Page 8 of My Secret Santa Dallas

Warrick was going to shoot himself in the foot with that deal Ms. Hotshot offered him; I could see it as plain as day. I knew what Tender T’s steak was—who on this side of the country didn’t?—but I hadn’t known that my brother was in business with him.

Objectively, I knew it was risky to invest in start-ups, but this was a cattle town; if a meteor suddenly fell from the sky, obliterated every ranch in this town, and scorched the earth with space parasites, there was no way this town would run out of cattle. Portman could give a little.

“It’s page one of every corporate company handbook; screw the middleman,” I grunted while unsaddling the horse I’d taken out half an hour ago.

Grabbing a brush, I began to brush the gelding down while thinking about what I had seen around the ranch. Warrick had certainly turned this place around, and a partof me wondered if he would have gotten this far if I had not left the way I had.

“No, you’re not completely right about that one,” Blair said from behind me while I heard hooves clatter. “That is actually on page three, the fiftieth paragraph down, and repeated in the index in the back, subsection five, article three.”

“Seems about right. I would have known that if I hadn’t touched my copy in five years ago,” I said, all the pent-up anger and irritation leaning on those last three words.

She laughed. “I have a spare copy if you want it.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I said. “That is going into the bonfire too.”

I heard a stifled choke coming from her. “Sweetheart? When did you suddenly turn into a Southern gentleman?”

“Never been one,” I told her, looking over my shoulder, and my eyes dropped to her feet. “At least you found a pair of serviceable boots.”

She twisted her ankle. “Oh, yeah, a very kind lady named Connie lent me her pair.”

“Good for you,” I replied, turning the horse around and leading him into the stall. “Are you alright? You practically ran out of the kitchen like you were going to vomit, or have a heart attack, or?—”

“I needed some air,” I said. “It was getting a bit too much like summer in Malibu in there.”

“Hm,” she said. “I prefer Santa Monica. Malibu is more like a sorority's winter home.”

I faced the wall and clenched my fists tightly. I was going to stalk out the door, or I was going to punch something; one of the two… or even both. Turning, I put a book on the wall shelf behind me and crossed my arms. “Didn’t you say you were in one of those?”

“I was,” she said while still brushing the horse. “Doesn’t mean I took off to get bikini waxes and hair dyes every moment I could. While they were out partying and drinking and having ménage à trois with some drunk Saudi prince, I stayed in my room, studying. I didn’t get two degrees and a master’s by throwing back some Sex on the Beaches all night.”

“Could have fooled me,” I said.

She turned. “Look, Warrick and Mr. Portman’s dealings have been going on long before you came along and jammed a wrench in them.”

My stomach turned sour. “Why would you say that?”

“I know the history of this ranch,” she remarked. “How, fifteen years ago, it was in shambles before Warrick tried to revive it by taking out a loan on the ranch. He was given ten years to pay it back, and he did it in six. After that, he sought out sustainable ways to keep the ranch running, and he met Rhys Channing, who, in turn, connected him to the big leagues. You know, the old ‘friend of a friend of a friend’ stuff.”

“I don’t like what you’re doing here,” I told her. “I couldn’t care less if you were the President of the United States and you walked in here with such a one-sided deal; I’d treat you the same way. Was it unrealistic to expect a man of your boss’s caliber to be ethical?”

She turned and shifted her weight to one leg. “Are you sure that is all this is about? I know you don’t like me or what I am doing here, but objectively, this is none of your business. See, I think I represent something in your life that you resent. Do I look like a woman who turned you down, or is it the money I come from? Perhaps both?”

“I told you,” I said, keeping my temper in check. “I hate your deal, not you.”

Miss Sorority rolled her eyes, and her tone was scathing. “Stop the bullshit. You hate that I came up here because I represent someone or something you despise.”

I snapped.

“You’re damn right,” I snarled. “I hate how you people on the higher-level use people like pawns, and when you’re done with them, kick them to the curb, not caring how hard they had worked or how long they did so to get to where they were.”

She tilted her head up. “There it is. There is the real you.”

I had her up against the wall in seconds, both elbows caging her in so she had no option but to look me in the eyes. “The real me is pissed that you’re here.”

A gleam was in her eyes. “Because I’m a woman? Are you intimidated by that?”

“Fuck no,” I replied. “I wouldn’t care if you were a three-eyed alien with purple skin. You’re here to screw Warrick over just as I got screwed over a week ago.”

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