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“Sure. Work boots. Not some fancy little JCPenney cowgirl boots.”

And then she looked like she might actually implode. Which was gratifying as hell.

“You know I actually live on a ranch, right? I have stood ankle height in horse shit on more than one occasion.”

He arched a brow. “Then you ought to be cleaning the stalls out a little more often.”

She frowned. Deeply. “You know what I mean.”

He crossed his arms and leaned heavily against the side of the cabin. “I don’t know that I do. Perhaps you should be a little more exacting in your language. I would have thought that your fancy book-learning institution might’ve taught you that. Ma’am.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you being intentionally provocative?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Because that’s a college word, so I’d have to figure the exact meaning.”

He had intended to lean in to her assumption that he was a dumbass, though he had a feeling he might be overplaying that hand.

The truth was, pretty much to spite the world he had done his level best to educate himself however he could. Audiobooks were a particular boon. The fact that you could listen to all kinds of information had been life-changing to him. There were still issues, for sure. But people always underestimated him. He knew the land, and he could find out what he needed to know.

And he had sure as hell worked on making sure he had a vocabulary that could knock someone on their ass if necessary.

Quinn Sullivan was begging to be knocked on her ass.

“Somehow I don’t believe you.”

He lifted a shoulder. “That’s too bad. It’s not up to you to believe me or disbelieve me. Remember, I’m the one with the road.”

Her cheeks turned as red as her hair.

He’d made her mad. Damned mad.

And he liked it.

“I’m fine. Thank you. I will be back here in work boots tomorrow.”

“I leave at six, sharp. Bring your own coffee. I don’t share. Oh, yeah... And the house is up the road a piece.” He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “I was messing with you.”

“You were... Excuse me?”

“This isn’t my house. Drive up the road a couple more miles tomorrow. You’ll see it.”

And he took that binder with him, all tucked up under his arm, and he left her there, satisfied he’d taken her down quite a few notches.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BY THE TIME she got up the next morning, she was stamping about the kitchen in work boots. She was in a fury. He was the worst. He was absolutely the worst.

And he was making fun of her. With his angular jaw and large hands and...and...

And.

Did he think she was a greenhorn?

She had grown up on a ranch. He knew that!

She’d been mucking stalls, feeding horses, fixing fences and managing the pastures since she was in Velcro shoes.

And no, they didn’t currently do the kind of ranch work that he did, but they had made this place profitable. She had managed to get herself to school, where she had learned all about the economics of this kind of thing, about the legalities, managing a business, and whether Mr. Free Citizen of Pyrite Falls wanted to admit that those things mattered, they did. They absolutely did.