He knew Jeannie loved him, that she’d accepted him, but he also knew she hadn’t had a choice. His other aunt hadn’t really been an option as a single mom herself. Taking him in had been the honorable thing for Jeannie and Charles to do.
He owed the Mikkelsons more than he could repay. They’d saved him from an overburdened system where he likely would have ended up in a group home. They’d given him a place in their family. They’d treated him every bit as equally as their three biological children. Now, most people didn’t even know or remember he was adopted. Some days he could almost believe he was really one of them rather than a cast-off cousin.
Other times, like now, he was reminded of that debt.
As if she could feel his gaze, Isabeau glanced over her shoulder at him. “If you couldn’t be a rancher, what would you do with your life?”
“Why does that matter?” A shrug. No other future mattered, only the present he lived in. That was his life. Walking to the wet bar, Trystan grabbed a beer and twisted the top off. He tipped the bottle’s neck to her, inquiring.
A faint smile dusted her lips, but she shook her head, holding up a hand. “No, thank you. And as for the question, I’m just trying to get to know you better, beyond our brief meetings in the past and an internet search on the history of your family. The more I understand you, the more authentic I can be in the choices I make for your image makeover. I truly do want you to be pleased with the decisions. If it’s fake, that will show in your demeanor. People will sense it’s a facade.”
“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
