“That’s different. I’m the boss’s daughter, and there’s only one of me.”
Thank God. If another Angelina existed, he’d lose all hope for the world. “You’re not the boss’s daughter here.”
“I’m the boss’s sister-in-law.”
“Whatever. You want my help? The price is a hundred an hour, and if you call me ‘hand’ one more time, all deals are off.”
“Fine. Rafe, then.”
“How about Mr. Grayhawk?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am, Miss Bay.” Let’s see how she handles this one.
“Of course you should call me Miss Bay. I’m the boss and you’re the help.”
Help? Seriously? Normally he’d think twice about getting into it with his boss’s sister-in-law, but Chad McCray respected him and his work, and this little snot brought out the worst in him. “I obviously have something you want. I won’t deal with disrespect from anyone, especially not a flouncy ranch girl.”
Hands to hips again. Did she have two indentations there? “Girl? I happen to be thirty-two years old.”
Thirty-two? He’d have guessed her younger than his own age of twenty-five. The years had been kind to Miss Bay. She had the skin and body of a nineteen-year-old. She was a beauty. On the outside, at least.
“Thirty-two years old and acting like a spoiled brat? Grow up, Angelina.”
“Miss Bay.”
“Angelina. And you’ll call me Rafe. I hate Mr. Grayhawk.”
She tapped her foot on the barn floor. “It was your idea.”
“I was trying to make a point. You were being disrespectful.”
“I’m not used to being respectful to hands.”
“Well, get used to it. We’re people, just like you, and disrespect hurts us, just like it hurts you.” Though he doubted she’d ever experienced disrespect.
Her eyes widened—just a little, but he’d made her think. For a second, anyway.
“All right…Rafe. When can we start?”
“You got a horse?”
“Yes. Just bought her. A beautiful black mare named Belle.”
“Have her brought over by seven tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll see you tomorrow. Six a.m. sharp.”
This time when her hands flew to her hips her eyes turned to saucers. “Six a.m.? Sorry. I don’t do the crack of dawn.”
Rafe shook his head. “And you expect to own your father’s ranch someday? Do you have any idea what time he gets up? Chad and Catie are up before five every morning.”
“I’m not Catie.”
She was right about that. Did the two of them really come from the same gene pool? The physical evidence was there, but little else.