by Cara Colter
If she had said that last week—with her hair put up primly, and in her conservative suit, her glasses swallowing up half her face—it wouldn't have meant what it meant right now.
It wouldn't have set his heart to racing, made his face feel like it was on fire.
Without one more word, he escaped into his office. But his escape was thwarted somewhat.
She had put a bouquet of flowers on his desk. Wildflowers. He saw them growing around the ranch all the time.
His office was an austere space, much like his apartment above it. It contained a metal desk, nothing fancy, bookshelves, file cases, a couple of chairs. The floor was tiled, and the windows had metal Venetians on them, no curtains.
Everything was in its place.
Those flowers were like an invasion, of something softer and warmer and more colorful. It was like she had found a way to be in his office without even being here.
Which would only make his vow harder to keep.
He picked up the vase, firmly, before he could change his mind. He took them out to her office, set them on the corner of her desk.
"I'm allergic," he said.
For a second he contemplated that. A man who had taken a vow of complete integrity telling such an innocuous lie.
He tried to slip back into his office before the look in her eyes registered, but he was not successful.
Hurt.
He had hurt her.
And somehow he couldn't convince himself that was what integrity was about.
By the end of the week he thought he was going out of his mind. He wondered if he could order her back into those dowdy gray and navy suits that had made it so easy to see her only as a part of his office.
Not furniture, exactly, but just a part of the infrastructure that kept everything running smoothly and efficiently. A background item that was easy to ignore.
Now she was in the foreground, in a new wardrobe that was incredibly flattering to her, that made her not his secretary, but a woman. The old clothes, it seemed to him, had successfully hidden the parts of her that were most dangerous to him.
Her passion. Had the banker brought out this side in her? The new look seemed to coincide with the banker's interest. Blake was desperate to know, and yet he could not bring himself to ask.
If she detected his interest, she might reciprocate it. Then what? Worse, she might not. Then what?
Nothing seemed smooth anymore. Efficient, yes, but not smooth.
He couldn't ask her to write a letter for him without noticing her. The silky shine of her hair. The color of her eyes. The delicate line of her leg when she crossed them in those short skirts, and took dictation.
Calling her into his office, asking her for a file, everything had become about battling the monster within him.
He noticed she looked tired some mornings, and longed to ask if the dreams troubled her, but did not know where his longing would lead. To her bed? Where he could protect her and hold her if she cried in the night?
To her bed. There was the truth of it. The bottom line. He had become sexually attracted to his secretary. Longed to know if that passive exterior hid the passionate interior the new wardrobe suggested.
Longed, if he was brutally honest, to have her give that part of herself to just him.
"I'm losing my mind," he muttered.
"Pardon, Blake?"
"Don't sneak up on me," he snapped.
"Sneak up on you?" she said, astounded and hurt. "I knocked on the door."
He knew he was being a complete jerk with her. Acting as if it was her fault he was going through this, trying to build a high wall so that she couldn't climb it.
"And something else," he said, "don't bring me any more cookies."
Don't you know what you're doing to me? How hard you are making it to fight? Don't you know how I want to bury my head in your neck, allow your tenderness to touch me?
"I'm on a diet," he muttered.
"You're on a diet?" she said, incredulously.
"That's what I said."
"I think there's a name for that disorder. But I thought only girls got it."
Once he would have laughed. How he longed for those days when he used to laugh with her. "I don't want your damned cookies."
Even as her face became coolly chilly, and he saw her pull back her shoulders proudly, he registered far more clearly what she didn't want him to see. He saw her crumpling inside and despised himself.
"Holly, I'm sorry. You're not the only one having trouble sleeping at night." Though he could not use bad dreams as his excuse. He was lying awake contemplating the ethics of what he felt for his secretary.
He despised himself even more for how easily she forgave him.
"It's been an enormous strain on you," she said quietly. "I know you want the kids back here."
God, yes. A ranch full of kids yelling and running and jumping and needing things from him was just what he needed to fill up his mind, to remove from it the intensity of focus he now had on her.
"I do," he said. But he couldn't bring them back just to make his life easier, just as something to insert between him and her.
He longed for his life of a week ago, when everything had been so blessedly simple. He longed for how he used to be able to talk to her, for the laughter they had shared that seemed to have shriveled between them now. Not her fault, any of it, but he wanted to blame her, anyway.
"Why don't you go over to the Coltons and have lunch with the kids?" she suggested. "Bring the cookies."
"That's a good idea," he said, glancing at the clock. If he left right now, he'd be there right at lunchtime.
Don't ask her, he ordered himself. But his mind was like a crew in mutiny—it rarely listened to him anymore, flaunted his commands.
"So, you want to come along?"
Something leapt in her eyes, and then died. She turned away from him.
"No thanks," she said.
"Okay." Her reply hurt him, even though he should have expected nothing less. How had this happened? How had they gone from having such a good working relationship to this?
He sighed as she quietly closed the door behind her. He accepted full responsibility.
