CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Amber~
“You’re the answer to a prayer,” Amber told Lance. “Just let me get my coat and boots.”
Lance usually walked to work. But today he had brought his pickup as if he had always meant to give her a lift. He gave Amber his arm as gallantly as if they were going on a date and she was wearing something soft and feminine instead of her grubby work clothes. He opened the passenger door for her and gave her a bit of a boost onto the high seat.
“I was just wondering what I was going to do about lunch when you showed up,” she remarked.
“Around about lunchtime, I realized I hadn’t seen you all morning. I had to ask around. Carlos said you were working in the office.”
“I’m typing up those notes I took on Bluefield’s labor reports.”
“That’s what Carlos said. But I got to thinking that the ground had turned to gumbo. And here I am.”
“And very glad I am to see you too. What are you going to feed me?”
“Well there’s the thing of it, I’ve asked you to lunch, but I was hoping you would do the cooking.”
“What have you got?” Amber asked doubtfully.
“The usual. Stale bread, balona, couple of cans of tuna.”
Amber concealed a shudder. “I’ll see what I can cobble together,” she said good-humoredly.
“I’m sure it will be better than anything I’ve ever made. I do my best, but I’ll never make a cook.”
Fortunately, Lance’s refrigerator and pantry were not quite as bare as he had made out. With the tuna, cream of mushroom soup and noodles Amber found, she whipped up a tuna casserole. “If you had a little cheese,” she said, “With a couple of those slices of bread, I could make a topping.”
Lance smugly opened his freezer and took out tub of breadcrumbs and a package of frozen, grated mozzarella. “Will this do?”
“Just dandy.” By the time his toaster oven pinged to let her know it was hot enough, Amber was ready to slide the flat oven-proof dish under the broiler. “This won’t take more than a couple of minutes to brown and heat through. And then we can eat.”
Lance was busy at the sink washing up the things she had used to prepare the casserole. Amber began to open drawers. “Where do you keep your cutlery?” she asked.
“In here.” He angled his chin to a bank of drawers. “Top drawer.”
She laid the table, the timer beeped, and she took out the bubbling dish. Lance looked at the browned and crispy casserole as if he had never seen anything more beautiful. He hurried to put a potholder on the table to protect the surface.
It wasn’t fancy. But she hadn’t had much time or much choice in materials. But it was hot and filling, and Lance seemed deeply appreciative. He ate with the hearty appetite of a man who had been doing manual labor all day, and gave her so many compliments that she feared she was blushing.
“It’s just tuna casserole,” she protested. But his praise made even her chilly toes feel warm.
“It’s a lifesaver. I can’t tell you how tired I am of fried baloney sandwiches.”
“Nothing wrong with fried baloney sandwiches. Maybe you’re trying to make things that are too fancy?” Amber suggested.
Lance shook his head. “Only if you think that fried eggs are fancy. You never saw anything so hard and inedible. Whenever I think of those burritos you made me.” His voice trailed off.
“I’ll have to ask you to breakfast then,” she offered.
“I’d like that. I’m so tired of my own cooking.” He winked at her and passed his plate for seconds.
It was such a low-key, homey, ordinary meal. Amber enjoyed it thoroughly. It was extraordinarily pleasant to sit and make ordinary conversation about ordinary things while eating the most ordinary of everyday meals. And it was just as pleasant to clean up the kitchen afterward so they could rush back to work, as if they did this every day and had for years.
It felt ordinary too when she turned around from hanging up the dish towel to find his arms waiting for her. His kiss felt like coming home, even though the buzz it gave her was not the least bit ordinary.
“You know what?” Lance asked, “we should go to the grocery store together. I’d sure like it if you made me lunch every day.”
“That could be arranged,” Amber said happily.
He dropped her back at the office. She was putting her boots back on the tray when she noticed Calvin’s size seventeens dripping beside Rhonda’s miraculously clean and dainty pair. The inner door opened. His voice boomed, “Where the hell have you been?”
