Page 7 of My Secret Santa Dallas

“You can absolutely get a horse to swim, and it’s easier to break him in that way,” the younger one said.

“Or, or hear me out,” the taller one held up his hand. “You could do it the old-fashioned way by starting with halter and bridle training. You don’t have to—” he paused, seeing me. “—oh. Who areyou?”

I knew that tone, the guy-across-from-you-in-the-club tone.

“Blair Cullen,” I said. “I am here on behalf of Portman Corp to oversee how this new plant is going.”

“Frankie Ortiz,” the taller one replied before jamming a thumb over his shoulder. “And that is Isaac West. Let me just throw this out there: you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and if you’d like, I can show you around town.”

He was a playboy; I could see it a mile away. Sadly, this was a business trip, and I could not get diverted from the reason I was there.

“Don’t even try it,” Warrick said as he strode behind me. “She’s not here to be your arm candy, Frankie.”

Frankie pressed a hand to his heart, and his face twisted comically. “Drive the spear in, won’t you?”

I liked him; he seemed to be a happy guy, not like the surly son-of-a-bitch who had walked out the door five minutes ago.

“When you yank it out, I’ll add salt, too,” Warrick teased while making his coffee. “Don’t you have some calves to be looking after?”

“Santos and the rest of the guys are already out there, but I had to get some joe. I run on coffee and its fumes.” Frankie jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Since you shot me down on being my lady friend here, what do you say about a tour around the ranch? Can you ride?”

I couldn’t make it awkward.

“I can ride horses, yes,” I nodded. “But according to someone, my boots are not going to hold up on a ranch.”

His eyes dropped to my feet. “I think your boots are sexy. Who told you that?”

“Mr. Sourpuss,” I nodded out the door. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

Warrick leaned on a counter. “Dallas is a hard nut tocrack. Even as a teen, he was bullheaded, and I can only imagine that it has worsened.”

Marie, whom, I hadn’t realized had slipped out of the room, entered with a pile of mail, one she waved in Warrick’s face. “I think this is the letter from the FBI you were waiting for. And this is from the Town Council, which I think is probably the seventh reminder of the Secret Santa exchange on Christmas Eve.”

Warrick rolled his eyes and asked, “Does the mayor think we need a million reminders? It’s mid-November, and we’re already preparing for Christmas. We have almost a month in between, and my prerogative now is getting this plant started. The ground is broken, and the architects are drawing up the plan.

“It's 175 square feet and has 21 sections to start,” he said. “I think we need to focus on that and getting the workforce, about 125 people, to run all stations.”

While they talked, I looked out the door; where was Mr. Douchface?

“You know, we can lend you Connie’s boots if you don’t want to get those dirty,” Isaac piped up from the table while he nursed his tea.

I nodded. “Sure.”

Normally, I’d not want to try someone else’s boots— erm, foot fungus— but I would be fine as long as I had some socks on. “What size is she?”

“Eight, I think,” Isaac replied.

“I’m seven; it can work,” I said. “As long as she is cool with it.”

“Connie is a soldier,” Frankie added. “She’d probably tell you to have ‘em.”

I didn’t know any girl who would relinquish her bootsthat easily. Then again, the boots I was thinking about were two-thousand-dollar Balenciaga kicks with heels sharp enough to be used as murder weapons.

“Give me two minutes,” Frankie replied.

Chapter Three

Dallas

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