Want Me, Cowboy

Even back when he’d been with Rosalind he’d thought there was something...indefinable about Poppy. Special.

She made him feel... He didn’t know. A little more grounded. Or maybe it was just because she treated him differently than most people did.

Either way, she was irreplaceable to him. In the running of his business, Poppy was his barometer. The way he got the best read on a situation. She did his detail work flawlessly. Handled everything he didn’t like so he could focus on what he was good at.

She was absolutely, 100 percent, the most important asset to him at the company.

He would have to tell her that sometime. Maybe buy her another pearl necklace. Though, last time he’d done that she had gotten angry at him. But she wore it. She was wearing it today, in fact.

“They’re right,” she said finally.

“About?”

“The fact that you’re insane.”

“I think I’m sane enough.”

“Of course you do. Actually—” she let out a long, slow breath “—I don’t think you’re insane. But, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why?”

“This is really how you want to find a wife? In a way that’s this...impersonal?”

“What are my other options? I have to meet someone new, go through the process of dating... She’ll expect a courtship of some kind. We’ll have to figure out what we have in common, what we don’t have in common. This way, it’s all out in the open. That’s more straightforward.”

“Maybe you deserve better than that,” she said, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.

“Maybe this is better for me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”

“When it comes to matters of business, there’s no one I trust more than you. But you’re going to have to trust that I know what will work best in my own life.”

“It’s not what I want for you.”

A strange current arced between them when she spoke those words, a spark in her brown eyes catching on something inside him.

“I appreciate your concern.”

“Yes,” she echoed. “My concern.”

“We have work to do. And you have wife applications to sort through.”

“Right,” she said.

“Preference will be given to blondes,” he said.

Poppy blinked and then reached up slowly, touching her own dark hair. “Of course.”

And then she turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

Isaiah hadn’t expected to receive quite so many responses to his ad. Perhaps, in the end, Poppy had been right about her particular tactic with the wording. It had certainly netted what felt to him to be a record number of responses.

Though he didn’t actually know how many women had responded to his brother’s personal ad.

He felt only slightly competitive about it, seeing as it would be almost impossible to do a direct comparison between his and Joshua’s efforts. Their father had placed an ad first, making Joshua sound undoubtedly even nicer than Poppy had made Isaiah sound.

Thereafter, Joshua had placed his own ad, which had offered a fake marriage and hefty compensation.

Isaiah imagined that a great many more women would respond to that.

But he didn’t need quantity. He just needed quality.

And he believed that existed.

It had occurred to him at Joshua and Danielle’s wedding that there was no reason a match couldn’t be like math. He believed in marriage; it was romance he had gone off of.

Or rather, the kind of romance he had experience with.

Obviously, he couldn’t dispute the existence of love. His parents were in love, after all. Forty years of marriage hadn’t seemed to do anything to dampen that. But then, he was not like his mother. And he wasn’t like his father. Both of them were warm people. Compassionate. And those things seemed to come easily to them.

Isaiah was a black-and-white man living in a world filled with shades of gray. He didn’t care for those shades, and he didn’t like to acknowledge them.

But he wasn’t an irrational man. Not at all.

Yet he’d been irrational once. Five years with Rosalind and they had been the best of his life. At least, he had thought so at the time.

Then she had betrayed him, and nearly destroyed everything.

Or rather, he had.

Which was all he had needed to learn about what happened to him and his instincts under the influence of love.

He’d been in his twenties then, and it had been easy to ignore the idea that his particular set of practices when it came to relationships meant he would be spending his life without a partner. But now he was in his thirties, and that reality was much more difficult to ignore. When he’d had to think about the future, he hadn’t liked the idea of what he was signing himself up for.

So, he had decided to change it. That was the logical thing to do when you found yourself unhappy with where you were, after all. A change of circumstances was not beyond his reach. And so, he was reaching out to grab it.

Which was why Poppy was currently on interview number three with one of the respondents to his ad. Isaiah had insisted that anyone responding to the ad come directly to Copper Ridge to be interviewed. Anyone who didn’t take the ad seriously enough to put in a personal appearance was not worthy of consideration, in his opinion.

He leaned back in his chair, looking at the neat expanse of desk in front of him. Everything was in its place in his office, as it always was. As it should be. And soon, everything in his personal life would be in place too.

Across the hall, the door to Poppy’s office opened and a tall, willowy blonde walked out. She was definitely his type in the physical sense, and the physical mattered quite a bit. Emotionally, he might be a bit detached, but physically, everything was functioning. Quite well, thank you.

In his marriage-math equation, sex was an important factor.

He intended to be faithful to his wife. There was really no point in making a lifelong commitment without fidelity.

Because of that, it stood to reason that he should make sure he chose in accordance with his typical physical type.