Rhonda’s chortle could have been heard by ears less sensitive than Amber and Calvin’s. His face flushed and his mouth closed with an audible snap. Amber took her time arranging her boots, slipped her feet back into Laura’s shoes, and straightened.
Calvin had swapped his jeans and scuffed cowboy boots for a western cut suit and a bolo tie. Fancy.
“I went to lunch,” she said mildly. “Why?”
She was beginning to enjoy herself. It had belatedly dawned on her that the bear tracks Lance had followed had been made by Calvin. What was going on? It hardly seemed likely that Calvin Bascom, billionaire connoisseur of fashionable blondes, had taken a shine to simple Amber Dupré from the backwater of French Town.
“I came to take you up to the main house,” he said through his teeth. “I thought to save you a walk through the mud. And I figured you’d like to meet Laura’s babies.”
“I wish I had known,” she lied, edging past him into the office. “Hey, Rhonda,” she murmured politely.
“Are you finished with that report yet?” growled Calvin.
“First draft is done,” Amber returned crisply. “I should be finished in about an hour.”
“Let me see what you’ve got,” he said. “No sense in editing it if it isn’t what we need.”
“Of course.” She used her sweetest voice. The one she reserved for the crankiest of the old guard who were sure a damfool female looking up their Miller’s Hardware order on a computer would land them with exactly the wrong piece of hardware.
She pulled up the file and opened it. And stood. “I’ll just put the coffee on,” she said.
Rhonda seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. She wheezed and bent over her computer. But Amber saw her lips twitching. Apparently Calvin was acting completely out of character. Pudgy Amber Dupré must have charms that had become apparent only in the crisp Colorado air.
Her socks were dry. She detoured on the way back to her work station to cram them into the pocket of her parka.
“What have you got there?” demanded Calvin sharply.
“My socks. They were drying on the rack in the bathroom.” She used her soothing cranky old men voice again. Did he think she was stealing some of the office supplies?
Calvin’s jaw developed a tic. “This is exactly right.” He was going to need crowns if he didn’t stop grinding his teeth. Of course, he could afford expensive dental work.
“I’ll just look it over and clean it up. Do you want me to send it to Laura’s email?”
Her task chair rose six inches when he stood. “Better send it to mine. Rhonda will know. I’m going into Laura’s office to update the breeding stats. Let me know when the Brewsters arrive.”
His suit and alligator skin boots were explained. He was going to show prospective clients around the stud, to sell them on putting their mares to stud. Owners were always rich – horses were an expensive hobby – and needed to be reassured by the appearance of wealth. And this down-at-heels office sure wasn’t going to do it.
“I forgot,” Rhonda said. “They called and rescheduled. They won’t be here until three.”
“Danged clients. Why do they think I specified 1:30? They are going to be tripping over evening stables.”
“The customer is always right.” Rhonda reminded him.
“I know.” Calvin’s voice was resigned. “And they are likely to send both their mares here next year when they see last year’s crop of foals. But I don’t know how Laura stands it.”
“She likes talking horses,” Rhonda said dryly. “I’ll tell Carlos the new time and you can tag team the Brewsters.”
Calvin grunted and went into Laura’s office. Amber returned to double-checking her data and fixing typos. She thought of a different configuration that made the data easier to understand and made the changes. Color? Just a little to make the chart stand out. She was so absorbed that when Calvin bellowed she deleted an entire line of numbers.
He stalked into the outer office. “Rhonda, Laura’s going to kill me. I just wiped out six months of breeding records, and I don’t even know how. Is there a backup?”
Rhonda looked grave. “Sure. On the cloud and on her hard drive. But I don’t know how to access that material.” She hurried into the office and she and Calvin continued an anguished conversation.
Amber couldn’t see what all the fuss was about if they had two copies. She fixed her mistake and saved her report. Sent it to Rhonda as a read-only file and leaned back to listen to the low-voiced argument. At least Rhonda’s voice was low. Calvin sounded like a bull moose in pain.