Raye Morgan - The Hand-Picked Bride

His face said it all, but that was hardly necessary to interpret, because his words did the job on their own. “No way. This is a place of business. We can’t have kids running around.”

She smiled, almost relieved. “Then you won’t have me running around, either,” she said firmly, turning to go.

“Wait.” He stood in her way. “Now don’t be so hasty. Maybe we can work something out.”

She glanced into his eyes. There it was again, the sense that he was just a little too anxious to have her here. “There’s nothing to work out,” she said firmly. “Either Kevin comes with me or I don’t come. I won’t leave him with a baby-sitter. The most important thing I have to do with my life is to raise him. I won’t leave it to someone else.”

He looked pained, torn. “I don’t know how we can manage that. Insurance...safety considerations...”

Suddenly Michelle interposed herself with quiet dignity, one hand on Grant’s arm. “We’ll manage,” she said firmly, smiling at Jolene.

Grant looked at her and blinked. “We’ll manage?” he echoed.

She nodded. “Leave it to me,” she said.

He hesitated a moment, but something in Michelle’s eyes told him to agree or face the consequences. Smiling, he gave in. “We’ll manage,” he told Jolene with a disarming shrug. “Somehow.”

Jolene didn’t have time to marvel on the interplay between the two of them, and the influence the woman seemed to have over Grant. He grabbed her hand and started toward his office at the corner of the wide room.

“Come on, I want to sign you up before you have a chance to think of any other roadblocks.”

She had a quick glimpse of Michelle’s face and the distinct impression that the woman would have liked to have come along with them, but Grant moved quickly and made it pretty clear he wanted to be alone with Jolene for the moment. She hesitated at the door wondering what this woman knew that she didn’t—and should. But Grant still had hold of her hand and he tugged, pulling her into the office and shutting the door behind her.

“Sit down,” he told her, pointing to a chair across the desk from where he settled. “We should get to know each other.”

She sat gingerly on the edge of the chair. “I don’t know why,” she countered. “I’m not applying to be your friend. Just your pastry chef.”

He looked surprised, then laughed. “You got me there,” he conceded. “Okay, we’ll skip the chitchat and get right to business.” Glancing down at his desk, he began shuffling through paper.

Jolene looked him over as he worked. Today he had a challenging tilt to his chin and a rakish twinkle in his eyes, a tiny spark of impudent arrogance that was intriguing rather than annoying. He had all the confidence in the world around the female gender. It was obvious that most women found him utterly irresistible. But a sense of resolve made her raise an eyebrow. It was a good thing she wasn’t like most women.

Once he’d found the paper he was searching for, he sat back and looked at her, enjoying what he saw. Yes, she would be the perfect girl for Tony.

“I won’t keep you long,” he told her, tapping his pencil on the paper. “I just have a few questions.”

She crossed her legs and nodded. “Did you want me to fill out tax forms or...?”

He waved that away. “No, we won’t bother with that stuff yet. I just want to go over some questions with you.”

She nodded, perfectly willing. “All right.”

“Personal information,” he added, glancing at her and then down at the paper he had before him on the desk.

Something in his voice put her on notice. “What?”

Ignoring her question, he stared hard at the paper and began. “Uh, let’s see. Are you married?”

She frowned, uneasy and not sure why. “I think you know the answer to that one. My friend Mandy said you’d asked her.”

He looked up. “Mandy runs the pretzel machine?”

She nodded, her silvery eyes watching him steadily.

He smiled quickly and picked up his pen, jotting down a mark. “Okay. We’ll move on, then. Is the little boy—Kevin is his name, isn’t it? Is he your only child?”

She nodded again, and he made another mark on the paper.

“Are you seeing anyone special right now?”

Her frowned deepened and her suspicions grew. “What does that have to do with how well I can handle marzipan?” she asked him.

His smile was suave and reassuring. “Nothing. Nothing at all. These are just questions on a psychological profile. They mean nothing.”

She smelled a rat, but she had to admit, his smile was persuasive and she found herself on the verge of smiling back. “Then why bother with them?” she murmured.

He shrugged disarmingly. “Like I say, it’s a profile. We like to know what kind of people our employees are.” He tapped the desk with the pencil. “You didn’t answer the question. Are you seeing anyone special?” And his gaze held hers as though he would read more in her silver eyes than she would tell him with her lips.

Slowly, reluctantly, she shook her head.

He noted her reply on the paper and moved on, but his eyes were alight with satisfaction. “Okay. Now—would you say you’re the kind of woman who, uh, works best with a lot of people around, with light support and supervision, or on her own?”

She hesitated. This actually sounded like it might be a legitimate question for a profile. “I’d say probably somewhere between the last two,” she said, and he nodded.

“Would you say you’re the kind of woman who likes walks on a moonlight beach, a good game of tennis, or dancing the night away at nightclubs.”

They were swerving into suspicious territory again, but there was something about the sneaky way he was doing it that made her want to laugh.

“I’m the kind of woman who likes to stay home and play with my son,” she told him candidly. “And that’s about it.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Then how about this. Do you go for men of action, or the strong, silent type?”

Now she knew it was a hoax. How did he even have the nerve? “What?” she said, on the verge of laughter.

He spoke quickly as though he wanted to get his question in before she got up and walked out on him. “Okay, make it multiple choice. Would you prefer a man of action, the strong silent type, a sensitive poet, or the caring, compassionate and deeply loving, father of an eleven-year-old girl?”

She was shaking her head, holding back her laugh.

“Who happens to be very handsome and even funny, when you get him in the right mood,” he added, humor gleaming in his dark eyes.

The jig was up. She knew he wasn’t serious. He was going to ask her out, wasn’t he? And yet, she couldn’t help but be a little flattered by it. After all, he was a very attractive man. Still, she was going to have to set him straight.

“Now you sound like something on the dating game,” she told him, trying to be stern. “Bachelor number one or bachelor number two?” She threw up her hands. “Who cares? I’ll pick none of the above, thank you.” Her gaze met his calmly. “The truth is, I don’t date.”

Somehow he didn’t look convinced. “Never?”

She shook her head. “No, never.”

He leaned forward on the desk and gazed at her earnestly. “But what if you met that great guy with the daughter and you hit it off right away and—”

She frowned and broke into his question. “Listen, am I here for a job or is this all a ploy just to get a date?”

“A date?” He had the gall to look puzzled by her reaction. “Oh, wait. You think I...”

Yes, she did, and she’d decided it was time to put an end to this. Rising, she reached for her bag. “I’m sorry, but I won’t go out with you. And I would advise you to find a new pickup line. This one really stinks.”