“Then we’re screwed because I’m never going to be a smooth-talking, tuxedo-wearing dude.” He took a sip of the beer—his favorite summer ale from his family-owned brewery, Icecap Brews. The crisp, medium-bodied flavor settled him, the aftertaste of wheat drawing out memories of late nights working on the ranch. His sanctuary.
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” She gestured toward the binders—toward the organized checklists, charts and measures that ought to transform him from rugged recluse to the face of Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.
“Well, then, how would you feel if you couldn’t do your job? If someone thrust you into a role you weren’t comfortable with?” He took another swig as he leaned against the wall, noticing her confident posture, the way her brows lifted in answer to the challenge he threw at her.
A sassy smile set the corners of her mouth up, reaching those bright blue eyes. “This isn’t about me.”
“That’s a cop-out answer.”
“Fine, then. I would search for help. Like how I have my dog here to help me adapt to the curveballs life has thrown my way.”
He walked toward where she leaned against the desk, his fingers tracing the corners of the beer bottle’s label. Each movement, every step, sparked more static crackling in the air between them. Stopping beside her, he leaned against the desk to her left, aware of the lilac perfume on her skin. “Then what would you do if this profession hadn’t worked out for you?”
“I’ll answer if you will.” Her hand gravitated to his Stetson on the desk, touching the felt lightly. Was she subconsciously drawn to it?
Awareness tumbled through him as he drank in her slender features—the tipped nose, the confidence.
“Fine.” He nodded. “You first.”
She clicked her tongue. “Testing the trust issue. Okay, I would go back to school and study clothing design. Now your turn.”
“Archeology. I can see myself sifting through the earth at an excavation site.” He brought the bottle to his lips, imagining what it’d be like to be immersed in an excavation pit in some remote location. No press. Few people. Yeah, he could live like that.
“So you’re a patient man with an attention to detail.”
His brow raised and he tilted the bottle, which caused the ale to slosh slightly. A contained wave. “I guess you could say that.”
“Nice to know. The ideas are churning in my mind already.”
She was sure learning a lot about him, and he wasn’t finding out a damn thing of importance about her.
He set aside his beer and strode toward the yellow Lab. “Tell me about your dog.”
Isabeau’s spine went straight and she closed her notebook slowly, her eyes averted. “She’s a Labrador retriever, she’s three and a half years old, and her name is Paige.”
Obvious. But if she didn’t want to talk about the fact that Paige wore a service dog vest with patches and lettering, then he wasn’t going to be rude. He’d just been trying to make conversation.
Not his strength.
Turning, she flashed an overbright, tense smile. “You can ask. I was just messing with you by giving those obvious answers. Take it as a tip on how to avoid questions you don’t want to answer.”
“Touché. I apologize if I shouldn’t have asked about your working dog. I was just trying to fill the awkward silence. I should have asked about your favorite vacation spot or what made you pick this job or something.”
“Those would have been good conversation starters. But I’m comfortable discussing Paige with you. It’s more the strangers approaching me with questions that are bothersome. I’ve even had people accuse her of being a fake working dog since I don’t ‘appear’ disabled.” She shook her head, that spiral of red hair sliding along her shoulder. “Paige alerts to my diabetes.”
“How did I not know that about you?”
She stacked her binders. “It’s not like you and I are besties.”
He took another step closer, setting the beer on the desk, the tempting scent of her perfume swirling around him again. “But I know you. Or rather, I’ve noticed you and for some reason I didn’t notice your dog.”
“That’s a good thing. If she’s drawing attention to herself, she’s not doing her job. Well, unless I were to be in some kind of health crisis, then she would get help or bring my medication. But she’s very good at what she does. Since I’ve added her to my life, she’s kept me from getting so distracted I miss drops or spikes in my glucose level.”
“So I shouldn’t pet her.”
“Not while she’s wearing her cape.” That tight-lipped, tense smile returned as her head gave a curt, dismissive shake.
“Cape?”
“Vest. She understands that when she’s wearing it, she’s working. When it’s off, she can play like any other dog.”
“Ah, okay. Does it bother you that I’m asking about this?” An intrusion into his own life would’ve been met with some resistance if the roles were reversed. And the last thing he wanted to do was make Isabeau feel isolated.
“Actually, no. It’s good to have something to talk about while I work.”
“How does she detect your blood sugar?”
“She senses it by smell.”
“Like a drug dog?”
“Or hunting dog, or search-and-rescue dog. Same premise, but fine-tuned. Not all service dogs can do it. Some do tasks like get help if there’s a problem or bring medicines or steady the person if they’re feeling faint. But she’s got that something extra.” With a stretch, Isabeau’s spine arched back, drawing his eye as she settled against the desk again. “There. I have all I need to order your new wardrobe. Some of it has to be special-ordered, but I can pick up what you’ll need for your sister’s wedding.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. But I hope you know that clothes aren’t going to change the core of who I am or what I say.”
There. He’d thrown down the gauntlet.
He’d enjoyed this fitting