By the time he finished that thought process the woman was gone, and Poppy appeared a moment later. She was glaring down the hall, looking both disheveled and generally irritated. He had learned to recognize her moods with unerring accuracy. Mostly because it was often a matter of survival. Poppy was one of the few people on earth who wasn’t intimidated by him. He should be annoyed by that. She was his employee, and ought to be a bit more deferential than she was.

He didn’t want her to be, though. He liked Poppy. And that was a rarity in his world. He didn’t like very many people. Because most people were idiots.

But not her.

Though, she looked a little bit like she wanted to kill him at the moment. When her stormy, dark eyes connected with his across the space, he had the fleeting thought that a lesser man would jump up and run away, leaving his boots behind.

Isaiah was not that man.

He was happy to meet her. Steel-capped toe to pointy-toed stiletto.

“She was stupid,” Poppy pronounced.

He lifted a brow. “Did you give her an IQ test?”

“I’m not talking about her intelligence,” Poppy said, looking fierce. “Though, the argument could be made that any woman responding to this ad...”

“Are you about to cast aspersions on my desirability?”

“No,” she said. “I cast those last week, if you recall. It would just be tiresome to cast them again.”

“Why is she stupid?” he pressed.

“Because she has no real concept of what you need. You’re a busy man, and you live in a rural...area. You’re not going to be taking her out to galas every night. And I know she thought that because you’re a rich man galas were going to be part of the deal. But I explained to her that you only go to a certain number of business-oriented events a year, and that you do so grudgingly. That anyone hanging on your arm at such a thing would need to be polished, smiling, and, in general, making up for you.”

He spent a moment deciding if he should be offended by that or not. He decided not to be. Because she was right. He knew his strengths and his limitations.

“She didn’t seem very happy about those details. And that is why I’m saying she’s stupid. She wants to take this...job, essentially. A job that is a life sentence. And she wants it to be about her.”

He frowned. “Obviously, this marriage is not going to be completely about me. I am talking about a marriage and not a position at the company.” Though, he supposed he could see why she would be thinking in those terms. He had placed an ad with strict requirements. And he supposed, as a starting point, it was about him.

“Is that true, Isaiah? Because I kind of doubt it. You don’t want a woman who’s going to inconvenience you.”

“I’m not buying a car,” he said.

“Aren’t you?” She narrowed her eyes, her expression mean.

“No. I realize that.”

“You’re basically making an arranged marriage for yourself.”

“Consider it advanced online dating,” he said. “With a more direct goal.”

“You’re having your assistant choose a wife for you.” She enunciated each word as if he didn’t understand what he’d asked of her.

Her delicate brows locked together, and her mouth pulled into a pout. Though, she would undoubtedly punch him if he called it a pout.

In a physical sense, Poppy was not his type at all. She was not tall, or particularly leggy, though she did often wear high heels with her 1950s housewife dresses. She was petite, but still curvy, her hair dark and curly, and usually pulled back in a loose, artfully pinned bun that allowed tendrils to slowly make their escape over the course of the day.

She was pretty, in spite of the fact that she wasn’t the type of woman he would normally gravitate toward.

He wasn’t sure why he was just now noticing that. Perhaps it was the way the light was filtering through the window now. Falling across her delicately curved face. Her mahogany skin with a bit of rose color bleeding across her cheeks. In this instance, he had a feeling the color was because she was angry. But, it was lovely nonetheless.

Her lips were full—pouty or not—and the same rose color as her cheeks.

“I don’t understand your point,” he said, stopping his visual perusal of her.

“I’m just saying you’re taking about as much of a personal interest in finding a wife as someone who was buying a car.”

He did not point out that if he were buying a car, he would take it for a test drive, and that he had not suggested doing anything half so crass with any of the women who’d come to be interviewed.

“How many more women are you seeing today?” he asked, deciding to bypass her little show of indignation.

“Three more,” she said.

There was something in the set of her jaw, in the rather stubborn, mulish look on her face that almost made him want to ask a question about what was bothering her.

But only almost.

“Has my sister sent through cost estimates for her latest design?” he asked.

Poppy blinked. “What?”

“Faith. Has she sent through her cost estimates? I’m going to end up correcting them anyway, but I like to see what she starts with.”

“I’m well aware of the process, Isaiah,” Poppy said. “I’m just surprised that you moved on from wife interviews to your sister’s next design.”

“Why would you be surprised by that? The designs are important. They are, in fact, why I am a billionaire.”

“Yes. I know,” Poppy said. “Faith’s talent is a big reason why we’re all doing well. Believe me, I respect the work. However, the subject change seems a bit abrupt.”

“It is a workday.”

Deep brown eyes narrowed in his direction. “You’re really something else, do you know that?”

He did. He always had. The fact that she felt the need to question him on it didn’t make much sense to him.

“Yes,” he responded.

Poppy stamped.

