Honeymoon With the Rancher

He’d expected her to heave a sigh of relief and take him up on his offer, not challenge him. He wasn’t sure whether he admired her spunk or was frustrated by it.

But time would tell. Let her enjoy her home-cooked meal and scented bath tonight. Tomorrow would be a different story.

What to wear was definitely a quandary.

Sophia went through the open suitcase one more time, looking for something suitable. Clothing lay scattered on the bed like seaweed on a sea of blue linen. She checked her watch. Tomas had said breakfast at seven sharp, and it was already quarter past. Being late gave him even more ammunition. There had to be something here she could wear!

She held up a pair of trousers the shade of dark caramel and frowned. The only shoes she had that would match were the Jimmy Choo sandals she’d bought on sale during her last trip across the border. Why hadn’t she thought to bring something more casual? A pair of sneakers. Yoga pants. But no, the only exercise wardrobe she’d packed was her swimsuits, thinking she’d be spending time beside the pool. Perhaps relaxing in a sauna. She looked in despair at the flotsam of clothes on the bedspread.

How could she have been so stupid?

Seven twenty-five. She was so late. She remembered the way Tomas had looked at her last night and felt anger flow through her veins as she sifted through her suitcase again. He’d been patronizing. Granted, she hadn’t made the best impression, and yes, she’d been shocked. She grabbed a sundress out of her second open case and pulled it over her head, out of time for further deliberation. For the last three years she’d been treated that way. She hadn’t realized it then, but looking back now it was so very clear. She’d been more of a decoration than someone useful. That kind of treatment stopped today. It stopped with Tomas Mendoza and his superior attitude. If it took eating a little humble pie for breakfast, she’d do it.

She hurried down the hall to the kitchen. The smell in the room was to die for. A covered basket sat on the table and she lifted the towel. The rolls were still warm, soft and fragrant. Bread? He’d made bread?

She paused, her hand on the plate left at the place where she’d sat last night. She tried to picture Antoine making bread in the morning. The very idea was preposterous. He wouldn’t even have made pastry out of one of those cans in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. Heck, Sophia had never made bread from scratch in her life.

The breakfast was completed with a bowl of fresh fruit and coffee waiting in the pot, hot and rich.

She’d missed mealtime, and the thought stole the smile from her face. She’d have to eat quickly and then find Tomas. Showing up late was not the way to get off on the right foot. Hurriedly she buttered a roll and poured a half cup of coffee. When she was done she put her plate in the sink and the platter of fruit back in the fridge. She went outside, feeling the warmth of the morning soak into her skin as she searched for Tomas. She nearly ran into him turning a corner towards the outbuildings at the back.

“Oh!” she gasped, stopping short and nearly staggering backwards. She would have if he hadn’t steadied her with a quick hand on her arm. His warm grip sent a shaft of pure pleasure down to her fingertips. He let her go as soon as she was stable and dropped his hand.

“I see you’re up.”

“Yes, I’m sorry I’m late. I slept so well…” She would sweeten him up. She would let him know his garrulousness didn’t get to her. “My bed is very comfortable.”

“Apparently.”

The pleasure went out of Sophia like air from a balloon. But she wouldn’t give up yet. She’d kill him with kindness if that’s what it took. “The rolls were still warm. Did you make them?”

He stood back, looking at her as if he were measuring and finding her wanting. “Yes, I did. Maria showed me how long ago. When she returns you’ll have real cooking, not my second-rate impression of it.”

“I wouldn’t call your cooking second-rate. The stew last night was delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

The politeness was a cold veneer, meaning little when she felt it wasn’t sincere.

“So what did I miss?”

“Today’s activity,” he remarked dryly, and swept out an arm.

Behind them was a utility shed. Beside it were supplies for painting—a large bucket of paint, two smaller cans and brushes.

“Painting?” This was a vacation. Shouldn’t there be guided tours? Even without the pool and other amenities, shed painting was hardly a unique Argentinian experience.

He shrugged. “You did say you were prepared to surprise me. So here we are. It needs to be done.”

He was trying to get the best of her. She was sure of it. He was planning on pushing her until she quit. But she would not be dismissed. She smiled, quite enjoying the liberating feeling of making up her own mind. If Tomas said paint, she’d paint.

Just not in a sundress and heels.

“I’ll need a change of clothes. I’m afraid I came unprepared for painting.”

He shrugged again and headed towards the paint supplies.

“Señor Mendoza!”