The C.e.o. & The Cookie Queen

She looked shocked, then she laughed. He hadn’t seen her so amused before, and the joy transformed her face from beautiful to radiant. Her eyes crinkled and her cheeks took on a darker shade of pink. He wanted to hold on to the warmth that flowed so freely from this woman, but knew that any move would halt her laughter quicker than anything.

“You have potential to be more than a catalog cowboy,” she said finally, wiping the corner of her eye.

“Thanks, I think. What’s a catalog cowboy?”

“Someone who orders all the appropriate gear from a catalog, but hasn’t sat a horse or roped a steer.”

“That wouldn’t be me,” Greg vowed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I have definitely ridden a horse before.”

“Cutting? Roping? Western pleasure?”

“Eastern-riding-stable nag,” he answered, hoping for another smile.

She didn’t disappoint him. “I should have known.”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t have anything against horses. We just didn’t have lots of them in our high-rise condo when I was growing up.” His family also owned a weekend house in the wooded countryside, but he didn’t mention that detail, since they didn’t have horses there, either.

“I don’t suppose so,” she admitted, reaching for a cookie. “I’ve heard the grazing on those small balconies is pretty scarce.”

Greg laughed at the mental image of taking Puff home with him to his Chicago apartment. “You could teach me to ride and rope,” he said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his crossed legs. “I’m a fairly athletic guy.”

“I—” She obviously started to say something, then stopped herself. Her blush gave away her thoughts, though. She was remembering finding him by the pool yesterday. Like the rest of the conservative community, Ms. Carole obviously wasn’t accustomed to seeing men in Speedos.

He wondered if she saw very many men without their Speedos. The thought wasn’t nearly as easy to swallow as her cookies.

“Never mind. I probably won’t be here that long,” he said, mentally shaking away the thoughts of her with another man. “If you’re ready, let me tell you a little about our company so you’ll understand how important repairing our image is to the whole family, even the whole company.”

“Okay,” she said, setting her mug on the tray. “What did you have in mind?”

Greg finished his coffee, then set his mug beside hers. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You know Huntington Foods is an old, reputable company. My great-grandfather founded the firm in the 1920s, but really it grew in size by providing staple elements of the post-World-War-II American diet.”

“As American as apple pie and cheese crackers.”

“Exactly. And until my hotheaded older brother, Brad, the former C.E.O., decided to call a nutritional expert from C.A.S.H.E.W. a ‘food nut’ and appear to come at her across the table on national television, everything was going well.”

“What happened to him? I couldn’t believe the tape I saw on TV. It looked as though he snapped.”

Greg shrugged. “The family is still debating that point, with my mother winning most of the arguments by blaming my father’s Scottish ancestors. But at least he resigned quickly. Unfortunately, we still have a mess to clean up.”

“Yes, but it’s like a funny poster someone gave my sister, ‘Poor planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on mine.”’

“That’s a cute saying, and it might work fine if your job is stocking shelves at the grocery, or working as a clerk in the driver’s license bureau, but that’s not the same kind of situation you’re in. I’m not sure how much of your income Huntington provides, but I do know how much we’re paying you. That could take a big chunk out of your budget. If we can’t get our image improved, sales of all our products, including your cookies, may suffer.”