The Rancher's Bride

And it’d cost them a fortune. Not that they had to worry about money, but that didn’t mean Ryan liked spending a bundle on something that would have been just fine if it’d been made from pressed wood. He doubted anyone his mom hired would be around for long, especially since his mom probably wouldn’t be planning weddings for very long.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

Ryan glanced at Jorie sharply, but she wasn’t mouthing empty platitudes. She genuinely admired the desk, her pale hand drifting over the surface, Ryan wondering what it’d feel like to have that same hand—

Whoa.

He blinked, looked away, his gaze caught on his own desk. “Mom,” he said. “I’m going to make Jorie a bowl of oatmeal. Why don’t you show her where all the important things are?”

“You don’t have to do that—”

But he was already moving off.

Putting some space between them.

What was it about the woman that made him want to ruffle her feathers? he thought, heading to the kitchenette in the left corner of the room. He wanted to tease her until she blushed, he admitted, grabbing a bowl from above the sink. He wasn’t that way with Laurel. Yet he hardly knew this woman.

He glanced back, his mom waving her hand toward the conference table, Ryan hearing her mention the name of the famous craftsman who’d made it. He hardly paid attention as he poured oatmeal into a bowl, then some milk he didn’t even remember grabbing from the mini-refrigerator below.

She was damn good-looking.

Yeah, so what? he asked himself, punching some buttons on the microwave. He’d seen plenty of good-looking women before. So what if she had thick, silky hair—the kind he liked best on a woman? And so what if her eyes were the same color as the forget-me-nots that grew wild in the pastures? Didn’t mean a thing.

The microwave binged. Ryan grabbed the bowl, gasped and almost dropped it.

“Damn it.”

He heard footsteps behind him. “Mmm. That smells good, doesn’t it?” he heard his mom say. “Looks like it’s not quite done, though. Stir it up a bit and put it on for another thirty seconds.”

As if Ryan couldn’t see that for himself.

“Why don’t you sit down while I grab the file for the first wedding I want you to work on,” he heard his mom say as he punched the buttons.

Ryan spun toward his mother.

“The Western wedding of the year.”

“Mom—”

“Now, now, honey, don’t be shy.”

He wasn’t being shy. He just didn’t want Jorie to know he was about to get married.

And that was the scariest thought of all.

* * *

“LEAVE HER BE until after she eats breakfast,” Jorie heard Ryan say.

The smell of oatmeal drove her crazy.

“Nonsense,” his mom answered, hooking an arm into hers and guiding her to a chair.

She was so grateful for that chair.

There had been times during her office tour when she thought she might pass out, but it was her own stupid fault, she thought, all but collapsing into the seat. If she hadn’t been so hardheaded and determined to prove to Odelia’s son that she was here to work, not sleep, she might have been in her new house, unpacking, maybe even still sleeping…and definitely eating. Yes, absolutely, positively, for sure eating.

Her stomach yelled at her impatiently.

Instead she found herself sitting at a table as big as a bocce ball court hoping against hope that the same son she was determined to impress would bring her a damn bowl of oatmeal. And soon.

“I can’t wait to hear your ideas,” Odelia was saying.

“Mom—” her son said again, louder this time, as if the sound of the microwave might be drowning out his words.

Hurry up, oatmeal.

“Ryan’s been so quiet about it all, and his fiancеe is so sweet she won’t say a word. She prefers to leave everything up to me instead. Says I’m the pro, but we all know I’m hardly that…”

Jorie blinked.

Fiancеe?

“…you’re the expert,” Odelia was saying, “which is why I’m turning the whole thing over to you.”

Engaged.

“Mom, she hasn’t even had breakfast. Give her a moment, will you?”

Get it together, Jorie. It’s no big deal. So he’s engaged. What was so surprising about that?

Funny, he never mentioned it.

“When’s the wedding?” she heard herself ask.

But why would he mention it?

Odelia’s brow wrinkled beneath her hat. “That’s the kicker.”

Jorie’s heart began to race like the minute hand of a watch.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Odelia said, “especially since you just started…”

“Mom, really. She doesn’t have to work on my wedding.”

“End of next month,” Odelia blurted.

Six weeks? Was she kidding?