“I can do that.” He watched her go, turned back to smile at his sister. “She sure smells good.”
“Seriously?”
With his million-dollar smile beaming, Rory wiggled his eyebrows. “Seriously good.”
“She’s too old for you—and too classy.”
“Age is just a state of mind, and I got plenty of class when I need it. Not that I’m looking to go there,” he added. “Just saying what is.” He pushed to his feet. “You know, I can market the hell out of this.”
He could, she thought. And he would. “See that it pays for itself,” she warned him.
“Bean counter.”
“Daydreamer. Get. I’ve got work.”
More of it now, she thought, looking back at her computer screen and the current layout of the brochure.
They’d need to change the layout with this addition to their promotions and events, and do all of that with enough lead time to draw solid bookings.
She picked up the phone to contact the designer.
Rory and Jessica—with an assist from Maureen—were as good as their word. By five o’clock, Bodine had a fleshed-out proposal on her desk and a mock-up of a design, the language, the price points.
Tweaking it, approving it, getting the approved copy to the designer added another hour, but she counted it well worth the time.
As she left for the day, she looked toward the Dining Hall, scanned the cars and trucks in the lot. Several Kias and a good number of SUVs, trucks, and cars from outside diners.
Good enough.
She wanted her own dinner, and some quiet time when she didn’t have to have the answers. Maybe an early night.
After she pulled up at the ranch, she grabbed her briefcase and walked into the mudroom outlining an evening agenda in her mind:
Glass of wine.
Dinner.
Long, hot shower.
A couple hours inside a book.
Sleep.
Sounded just perfect.
She caught the scent of—pretty damn sure—Clementine’s lasagna, and decided there was a God.
As Bodine walked into the kitchen, Clementine—all six rawboned feet of clear-your-plate-and-don’t-give-me-no-sass-no-nonsense—let out one of her cackling laughs.
“Boy, you haven’t changed one smidgen of one inch.”
“Nothing in this world or the next could change my deep and abiding love for you.”
Bodine knew that voice, the smooth, sly charm of it, and looked to where Callen Skinner leaned against the counter, drinking a beer while Clementine loaded up the dishwasher.
CHAPTER THREE
He’d changed a smidgen of an inch, Bodine thought.
He’d been on the skinny side of lean when he’d left. He’d filled out some. Long legs and narrow hips gave him a rangy look, but he’d broadened out in the shoulders, fined down in the face.
It had always been a good face, but now the angles were sharper, the jaw firmer. He wore his hair, which was the shade of a winter deer hide, longer than she remembered, so it curled a bit around his ears and over the collar of his shirt.
She wondered if his hair still took on streaks from the sun when he left his hat off more than ten minutes. He turned his head, looked straight at her, and she saw his eyes were the same: that deceptively calm gray that could take on hints of blue or green.
“Hey there, Bodine.”
Clementine swung around, stuck her fists on her bony hips. “About damn time. You think I’m running a cafeteria? You’re lucky there’s a scrap left for you to eat.”
“Blame Rory. He’s the one that dumped work on me at the end of the day. Hey there, Callen.”
“You wash your hands,” Clementine ordered. “Then sit yourself down at the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Want a beer?” Callen asked her.
“She’ll want a glass of that red wine she’s taken to drinking ’cause it wards off heart problems or some such thing. That there,” Clementine said, pointing.
“Is that so? I’ll get that for you.” Callen sauntered over, got a wineglass, poured while Bodine dutifully washed her hands.
“You eat this salad.” Clementine heaped some into a bowl, drizzled something on it, tossed it. “And don’t give me any lip about the dressing.”
“No, ma’am. Thanks,” she added when Callen handed her the glass.
She sat, took the first sip of wine, then as Clementine whipped a napkin over her lap, picked up her fork. “You sit down there and keep her company, Cal. Half the time late to supper and eating alone. Half the time! There’s a plate keeping warm in the oven, and see that she eats every bite.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You want some more apple pie?”
“My darling Clem, I’m sorry to say I’ve got no place to put another.”