Page 27 of Dust Storm

“I know,” she pressed. “But can you try?”

“I don’t know how to do it,” he said.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the slick microwave door. My voluminous Marilyn Monroe bangs had fallen after a day of travel and ranch-induced trauma, but the length of my tresses still sported a nice bounce.

“You know the rule,” Christian said. “I need at least five days to learn a new hairstyle before you can wear it to school.”

“Do you think Miss Cassandra could do my hair?” Bree pleaded.

“Absolutely not,” I muttered under my breath as I studied the dog lounging on the couch.

“No,” Christian said. His voice turned to mumbles as he moved around upstairs. He was probably kissing their foreheads and giving out heartfelt “I love yous.”

How freaking nice.

Lights turned off upstairs and I looked at the time. It was barely eight in the evening. Usually I would have been getting ready to wrap up my workday. Maybe I’d be slipping out to a dinner reservation before going home to manage the lives of the rich and famous from my couch.With wine because Lillian Monroe was a ladder-climbing lizard woman.

Maybe my current headache was really the detox after being released from her orbit.

I had started my career with the Carrington Group at the bottom in strategic business development consulting before landing my dream job in public relations.

Being a publicist was my dream. Or so I thought.

I wanted the private jet lifestyle, the Michelin-starred restaurants, the camera flashes and shouts for attention, all while being the master puppeteer.

I wanted to be the wizard behind the curtain.

But one empty-headed starlet decided to rip the curtain down, strangle me with it, light the fabric on fire, then throw me off a cliff.

Now I was in cowboy hell.

Heavy boots thundered down the stairs, and Christian appeared. He grabbed the stack of linens he had carted in from his mom’s house and disappeared into the spare room.

“Question,” I said, moving to linger in the doorway as I watched him put sheets on the queen-sized mattress.

Christian looked up, deep brown eyes boring into mine for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. “What’s that?”

“Where’s the woman in the photos?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is she going to come in here and slit my throat because I’m sleeping in your house?”

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t look angry either. “She died when the girls were little,” he said calmly as he shimmied a pillow into a fresh case.

Christian’s tone wasn’t begging for pity. He had simply stated a fact, so I responded in turn.

“Well, then I’m sorry to hear that.”

He unfurled a large quilt and neatly draped it over the made bed. It was all so …quaint.

“There’s a full bath down the hall. It’s next to my room. Holler if you need anything. The girls have a bathroom upstairs so they shouldn’t bother you. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen.”

I pinned myself to the door frame as he lugged my suitcases in from the living room.

After a quick look to make sure there wasn’t anything that still needed to be done, he wiped his hands on his jeans and paused in the door.

It was a tight fit with the two of us face-to-face.

---