She stamped her high-heel-clad foot like they were in a black-and-white movie.

“No, she hasn’t sent it through,” Poppy said.

“You just stomped your foot at me.”

She flung her arms wide. “Because you were just being an idiot at me.”

“I don’t understand you,” he said.

“I don’t need you to understand me.” Her brow furrowed.

“But you do need me to sign your paychecks,” he pointed out. “I’m your boss.”

Then, all the color drained from her cheeks. “Right. Of course. I do need that. Because you’re my boss.”

“I am.”

“Just my boss.”

“I’ve been your boss for the past decade,” he pointed out, not quite sure why she was being so spiky.

“Yes,” she said. “You have been my boss for the past decade.”

Then, she turned on her heel and walked back into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

And Isaiah went back to his desk.

He had work to do. Which was why he had given Poppy the task of picking him a wife. But before he chased Faith down for those estimates, he was going to need some caffeine. He sent a quick text to that effect to Poppy.

There was a quick flash of three dots at the bottom of the message box, then they disappeared.

It popped up again, and disappeared again. Then finally there was a simple: of course.

He could only hope that when he got his coffee it wasn’t poisoned.

* * *

Three hours and three women later, Poppy was wishing she had gone with her original instinct and sent the middle finger emoji to Isaiah in response to his request for coffee.

This was too much. It would be crazy for anyone to have their assistant pick their wife—a harebrained scheme that no self-respecting personal assistant should have to cope with. But for her especially, it was a strange kind of emotional torture. She had to ask each woman questions about their compatibility with Isaiah. And then, she had to talk to them about Isaiah. Who she knew better than she knew any other man on the face of the earth. Who she knew possibly better than she knew anyone else. And all the while his words rang in her ears.

I’m your boss.

She was his employee.

And that was how he saw her. It shouldn’t surprise her that no-nonsense, rigid Isaiah thought of her primarily as his employee. She thought of him as her friend.

Her best friend. Practically family.

Except for the part of her that was in love with him and had sex dreams about him sometimes.

Though, were she to take an afternoon nap today, her only dreams about Isaiah would involve her sticking a pen through his chest.

Well, maybe not his chest. That would be fatal. Maybe his arm. But then, that would get ink and blood on his shirt. She would have to unbutton it and take it off him...

Okay. Maybe she was capable of having both dreams at the same time.

“Kittens are my hard line,” the sixth blonde of the day was saying to her. All the blondes were starting to run together like boxes of dye in the hair care aisle.

“I...” Poppy blinked, trying to get a handle on what that meant. “Like... Sexually... Or?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “I mean, I need to be able to have a kitten. That’s nonnegotiable.”

Poppy was trying to imagine Isaiah Grayson with a kitten living in his house. He had barn cats. And he had myriad horses and animals at his ranch, but he did not have a kitten. Though, because he already had so many animals, it was likely that he would be okay with one more.

“I will... Make a note of that.”

“Oh,” the woman continued. “I can also tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue.”

Poppy closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to not run out of the room and hit Isaiah over the head with a wastebasket. “I assume I should mark that down under special skills.”

“Men like that,” the woman said.

Well, maybe that was why Poppy had such bad luck with men. She couldn’t do party tricks with her tongue. In fairness, she’d never tried.

“Good to know,” Poppy continued.

Poppy curled her hands into fists and tried to keep herself from... She didn’t even know what. Screaming. Running from the room.

One of these women who she interviewed today might very well be the woman Isaiah Grayson slept with for the rest of his life. The last woman he ever slept with. The one who made him completely and totally unavailable to Poppy forever.

The one who finally killed her fantasy stone-cold.

She had known that going in. She had. But suddenly it hit her with more vivid force.

I am your boss.

Her boss. Her boss. He was her boss. Not her friend. Not her lover. Never her lover.

Maybe he didn’t see his future wife as a new car he was buying. But he basically saw Poppy as a stapler. Efficient and useful only when needed.

“Well, I will be in touch,” Poppy stated crisply.

“Why are you interviewing all the women? Is this like a sister wives thing?”

Poppy almost choked. “No. I am Mr. Grayson’s assistant. Not his wife.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Lola continued. “It’s always seemed efficient to me. Somebody to share the workload of kids and housework. Well, and sex.”

“Not. His. Wife.” Poppy said that through clenched teeth.

“He should consider that.”

She tightened her hold on her pen, and was surprised she didn’t end up snapping it in half. “Me as his wife?”

“Sister wives.”

“I’ll make a note,” Poppy said drily.

Her breath exited her body in a rush when Lola finally left, and Poppy’s head was swimming with rage.

She had thought she could do this. She had been wrong. She had been an idiot.

I am your boss.

He was her boss. Because she worked for him. Because she had worked for him for ten years. Ten years.