He shrugged into his jacket, and at the last minute, remembered her cookies.
They'd been there when he arrived this morning. A huge plate of cookies, dripping with chocolate chips and smelling of heaven.
He felt like he was battling the devil, struggling to be the man he had to be, temptation put in his path all the time.
Small temptations. Like cookies.
Cookies that would taste of dreams he had long since decided were for other men. Dreams of little houses that smelled of cookies baking and rang with the laughter of children playing.
What did a man like him know of such things?
What he knew was that dysfunction was multi-generational. He was the son of a man who had attempted murder. He was only a few steps removed from his own past.
He didn't know how to be part of a family. He didn't know how to be the man Holly would need for him to be.
It occurred to him that without his permission everything was escalating. He wasn't just thinking of ravishing her on the couch anymore.
No, his thoughts were far scarier than that now.
Little temptations paving the way.
Didn't she know if he ate one of these cookies, he might be lost? That the control he exercised was a fragile thing, and he did not know what would push him over the edge?
He shook his head in self-mockery. What kind of man thought his entire fate turned on a cookie?
Rebelliously, he took one and popped the whole thing in his mouth.
A mistake.
Ecstasy. One step closer to being lost.
Nine
"It's backfiring," Holly said, opening the cardboard box of Chinese food that Jenn had brought for supper. She looked at the pork dumplings without interest, took one to be polite.
"What do you mean it's b
ackfiring?" Jenn didn't have her lack of appetite at all. Her plate was already piled high with the Szechuan-style Chinese food they both preferred.
Holly pushed a grain of rice across her plate with her chopstick. "At least I used to feel like Blake liked me. I've wrecked what we had. He used to be friendly, now he's curt. He used to ask my opinions on things, now he avoids me. He used to be good-humored and fun and now he's stern and remote."
"Really?" Jenn asked avidly.
"Really," Holly said glumly. "I've ruined everything."
"My honest opinion is there was nothing to ruin. You loved him, he didn't know you were alive. I think you're reading this all wrong."
"In what way?"
"He knows you're alive."
"He hates me!"
"Hates you?" Jenn asked with interest. "What would make you say that?"
Holly told her about the cookies.
"My," Jenn said, putting a whole pork dumpling in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully, "doesn't that strike you as rather a strong reaction to cookies? What did he say exactly, again?"
"'I don't want your damned cookies.'"
Jenn's eyes went very wide. "This is better than I hoped."
"Oh, sure."
"Think about it, Holly. He doesn't want the damned cookies, he wants you!"
Holly took a desultory bite of her ginger beef and gave her friend a suspicious look. "Are you reading too many romance novels?" It was her friend who had introduced her to the delights of a good love story.
"There's no such thing as reading too many. I read two a week, three in a good week."
"Real life doesn't work like that!" Holly wailed.
"Holly, cynicism does not suit you. If you're going to get that man, you have to trust me and follow my instructions exactly."
Holly was not sure she wanted to turn her romantic life so completely into Jenn's keeping. Her friend had admirers coming out her ears, it was true, but her longest relationship had lasted just under six weeks.
"What are your instructions?" she asked reluctantly.
"More of everything. More cookies. More accidental meeting of hands. Turn up the heat. Bring a romantic picnic lunch packed for two."
"And if he says 'I don't want your damned lunch'?"
"Then you say 'Fine, I'll call Steve and he can come eat it with me.'"
To Holly it did sound like the plot of a romance novel. Lure the boss in with romantic gestures and if that didn't work, try to make him jealous. What Jenn didn't seem to get was that Blake had to care about her in order to be jealous.
"I don't know," she said uneasily. "I think I should just go back to the way I was before. Everything seemed so much more comfortable."
"Comfortable?" Jenn said. "Good grief. Is that what you want—comfortable?"
"Yes," Holly said firmly.
"Well, then stick with Steve. You'll get comfortabled near to death. You can take up golfing and learn to play cribbage. But if you want your heart to beat faster and your temperature to heat up and skyrockets to go off, Blake is your man."
Holly wanted to deny she wanted all those things. But she couldn't.
"So are you ready to instigate Plan B, for Week 2?"
"No," Holly said.
"Holly, it's one week out of your life. For heaven's sake, be bold, be daring."
"That's what you said last week."
"I tell you, it's working. You've got to be ready to fight for what you want, girl."
"You're not there in that office. He snapped at me about a misplaced file—and it turned out he had misplaced it!"
"You're crumpling his defenses. Don't take the pressure off now, he'll have a chance to rebuild, and they'll go up stronger than before. You know what? He's a control freak, and you're threatening his control. He probably has a rule book somewhere that says 'Thou shalt not romance your secretary.'"
Even Holly had to admit there might be a kernel of truth in that observation. "What exactly would you pack in a romantic picnic lunch?"
"Oh," Jenn said, thrilled to be asked, "white wine, croissants, two kinds of cheese and strawberries. Strawberries are the most romantic food."
