Cara Colter - Chasing Dreams

Her father had never asked anything of her. So many times she had wished he would. When her father had asked this of her, she had sensed there was history here, a story, perhaps even a secret, that went beyond the fact that this humble little garage in nowhere Virginia was where it had all started for him. Her logical mind had known she needed more details, but for once logic had fled her. Looking at the predicament she was in now, it had probably been an omen.

When she should have been asking important questions, all she had been thinking was finally her father had recognized her. Finally he was seeing, even in the smallest way, that she was an educated woman of sound business skill, not one of his little princesses. She had assumed he was trusting her with a business assignment for Auto Kingdom!

“You do need an office manager, don’t you?” she asked, and was annoyed to hear a little tremor of uncertainty in her voice.

He must have heard it, too, because he sighed, pushed a large, impatient hand through tousled locks and made an obvious effort to restrain his impatience.

“Lady, I am absolutely desperate for an office manager. It’s just that the job requires a little know-how. The type of training you don’t get at the debutante ball or out fox hunting with the hounds.”

She felt herself stiffen. As if she hadn’t been up against this kind of prejudice her whole life.

“You might be interested to know I’ve never attended a debutante ball,” she said sharply, “and I don’t ride horses.” Terrified of them, actually, though she was reluctant to admit weakness to this man.

Chelsea did the balls. Brandy did the horses. Had he mixed her up with one of her sisters?

“You get my drift,” he said.

Oh, yes, she did. Useless. Rich. Frivolous.

“I happen to have a master’s degree,” she said tightly.

She decided now might not be the best time to mention it was in science. Still, she was confident that anybody who could spend two years painstakingly researching and documenting the effects of pesticides on the bone structure of prairie dogs, as she had just done, could handle a little office work.

He looked at her narrowly, his gaze so long and so stripping that she had to disguise a tiny tremor of…something.

“A master’s degree,” he repeated slowly. “Okay, that’s a surprise.”

“Didn’t my father tell you anything about me?”

“No. And I didn’t ask.”

She was struck with a sensation that she had been dropped in the middle of a war zone, completely unarmed.

“You might as well come and see what you’ve gotten yourself into.” Again, she heard a hard note of satisfaction in his voice.

He turned and walked away from her, not even waiting to see if she would follow.

Used to having women follow him like puppies?

Not this woman!

“What about my car?” she asked.

He glanced back at her. “You picked a good place to crash it. Kind of like having a heart attack while visiting the hospital. I’ll limp it around to the service bay and have a look at it.”

Feeling somehow chastened by his offhand courtesy, she followed him inside. Going from sunlight to indoors, Jessie tried to get her bearings.

Her eyes adjusted and she saw the shop was as humble inside as it had been outside. There was no decor. The floor was black and white linoleum tile, the white squares long since gone to gray. A glass-fronted counter separated the work area from the customer waiting area. The case contained several models of old cars, a faded placard that announced the oil and filter change special and a sample container of the brand of oil that was presumably on sale. Both areas, waiting and work, contained old kitchen chairs, the gray-vinyl padded seats patched with black swatches of tape. The walls held an assortment of calendars, which featured cars, cars and more cars, but thankfully no nude or near-nude women.

The nicest thing about the entire space was a huge picture window that looked onto the main street of Farewell. The morning mist was lifting, and she could see K & B faced the town square—a lovely little park surrounded by a wrought iron fence. It contained several mature trees, green grass, two benches that faced each other and a fountain. In the near distance the mountains looked cool, green and mysterious.

But by the looks of things, she wasn’t going to be spending much time admiring the view. Every single surface had papers sliding off of them. There were boxes on the floor with yet more papers and what appeared to be stacks of car parts.

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” she said. The place was a dump. And depressing. The computer was at least a thousand years old. Somehow, even when confronted with the rather dingy exterior of the place, she had imagined she would be running a sleek, state-of-the-art office. She had talked herself into thinking it might be a tiny bit fun.

The phone, which was ringing incessantly, looked like an antique. Black, rotary dial. The red light of the answering machine was blinking furiously. From a door that connected the office to the service bays she heard clanking.

“A mistake,” she repeated. Jessica King did not do well with chaos.

It was a far cry from the neat little office she had set up in her apartment, from the order of classrooms, from the quiet of fieldwork….

“A mistake,” he agreed with silky satisfaction, folding his arms over the ridiculous breadth of his chest and looking at her, pleased that she had lived up to his every unspoken judgment: rich, useless, frivolous and chased away by the slightest hint of a challenge.

In less than ten seconds, too!

Jessie was compelled to wipe the smirk off his face, even if it meant she closed the escape door. She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she said, though of course a split second ago that had been exactly her intent, to cut and run. Aware he was watching her with every ounce of his ill humor returned, she looked for a place to set her purse. She found a tiny corner of clear floor under the desk. Her skirt tightened uncomfortably across her derriere when she bent over, and she straightened hurriedly.

“My specialty is disasters,” she said, with cocky confidence that she was far from feeling. “I can fix a mistake like this one—” she motioned to the office with her hand “—in a week.”

“A week,” he muttered dubiously, and then brightened marginally as he watched her. “Honey, if you last half a day, I’ll eat my shorts.”

“Briefs or boxers?” she asked. And then she added quickly, “And don’t call me honey. It’s tacky.”

“Tacky,” he repeated, stunned, as if one of those precariously leaning boxes had slid off the counter and landed on his toe. Thankfully, he focused on the tacky enough that he didn’t even appear to notice how uncomfortable she was with the uncharacteristically bold remark she had made. Talk about tacky—how about discussing a man’s underwear preference?

“Is there any particular part of this mess you’d like cleaned up first?” she said, eager to shift the focus completely.

They were faced off, and she could see she was somewhat of a surprise to him and not an altogether pleasant one, either.

Oh, why hadn’t she just turned around and walked back out the door while she still had the chance? Oh, no, Little Miss Has-To-Prove-Herself had to pick the worst moment to put in an appearance.

“Miss King, MBA, that’s entirely up to you.”

She should really correct him. She had never said a thing about an MBA. “Good,” she said decisively. “I’ll begin with—”

“No, wait. On second thought, coffee would be a good place to start.”

“Coffee,” she repeated uneasily. She was pretty sure affirmative action meant that she didn’t have to make coffee.