Why had she kept this job for so long? She had job experience. She also had a nest egg. The money was good, she couldn’t argue that, but she could also go get comparable pay at a large company in a city, and she now had the experience to do that. She didn’t have to stay isolated here in Copper Ridge. She didn’t have to stay with a man who didn’t appreciate her.

She didn’t have to stay trapped in this endless hell of wanting something she was never going to have.

No one was keeping her here. Nothing was keeping her here.

Nothing except the ridiculous idea that Isaiah had feelings for her that went beyond that of his assistant.

Friends could be friends in different cities. They didn’t have to live in each other’s pockets. Even if he had misspoken and he did see them as friends—and really, now that she was taking some breaths, she imagined that was closer to the truth—it was no excuse to continue to expose herself to him for twelve hours a day.

He was her business life. He was her social life. He was her fantasy life. That was too much for one man. Too much.

She walked into his office, breathing hard, and he looked up from his computer screen, his gray eyes assessing. He made her blood run hotter. Made her hands shake and her stomach turn over. She wanted him. Even now. She wanted to launch herself across the empty space and fling herself into his arms.

No. It had to stop.

“I quit,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a glorious triumph.

But then they hit.

Hit him, hit her. And she knew she could take them back. Maybe she should.

No. She shouldn’t.

“You quit?”

“It should not be in my job description to find you a wife. This is ludicrous. I just spent the last twenty minutes talking to a woman who was trying to get me to add the fact that she could tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue onto that ridiculous, awful form of yours underneath her ‘skills.’”

He frowned. “Well, that is a skill that might have interesting applications...”

“I know that,” she said. “But why am I sitting around having a discussion with a woman that is obviously about your penis?”

Her cheeks heated, and her hands shook. She could not believe she had just... Talked about his penis. In front of him.

“I didn’t realize that would be a problem.”

“Of course you didn’t. Because you don’t realize anything. You don’t care about anything except the bottom line. That’s all you ever see. You want a wife to help run your home. To help organize your life. By those standards I have been your damned wife for the past ten years, Isaiah Grayson. Isn’t that what you’re after? A personal assistant for your house. A me clone who can cook your dinner and...and...do wife things.”

He frowned, leaning back in his chair.

He didn’t speak, so she just kept going. “I quit,” she repeated. “And you have to find your own wife. I’m not working with you anymore. I’m not dealing with you anymore. You said you were my boss. Well, you’re not now. Not anymore.”

“Poppy,” he said, his large, masculine hands pressing flat on his desk as he pushed himself into a standing position. She looked away from his hands. They were as problematic as the rest of him. “Be reasonable.”

“No! I’m not going to be reasonable. This situation is so unreasonable it isn’t remotely fair of you to ask me to be reasonable within it.”

They just stayed there for a moment, regarding each other, and then she slowly turned away, her breath coming in slow, harsh bursts.

“Wait,” he said.

She stopped, but she didn’t turn. She could feel his stare, resting right between her shoulder blades, digging in between them. “You’re right. What I am looking for is a personal version of you. I hadn’t thought about it that way until just now. But I am looking for a PA. In all areas of my life.”

An odd sensation crept up the back of her neck, goose bumps breaking out over her arms. Still, she fought the urge to turn.

“Poppy,” he said slowly. “I think you should marry me.”

Three

When Poppy turned around to face him, her expression was still. Placid. He wasn’t good at reading most people, but he knew Poppy. She was expressive. She had a bright smile and a stormy frown, and the absence of either was...concerning.

“Excuse me?”

“You said yourself that what I need is someone like you. I agree. I’ve never been a man who aims for second best. So why would I aim for second best in this instance? You’re the best personal assistant I’ve ever had.”

“I doubt you had a personal assistant before you had me,” she said.

“That’s irrelevant,” he said, waving a hand. “I like the way we work together. I don’t see why we couldn’t make it something more. We’re good partners, Poppy.”

Finally, her face moved. But only just the slightest bit. “We’re good partners,” she echoed, the words hollow.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “We are. We always have been. You’ve managed to make seamless transitions at every turn. From when we worked at a larger construction firm, to when we were starting our own. When we expanded, to when we merged with Jonathan Bear. You’ve followed me every step of the way, and I’ve been successful in part because of the confidence I have that you’re handling all the details that I need you to.”

“And you think I could just... Do that at your house too?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“There’s one little problem,” Poppy said, her cheeks suddenly turning a dark pink. She stood there just staring for a moment, and the color in her face deepened. It took her a long while to speak. “The problem being that a wife doesn’t just manage your kitchen. That is a housekeeper.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“A wife is supposed to...” She looked down, a pink blush continuing to bleed over her dark skin. “You don’t feel that way about me.”

“Feel what way? You know my desire to get married has nothing to do with love and romance.”

“Sex.” The word was like a mini explosion in the room. “Being a wife does have something to do with sex.”