Page 72 of Boss of Me

Mrs. Calder’s eyes twinkle knowingly. I’m sure she’s well aware that our employer’s mother is kind of a bitch.

I mosey over to the center island, hands tucked in my back pockets. “So, um, where’s Mr. Ransom?”

“Down at the dock sanding one of his boats.”

I stare at her in surprise. “He doesn’t pay someone to do that? He . . . does it himself?”

She smiles at my reaction. “He enjoys working with his hands. When he and Maverick were kids, their father taught them how to change a tire, pump gas, jumpstart the engine and identify all the parts under the hood. Dale said he’d be damned if he raised pampered rich boys with butter-soft hands and shiny nails.” She chuckles, dumping ice cubes into the pitcher.

When drops of lemonade splash the marble counter, I automatically grab a dishrag to wipe up the spill.

“Gunner likes to tackle tough projects when he has something heavy on his mind.” Mrs. Calder slants me a probing look. “Any idea what that might be?”

I swallow hard and shake my head.

She purses her lips, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

I start backing away. “Well, uh?—”

“Hang on.” She adds a few lemon slices to the pitcher, smiling reminiscently as she says, “Gunner and Maverick couldn’t get enough of my homemade lemonade when they were growing up. I used to whip up a batch while they were playing outside. As soon as it was ready, they’d come running into the house, faces streaked with dirt and hair sticking up every which way. Before I could tell them to go wash their hands, they were chugging down my lemonade and clamoring for more. Sunshine in a glass, that’s what Gunner called it.” She pours a tall serving and hands it to me. “Here, take this down to him.”

I balk. “Um . . .”

She arches an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

“No, ma’am.” As I scurry from the kitchen, I swear I hear her laughing at me.

I leave the house and make my way across the expansive lawn leading down to the lake. The sun is warm, beating downon my head. But the beads of sweat gathering between my breasts have more to do with anxiety than the summer heat.

My nerves intensify as I approach the boathouse and dock. I hear loud rock music and the whirring roar of a power tool before I come upon my boss.

He’s on his knees sanding the hull of a sailboat mounted on a platform. He’s wearing gray athletic shorts and an orange Longhorns T-shirt molded to his chest and upper arms, outlining hard muscles. He has on a protective face shield, heavy leather construction gloves and scuffed work boots.

I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s such a stark departure from the urbane, bespoke-suit-wearing CEO that I’m used to. Unfortunately for me, the handyman version is just as droolworthy as his other persona.

Between the electric sander and blaring music, I know he won’t hear me if I speak. So I take a deep breath and nervously step into his line of sight.

He glances up from the boat, his gaze locking on me.

My mouth goes as dry as the Serengeti.

“Hey,” I croak.

His eyes narrow behind the face shield, and for one awful second I think he’s going to tell me to get lost. But then he turns off the sander, flips his mask up and grabs his phone to mute the music blasting from hidden speakers.

I hold up the sweating glass of lemonade. “Mrs. Calder asked me to bring this to you. She thought you could use a little sunshine.”

He looks at the glass, his face softening ever so slightly before he grunts, “I have water.”

“She insisted.” I give him a desperate look. “Please don’t send me back there with an untouched drink. She won’t be pleased, and you know how terrifying she can be.”

I detect a smile twitching at his mouth. But then he jerks his chin toward a wooden table and says gruffly, “Leave it over there.”

“You should drink it before it gets warm.”

He stares at me a few seconds longer. Then he pulls off his mask and gloves, tosses them down and stretches to his feet.

My breathing becomes shallow as he saunters over to me and takes the lemonade, his callused fingers brushing mine.