"What do you want to bet he's allergic to them?" Holly said sourly.
"Promise me you'll try it. Promise."
Holly felt trapped.
"Say it."
"Okay. I'll try it."
"What day?"
"Jenn—"
"What day?"
"Does it have to be next week?"
"Yes."
"Friday, then."
"Good. That gives you four days to build up to it. Lots of accidental nudges, long looks, nice gestures. More cookies. Those seemed to get a great reaction."
"I'd hate to hear your definition of great," Holly said.
Still, there was a certain relief in having a plan, instead of just floundering along in a kind of desperate misery hoping she chanced upon the right thing.
She dressed carefully Monday morning. The white angora sweater seemed to get a reaction that she liked and he didn't. She thought the navy skirt was a little too short, but she hadn't missed him sneaking peeks at her legs.
She eyed herself in the mirror, her stomach in knots. She just wasn't suited for this kind of thing. She picked up her purse.
"Another day in the trenches," she told herself as she headed across the street, cookies in hand.
It occurred to her this war would be so much easier if there was no emotion involved, if she could play her part with detachment.
But as soon as he walked in, his hair still wet and curling from the shower, she felt totally flustered. Wordlessly, she handed him the bag of cookies.
He opened them, looked in and looked angry. Angry. That was the part Jenn didn't get to see.
"I thought I told you—"
"Oh, you did," she said, amazed by how composed she sounded. "In no uncertain terms. Didn't want my damned cookies, I think you put it. I made them for the kids. You have a staff meeting at the Coltons' at eleven." And she went back to her typing.
But she noticed he stood there for a long time, staring at her before he moved on.
When he left for the meeting he didn't have the cookies with him. She found the bag on his desk, half devoured.
And for the first time in a long time, she found herself smiling. And then laughing. Jenn was right. He wasn't showing her how he was feeling with all that crankiness, he was hiding how he was feeling.
For the first time since she had started toying with this daisy of I-love-you, I-love-you-not, she had a feeling she might end up holding the I-love-you petal. It lit a light in her heart that he could not begin to put out.
She did everything Jenn had told her. She touched his arm when she talked to him, and noticed with pleasure rather than pain how swiftly he pulled away. That was not the reaction of a man who was feeling nothing. That was the reaction of a man who was feeling way too much.
Still, on Friday she was terrified as she hauled in her huge wicker basket and set it on the corner of her desk.
He stopped in the doorway as soon as he saw it.
"Someone sending you gifts?" he asked.
"No."
Did he really look relieved? Really?
"What's this about, then?" He came over and peeled back the checked cover.
"I brought it. I was hoping you'd have lunch with me today."
He flipped the cover back as if it had pricked him with thorns. "Holly, I can't. Not today. I—"
She smiled sweetly. "That's all right. I'll ask Steve. It would be a shame for that to go to waste."
"Who the hell is Steve? The banker, I suppose?"
"As a matter of fact, he is a banker. I wasn't aware that was a bad thing."
He glared at her. She was aware of holding her breath, but she would not look away from him. Was he going to call her bluff?
"Actually," he said, finally, "I think maybe we need to get out of the office. It seems tense in here lately."
"Does it?" she as
ked innocently.
"I know a great place for a picnic."
If she wasn't careful she would blow it all now by leaping up out of her chair and throwing herself into his arms.
Instead, she turned to her computer and said, "Great, I can't wait."
At noon he came out of his office and took the basket off her desk. "Are those shoes okay for a little hike?"
She nodded, and soon they were walking side by side along a well-worn trail that led off the ranch and up through the timber.
And amazingly, it was like everything was all right between them again. Blake laughed and helped her up the trail; they popped the cork on the wine halfway up, because they had forgotten water.
He took a swig and handed her the bottle. She didn't wipe it before she took a sip, too.
It was like they were old friends who had not talked for a long time. And when he took her hand to help her up the last little rocky stretch, it felt like that was where her hand was meant to be. In his, traveling the trails of life together.
They arrived on a little outcrop that overlooked the deserted ranch and the countryside around it. The view was panoramic and the sun was mellow and rich.
She spread the blanket that was at the bottom of the basket, and took out the picnic items. He stretched out on his side, propped up on his elbow.
"This was a great idea, Holly."
"Thanks. I thought so."
"Things haven't been the same between us for a while," he said softly, regarding her intently.
"Yes, I know."
"And why do you think that is?"
She shrugged. "I don't know." Jennifer had forgotten to coach her on this part.
"I don't know either," he said. "But I like this better."
"Me, too."
They talked about the ranch and the Coltons and the kids. He told her some ideas he was working on for a new ranch program for the boys in The Shack.
"They're the ones who are special to you, aren't they, Blake, those boys who have flirted with the dark side of life?"
"Those boys are me," he said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes." And she did. She knew him to his soul.
"How can you know all the things I've tried so hard to keep secret?" he asked.
"I know all about that wild guy in you, Blake, the one you've tried to tame and never quite succeeded."
