“What about you?” he asked as he set down two cups of coffee. “Were you ever a wild party girl?”

“No. Not that my mom would’ve cared if I’d gone out every night and got stinking drunk.”

Bran lifted his eyebrows. “Really?”

“In fact, she would’ve preferred it. Then we could’ve been drinking buddies and we would’ve had at least one thing in common.”

“You talkin’ before or after you moved here?”

“Before. Once my mom figured out I could enter pageants . . . well, then she wasn’t so embarrassed about me being a straight arrow. Drunk-and-disorderly charges are not exactly beauty pageant material, are they?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Sorta depends on the title you’re holding. Say you were crowned Miss Hulett during the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally? Them bikers would expect you to be tough enough to throw down shots with them.” His lips twitched behind his coffee mug. “And hot enough to look good wearing next to nothin’ riding on the back of a bike.”

Harper pointed at him with a piece of her doughnut. “Which is why I haven’t entered those types of contests.”

“What made you choose the ones you did enter?”

Should she hedge? Or be totally honest?

Bran backtracked. “Sorry. Ain’t my business. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“No. It’s okay. I’m just trying to figure out how to phrase this to my new boss without it coming out sounding greedy.” She took a drink of coffee. “The amount of prize money was generally the biggest reason to enter any contest.”

“So it wasn’t the sashes and trophies, and bein’ crowned the best-lookin’ girl in three counties with men drooling over you with lust that drew your entry?”

Lust? She almost snorted. “No. My mom never had a stable job. We never knew when she’d wanna pack up and leave. The prize money allowed me to buy my own car. Gave me a little stability. It also paid for college classes here and there.” How had they gotten off track? “So, did you go to college?”

“No.” Bran pointed at her cup. “Drink up. We’ve gotta get a move on.”

Talk about an abrupt subject change. Harper ate the last section of her doughnut. When she stood, Bran was right there.

The man smelled good. Warm with a hint of spicy aftershave. The skin on his cheeks and jaw was smooth, any shadow of his dark whiskers having been scraped away. His eyes were a deep gray, the color of a stormy summer sky. And his lips ... so full and soft-looking. She could lose herself in them, kissing and nibbling and tasting him for hours. She spied a tiny bit of powdered sugar on his upper lip, and she used the tips of her fingers to brush it away.

His breath caught and she met his eyes. His eyes darkened, then smoldered with liquid heat. A look she’d never seen before and certainly one never aimed in her direction. She swallowed the immediate punch of lust.

This man is your boss. No playing kissy face with him.

Somehow, even though Bran kept staring at her, she found her voice. “Umm. You had powdered sugar on your face.”

“Thanks.” As if he remembered he shouldn’t be standing so close, he sidestepped her. “Meet you at the truck.”

The day sped by—albeit almost in complete silence. Harper left the ranch, changed clothes at home, and hoofed it to her second job.

Nails, gossip, and Bernice lightened her mood—until an hour before quitting time when the front door chime jangled. They both glanced over to see Bran Turner stomping in. He didn’t look at Bernice, just made a beeline for Harper and got right in her face.

“What is the point of havin’ a cell phone if you don’t ever answer the damn thing?”

“I don’t answer it when I’m working, Bran.”

“No shit. I’ve been calling you for two hours.”

“So? You knew I had another job when you hired me. Now, what’s so all-fired important that you had to bust in here like an angry bull and chew me out in front of my boss?”

That question actually took Bran aback. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinkin’.” He sent Bernice a sheepish smile. “Miz Watson. I apologize for my rude behavior.”

“I’ll excuse it this one time, but you’d better offer up an apology to Harper too.”

“Sorry, Harper.” He didn’t look at her, focusing instead on Bernice. “Would it be possible for me to have a word with her?”

“Sure. I’ll be in the back.” Bernice walked between them, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in her wake.

Bran stared at Harper with that inscrutable gaze that gave no hint of what he was thinking.

“So? What’s got you running to town like a crazy man?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . things have gotten hectic since you left and I hoped you could come back to the ranch earlier than we’d talked about.”

“I’m free after my next appointment. Then I’ll have to go home and change, but I can be right out after that.”

“That’ll work. Thanks.” Bran’s gaze dropped, taking its own sweet time traveling up the span of her body, lingering on the curve of her hips, encased in a short khaki skirt, and the tight fit of her blue satin Western shirt across her br**sts. Finally his eyes caught hers and his wholly masculine appreciation, “Goddamn, you look good,” knocked the breath out of her lungs.

She fought a blush . . . and lost. “Thanks.”