‘I don’t need you to do the paperwork,’ Art asserted. ‘I’ve got a system.’
Ellie cast a critical eye over the mess on Art’s desk, more than ready to call in yesterday’s debt.
From the pile of order forms and invoices, the files stacked up in dusty towers on the windowsill, and the Excel spreadsheet open on the computer that hadn’t been updated since yesterday, it was obvious the man didn’t have the first clue what he was doing. Plus, there was his injured hand to consider. He couldn’t even hold a pen properly.
No wonder this job gave him a headache. It was giving her a headache just watching him struggle with it, hunched over his desk with all the enthusiasm of Bob Cratchit on Christmas morning.
She had hinted heavily during last night’s supper, but, true to form, Art hadn’t asked for her help. So she’d been forced to demand he take it.
And lo and behold, as soon as she had, she’d smacked straight into Art’s I-Don’t-Ask-For-Help-Because-I-Have-Testicles bollocks.
She fixed Art with her best Testicles-Be-Damned look. ‘What system is that exactly?’
She’d tried to bring it up subtly, because she knew male egos could be delicate things. But Art’s ego was clearly too stubborn to appreciate subtlety.
‘My. System.’
‘All right, and I don’t suppose the fact you can’t even hold a pen is going to interfere with your system?’ She whisked the sheet of paper he’d been slaving over when she’d walked in off the desk. ‘What exactly is this supposed to say?’ But, as she scanned the scrawl, she realised the atrocious handwriting wasn’t the only problem. ‘You can’t even spell.’
The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Art had once boasted about how he didn’t do school, and his ego had always seemed more than robust enough.
But when he grabbed the sheet back from her, she knew she’d embarrassed him. And she suspected it had nothing to do with his ego or his testicles, and everything to do with the fact he had some sort of learning difficulty. Because no matter how little schooling you’d had, no one forgot how to spell ‘the’.
‘Thanks for the observation,’ he said. ‘Now piss off.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t need your apology. I need you to piss off.’ He sounded mad now rather than embarrassed, which had to be a default position to salvage his pride.
‘Why are you in charge of the paperwork if you’re dyslexic?’
The look he sent her was one of deep suspicion. She supposed she deserved that. ‘I took it on because Dee asked me to do it when Pam died.’
So Dee had asked Art and Art had said yes, even though it was probably the very last job he would want to take on, because he had been here and Ellie hadn’t.
‘Does Dee know you have a learning difficulty?’ she asked, but of course she must know. Perhaps Dee didn’t realise how severe it was.
‘Stop making it sound like it’s a big deal. I’m managing OK. I know how to use spell check. I get Toto to read and double-check anything important. Being dyslexic doesn’t make me an imbecile.’
The flat tone made Ellie wonder how many times he’d had to defend his intelligence before. Probably hundreds. No wonder he’d never been a big fan of school.
‘But surely you could use some help? At least until your hand is healed?’
‘Why are you so keen to help me out with this shit?’ The suspicion was back.
‘Because it’s not shit to me. I love doing admin. Balancing budgets, organising schedules, managing overheads are my passion. While other women can have orgasms over a new pair of Jimmy Choos, I can have an orgasm over a balanced IRS return, or a fully itemised Excel spreadsheet.’
‘Jimmy who?’
‘Only the greatest shoe designer in the world ever,’ she said, waving away the ignorant comment. ‘I want to be useful while I’m here. And, as much as I’ve enjoyed doing kitchen chores with my mum and picking a billion strawberries, that’s not the best use of my skill set.’
‘Maybe you could feed the chickens?’
‘I don’t think so. One of the hens nearly pecked Josh to death yesterday. And animals tend to like him. They don’t tend to like me.’
‘Then I’ve got the perfect job, you could help Jacob set the rat traps in the back barn.’
‘No way!’ she shrieked, her skin crawling at the thought of being anywhere within a twenty-mile radius of a rat. She was about to tell him that when she noticed the sly tilt of his lips. ‘You sadist, you enjoyed that.’
He chuckled. ‘Maybe a bit.’
‘Now you’ve had your little joke, I should remind you that you owe me one.’
‘I wondered when you were going to bring that up,’ he said, but he was still smiling. Not just a sadist. But a smug one to boot. The bastard.
‘Don’t even make jokes about rats, it’s not funny.’
‘It is if you could have seen your face.’
‘Haha,’ she said, with a distinct lack of amusement. ‘I’m calling in the debt. You have an admin ninja in your midst and I’m going to force you to use her, unless you want to be a welcher.’
He laughed, the sound doing strange things to the muscles in her abdomen. He really was sinfully handsome. For a smug sadistic bastard. The pirate scruff on his face caused by his inability to shave only added to his rugged, bit-of-rough appeal.
‘All right, knock yourself out.’ He dumped the sheet of paper onto one of the many piles on his desk. ‘But only if you promise not to screw with my system.’
‘Absolutely not.’
She so was screwing with his screwy system. She could already feel the adrenaline charging through her veins at the thought of getting her hands on the stacks of files and turning the Manhattan skyline effect he had going on into something ordered and efficient and – oh, the joy of it – properly alphabetised. That delving into the farm’s accounts would also allow her to satisfy her curiosity about the project’s financial situation was just an added benefit.
‘And my debt to you is paid in full as of now,’ he added.
‘Understood.’
And not a problem, seeing how big he was going to owe her, once she’d finished ordering and alphabetising his rubbish system to within an inch of its life.