“My father is retiring and has chosen someone to take his place as CEO of Blackstone.”
“Oh my gosh! You’re going back to New York?!” Laurel looked stricken, her tiny hand falling over her chest.
“Now who’s being dramatic?”
“Well then, get to it.”
“A woman. Her name is Sydney Evans.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Ryan cut in. Yawning, he ran a hand through his shaggy dark blond hair.
“The problem is the board of directors. There could be a legal battle. One that could last for years––unless she’s a Blackstone. Which is why I have to marry her. It’s either that or move back to New York to fill the position myself and I would sooner cut my throat.”
Laurel nodded as if it all made perfect sense. “I saw something very similar to this on the Hallmark Channel the other day. Alicia Witt was––”
“Laurel––” It was either cut her off or let my tension headache explode into a full-blown migraine.
“Fine. Continue.”
“Nobody can know the marriage is not legitimate. Nobody. You get me?”
Laurel nodded like this was all perfectly ordinary.
“It’s gonna get out,” Ryan remarked. “Mark my words. Somehow, this is gonna blow up in your face.” Ryan Sutter was as straightforward and sensible as they came. It was one of the things I admired most about him. The truth of his words hit home.
“Not as long as you two keep your mouths shut.” But the thought continued to nag. Between smartphones and social media, secrets were nearly impossible to keep these days. And, whether it was New York City or the wilds of Wyoming, people were the same everywhere––meaning nosy. “We haven’t hammered out the details yet, but she’ll be living here part-time.”
“So it’s not only on paper?” Laurel asked. “You have to live together? Like it’s a real marriage?”
“Not real. But we’ll be living together.” The words tasted bitter.
“For how long?”
“Three years.”
Laurel’s eyes went wide. “Goodness gracious.”
“Is she hot?” my closest friend questioned, which was not out of character.
“She’s my wife, asshole. No hitting on the soon-to-be Mrs. Blackstone. Nobody’s supposed to know it’s a sham marriage, remember?”
Ryan smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“More importantly whatever I do or don’t say in front of her, I expect you two to go along with it.” My attention darted back and forth between the two of them, driving my point home. “Are we clear on that?”
Laurel got the same expression she got when the dogs farted in the office. “What is that supposed to mean? Am I being forced to lie again?”
“The entire thing is a lie, Laurel,” I explained, exasperated. The land constantly on my mind. My father had, to my knowledge, never once issued an empty threat. It’s what made him so effective in business. “A worthy white lie. What’s a few more for the greater good?”
Chapter Four
Sydney
“Are you sure there’s room in there for me?” I asked the man standing next to me––the same man who was sporting a suspiciously neutral expression.
Scott had knocked on my door at 7 a.m. I’d opened it to find him leaning against the doorframe wearing a bitter smile and a black Henley shirt that clung to his chest like white on rice. “I’ve come to collect my wife,” he’d drawled, reticence all over his face. “You need to get a good look at what you’re signing up for.”
It was the first semi-wise thing he’d ever said to me.
My eyes traveled back to his vintage baby blue Ford pickup truck, the one parked in front of the hotel. Two gray dogs the size of elephants stared back at me from the interior.
“What’s the problem? You don’t like dogs?” the grouchy one asked.
“I like dogs,” I replied sharply. I loved dogs as a matter of fact and resented the snide look he gave me. “I just don’t think there’s any room for me to sit in the cab––unless you’d like for me to ride in the flatbed?”
“Listen up, babydoll. If you plan on living with me, you better get used to them. Now, are you getting in or not? I’ve got work to do.”
Had he said work? I would’ve sworn on a Bible that Scott did not have that word in his vocabulary either.
“What kind of dogs are they?”
“Irish Wolfhounds. C’mon, in you go.”
With a hand on my lower back, he nudged me forward while holding open the door of the truck. I took a few more reluctant steps, glanced inside again, and noticed that the top of the dogs’ heads grazed the ceiling of the cab.
“Are they friendly?”
“Romeo and Juliet are lapdogs.” Then, turning to the dogs, “Kids, meet your new stepmonster.”
I mean, really? I threw a glare askance and squeezed onto the bench seat of the truck with a tiny flutter of fear in my belly. Not for nothing but the dog’s head was bigger than mine. “Nice, doggo. Sweet, doggo.”
The dog next to me––the one practically sitting in my lap––panted in my face, a pink tongue as long as a tube sock hanging out the side of his mouth. And then the smell hit me. I’d bet a hundred bucks they hadn’t been washed in months.
“What’s that smell?” I asked as Scott climbed behind the wheel. There were so many competing pungent odors I couldn’t say which one was worse.
“That’s the sweet scent of ranch life, Mrs. Blackstone,” he shot back with a cynical smirk. “Better get used to it.”
Smelled like bullshit to me, both literally and metaphorically, but I kept the commentary to myself.
He tore out of the Four Seasons’ driveway like his ass was on fire. The dogs slammed into me, I slammed into the door handle. There’d be bruises later but I didn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Scott Blackstone had no idea who he was dealing with. I’d let him discover it in due time.
* * *
“This is the southern pasture. We graze our cattle by rotation method, try to raise our beef to leave the smallest footprint on the environment as possible…”
I leaned forward, to get a direct line of sight on him since the dogs were in the way, and found a perfectly bland expression on his face. He’d been talking for hours. Hoouuurs. He’d shown me the barn, the stables, the storage buildings, the pastures, the pens. He’d explained that the Lazy S Ranch was named for the Lazy Snake River that ran through the property and not Lazy Scott as I’d assumed. An honest mistake when one knew the owner. He’d described every freaking blade of grass he owned.
There was no denying the drop-dead beauty of the place. God had pulled out all the stops with Wyoming. But it was early afternoon and we hadn’t stopped for a cup of water yet. Not even a potty break! Thus, my appreciation for the magnificence of Mother Nature was hidden under a thick coat of resentment and a truckload of low blood sugar. I was starving and it was dropping faster than Kong off the Empire State Building.