Page 47 of My Not So Wicked Boss (My Not So Wicked 3)

“When did she pass away?” Miles asked concerned.

“Just over two years ago.”

“You were fond of her.”

“Yes, and of this place. There are a lot of good memories here. Emma, Jenna, Brad, and I used to run all over the ranch and up the mountain trails, especially in the summer. There’s a lake and a stable full of horses.”

“Is that so?” Miles’s eyes darted around looking for the stables.

I figured he might be interested in that. I had seen pictures of him online playing polo or at polo tournaments.

“Horsey!” Henry was excited too.

Mr. Carrington walked out of his grand log cabin with Mrs. Carrington’s mark still on it. Her big pink wreath adorned the door no matter the time of year now. Mrs. Carrington loved pink everything.

“Did I hear someone say horsey?” He set his sights on Henry. Mr. Carrington was a well-known horseman and a sucker for cute kids. Chloe had been known for getting the distinguished cowboy to take her on many “horsey” rides and to even be the horsey on occasion. He was going to make an excellent grandpa.

“Hi, Mr. Carrington, thank you for letting us tour the place today.”

Mr. Carrington was to me in no time, wrapping his big, strong arms around me. “Anytime, honey, it’s good to see you. How’s your girl?”

“She’s great.” I gave him one more big squeeze before letting go. “I’d like you to meet Miles Wickham, my boss, and his adorable nephew, Henry.”

Miles cringed when I referred to him as my boss. I’m not sure why.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carrington.” Miles extended his hand to shake Mr. Carrington’s.

Mr. Carrington took his hand. “Nice to meet you as well. Please, call me Dane.” He gave me a pointed look. “That goes for you too, young lady. All you kids still calling me Mr. Carrington makes me feel old.”

I wasn’t sure I could call him Dane. “I’ll try,” I promised him.

Satisfied with my answer, Mr. Carrington—Dane—knelt so he was almost eye level with Henry who had suddenly become shy and hid behind Miles. That didn’t deter Dane. “How would you like to see my horses?”

Henry’s dark eyes widened, along with his cute grin.

Dane held out his calloused hand. He may have owned half the town and was the wealthiest person I knew, but his hands told how hard he worked for the Ranch. This was his wife’s dream, after all, and he wanted to keep it that way. “How about you come with me and we’ll give some of those horses a treat.”

Henry liked the sound of that. His little hand made its way into Dane’s. Dane stood and took the lead with Henry, who was dressed like a little gentleman. Thankfully, the sunshine was abundant even though it was still cool and crisp. Henry’s wool socks and sweater seemed to keep him warm enough for now.

I pulled my long cardigan sweater, the one Shelby had convinced me to buy—more like practically gave to me for free—tight around me as we made our way to the stables.

“Would you like my jacket?” Miles asked me.

I looked over at him. He was dressed smartly, like Henry, in a midnight blue wool blazer. I wished he wasn’t so handsome. And that cologne of his, mixed with the earthy scent playing in the light breeze, was ridiculously intoxicating. “I’m fine, thank you.” I faced forward, enjoying seeing Henry warm up to Dane and get excited about a couple of squirrels playing in the golden-leaved trees.

Miles apparently had no regard for my senses. He sidled up to me and in a low voice said, “I wish you wouldn’t call me your boss.”

I scrunched my face. “Why?”

“I thought we agreed we were friends.”

“Actually, we didn’t. I think we agreed it wasn’t by chance we met.”

“Your memory doesn’t serve me well.”

Our hands accidentally brushed. Lots of zings coursed through my body. It startled me so much I took a step away from him.

He clasped his hands together as if he felt it too.

Why did I feel like we were flirting with danger? I decided to change the subject. “What do you think of this place?”

“It’s lovely.” He sounded grateful for the change of subject. “It has the creative juices flowing.”

“I’m glad. I need that book.” I almost nudged him but stopped before I made that fatal mistake. No more touching, accidental or otherwise.

“If I haven’t said it before, I am deeply honored that you love my work.”

“Well . . . not all of it . . .”

He pounded his fist against his heart. “Please don’t tell me you read Murder River.”

“I’m sorry to say I did,” I sing-songed. “But at least now I know that a group of crows is called a murder. However, I will be forever creeped out by that knowledge every time I see one.” I got the shivers thinking about the gruesome details of the book and the chopped off crows’ heads left in the protagonist’s bed.

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