stays there, it’s on your head when she starts screaming.”
Izzy shifted, her heel crunching deeper into the gravel. Off balance already.
She smiled, slow and dangerous. “If I scream, Scott, it won’t be because of a ghost.”
