Page 7 of The Rancher's Second-Choice Wife

Her long dark hair was plaited in a single braid, and not only did she look like she was barely out of high school, but she acted like it, too. She didn't even bother hiding her awe while taking in the plush interior of his chopper, and she was just as helpless to hide her shock when her wide-eyed gaze finally found its way to him.

OH.

She didn't say it out loud, but the way her mouth parted said as much, along with how she kept blinking as if she could not believe he was real.

Valerian glared at Heather. WHAT. THE. HELL.

Trust me, Heather simply mouthed back.

His chopper had already taken off before Valerian could tell Heather to get rid of the new girl, and the billionaire was thus left with two choices. He could fire her himself or—-

"Mr. Rossfield?"

Valerian reluctantly turned towards her, but his mood swiftly turned to disconcert when he saw that the girl had already laid her tools out on the table, and she was now holding out a barber cape towards him.

The faint color staining her cheeks told Valerian that she was still self-conscious around him, but as soon as he nodded in response, her expression turned serious, and it was as if someone had turned on a switch inside of her.

The girl's movements were precise and efficient as she got to work, and he appreciated the meticulous care she exercised in order to avoid coming into contact with any part of his person.

Aside from asking how he preferred to have his hair trimmed, she didn't say anything else, and by the time they landed on Austin, Valerian had no choice but to bear the smugness in Heather's tone when she called him again.

"I told you so. She's perfect, isn't she?"

Chapter Three

SEE THE DIFFERENCE in two weeks!

Poppy remembered reading such a claim from a shampoo's packaging ad, and the words now seemed just as apt, with how much her life had changed in the same amount of time.

Fourteen days ago, Valerian Rossfield was merely one of the billions of strangers who happened to live on the same planet she did. But in just two weeks, he had become her most terrible secret, with the way he lingered in her thoughts every waking moment.

In those fourteen days, she had spent a shameful amount of time digging up everything she could find online about him. She had learned that the self-made billionaire was French on his mother's side while his father was supposedly the disinherited black sheep of some old-rich ranching clan in San Antonio. She had also learned that his girlfriend Camelia was a former beauty queen who had used her prize money to put up her own company, which now generated millions in annual revenues.

That the couple was a match made in heaven would be the understatement of the century. So why must her stupid imagination insist on tormenting her with horribly forbidden dreams every time she would fall asleep?

Poppy had done everything possible to protect both her slumber and conscience. She had jogged every evening until her legs gave out. Read every book there was about the history of science (boring!) until her eyelids drooped.

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