“Well, Mrs. Perkins. It’s not actually my approval she needs.”
Her knowing tone was loud and clear over the phone. “Oh! Is it Clayton whom she needs to be making happy?”
Chance hated this line of questioning. It was like talking to a professional matchmaker. “No, ma’am, actually it’s not.” He needed to be careful in how he worded his statement. “The house help we hired needs to please Lydia, our chef.” He stopped from speaking further on the subject because he knew anything he told Mrs. Perkins about his and Clayton’s relationship with Lydia would be spread far and wide through both Divine and Morehead before supper.
“Oh. I understood there was a housekeeper of sorts.” There was a superior quality to her tone.
Chance looked at Clayton, wishing that he was the one to get to enjoy this conversation. “Ms. Perkins, Lydia’s role in our home isn’t really the issue. The fact remains that Presley Ann will need to prove herself to Lydia, if she is to stay on.”
He could have called the whole thing off and severed Presley Ann’s employment on the spot. But he truly wanted Lydia to know that the decision to keep or fire the girl was up to her. Taking it out of her hands would only communicate that he didn’t trust her to do a good job running their home. Chance made his excuses and ended the call.
“Wonder what kind of mischief Lydia will be dealing with this afternoon,” Clayton said.
Chance replied, “I hope it goes better than this morning. Did you see the shoes that woman had on?”
“Yep. They didn’t look like work shoes to me. You?” Clayton asked, glancing at his brother.
Chance shook his head vigorously. “Nope. They looked like ‘man-trapping’ shoes to me.”
“Hell, she’s using the wrong bait.”
“Yeah, and fishing for two fish that are already hooked.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia wished she had not made the promise to let Presley Ann stay for a week because she was driving Lydia crazy.
Presley Ann’s sole purpose in being there on the ranch seemed to be flirting with Chance and Clayton every chance she got, fussing over the scuffed toe of her more conservative, four-inch-heeled shoe, and to dress in a way that made it only slightly less impossible for her to get any work done. The only positive thing Lydia could say was that Presley Ann arrived on time each morning.
On Wednesday afternoon, Lydia had sent Presley Ann home before supper, assuring her despite her many protests that she could handle the evening meal by herself. Lydia had wanted to have afternoons to do all the prep work for each evening’s meal, anticipating that having a helper would make that possible.
She was big enough to admit, at least to herself, that she also did not want Presley Ann around Chance and Clayton any more than absolutely necessary.
Wednesday afternoon she’d had to supervise Presley Ann in doing the simplest of tasks, like making beds and cleaning bathrooms. Her idea of making a bed was throwing the blankets back over it and putting the pillows back at the head.
Lydia didn’t examine too closely the fact that she would not allow Presley Ann to strip Chance’s and Clayton’s beds, or to be alone in their rooms at all. Lydia had sent her down the hall to the master suite to make the bed and clean the bathroom and dust, knowing she would probably redo the work that night when she went upstairs.
Lydia had removed their sheets and allowed herself a few seconds to just stand there and enjoy the essence of man that lingered in both sets. The men might have been identical, but she could tell them apart with her eyes closed, just by their scents. Chance’s was like fresh laundry dried in the sun, with a hint of brisk aftershave and his own natural scent. He was like a summer breeze and a warm, sexy smile. Clayton’s fragrance was more earthy, dark and spicy with the barest hint of musk. He was a kiss in the dark that left her breathless.
Presley Ann’s presence in the doorway of Chance’s bedroom had interrupted Lydia’s daydream. “Who else lives in this house besides Clayton and Chance?”
“I do,” she replied as she gathered the linens and placed them in the laundry basket by the door.
“I figured that,” Presley Ann said, gesturing with her manicured thumb toward the guest room door across the hall. “Who uses the master suite?”
Presley Ann must’ve gotten the impression that Lydia was the housekeeper and used one of the smaller bedrooms across the hall.
“Those are my rooms.”
The surprise on Presley Ann’s face was priceless. “Yours? Why?”
“The men preferred that I have my own bathroom. Chance felt that it worked out best that way.”