Page 154 of Holiday Hire

She nods. "Yes. It's in the pantry."

"Okay, go get your paint clothes on. We're going to get your room done today," I declare.

Her face lights up. She claps. "Yay!"

I groan, kicking myself for not insisting we paint her room sooner. She made it clear she wanted some color. I shouldn't have allowed her to do every room except hers, but I was too engrossed in getting the horses ready for the next race. "Phoebe, we should have done your room first."

She insists, "No, you needed your room done."

I step forward and put my hand on her cheek and wrap my other arm around her waist. I palm her ass and tug her into me. "I love what you did to my room. It was very sweet of you, but you have to stop putting yourself last."

"I don't."

I set my finger over her lips. "Shush. You do put yourself last. You're always putting us first."

She shrugs. "It's my job to put you first."

I shake my head. "No. That's not right, Pheebs."

"I'm not complaining. I like taking care of all of you."

My heart warms. I admit, "I love having you taking care of us."

Her lips curve up. "You do?"

"Mm-hmm. I love it when you take care of my boys. I love it when you take care of me." I kiss her jawbone, then over to her ear, and add, "I especially love it when you take care of my stallion."

She laughs and pushes my chest. "Keep your head straight if we're going to paint my room."

"Okay, let me go toss on some clothes I can destroy. Contrary to what you might believe, I'm a sloppy painter."

She feigns shock, gasping. "Are you?"

"Yup. You'll have to cut in the edges, or we'll have to get some tape."

"Nope, no tape needed. I'm good at cutting in," she declares.

"Why am I not surprised?" I question, grinning. I slap her on her ass. "Okay, get ready. I'll see you in your room."

"Okay."

I whistle and go into the bedroom, excited we get some alone time, even if it involves painting. I love every minute I spend with Phoebe, but we're usually surrounded by people and acting like there's nothing between us. And since it's a week before Christmas, it'll be busier than ever with festivities. My family will be everywhere, so this is the last day Phoebe and I might get a stretch of alone time.

As tempted as I am to drag her to bed and play all day, it's bugging me her room's not painted. And I love everything she's done with the rest of the house. The boys' rooms are just what they wanted, and they're always raving about them. She patiently waited to do hers last, and I scold myself again that I wasn't more insistent she paint hers after she surprised me.

I put on a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt that I no longer care about. Then I go into her bedroom.

She's tugging her T-shirt over her chest when I enter.

I tease, "Do you have to put that on?"

She bats her eyelashes. In a horrible Texas drawl, she chirps, "Why, Alexander Cartwright, how very inappropriate of you."

"That was a pretty good accent," I fib.

"You think? Can I convince people I'm from Texas?" she questions.

I don't have the heart to tell her no, so I encourage her. "If you keep working on it, you'll fool everyone."

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