And then there was that other matter.
And so she waited.
“You look awfully confident,” he said.
“Oh I am.”
He laid down his cards, that handsome mouth turning upward into a smile.
The smile of a man who had never lost much of anything in his life.
Oh how she would enjoy showing him what a foolish mistake that smile was.
Because not only had he lost. He had lost to her. A woman at least ten years younger than him, a woman she knew he didn’t think of as wise. A woman she knew he thought of as not much of anything special.
He’d made that clear the few times they’d seen each other since they’d become kind of, sort of family.
Dismissive. Obnoxious.
“I hate to be a cliché. But read ’em and weep, cowboy.”
* * *
Cricket Maxfield had a hell of a hand. And her confidence made that clear. Poor little thing didn’t think she needed a poker face if she had a hand that could win.
But he knew better.
She was sitting there with his hat on her head, oversized and over her eyes, and an unlit cigar in her mouth.
A mouth that was disconcertingly red tonight, as she had clearly conceded to allowing her sister Emerson to make her up for the occasion. That bulky, fringed leather jacket should have looked ridiculous, but over that red dress, cut scandalously low, giving a tantalizing wedge of scarlet along with pale, creamy cleavage, she was looking not ridiculous at all.
And right now, she was looking like far too much of a winner.
Lucky for him, around the time he’d escalated the betting, he’d been sure she would win.
He’d wanted her to win.
“I guess that makes you my ranch hand,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m a very good boss.”
Now, Jackson did not want a boss. Not at his job, and not in his bedroom. But her words sent a streak of fire through his blood. Not because he wanted her in charge. But because he wanted to show her what a boss looked like.
Cricket was...
A nuisance. If anything.
That he had any awareness of her at all was problematic enough. Much less that he had any awareness of her as a woman. But that was just because of what she was wearing. The truth of the matter was, Cricket would turn back into the little pumpkin she usually was once this evening was over and he could forget all about the fact that he had ever been tempted to look down her dress during a game of cards.
“Oh, I’m sure you are, sugar.”
“I’m your boss. Not your sugar.”
“I wasn’t aware that you winning me in a game of cards gave you the right to tell me how to talk.”
“If I’m your boss, then I definitely have the right to tell you how to talk.”
“Seems like a gray area to me.” He waited for a moment, let the word roll around on his tongue, savoring it so he could really, really give himself all the anticipation he was due. “Sugar.”
“We’re going to have to work on your attitude. You’re insubordinate.”
“Again,” he said, offering her a smile. “I don’t recall promising a specific attitude.”
There was activity going on around him. The small crowd watching the game was cheering, enjoying the way this rivalry was playing out in front of them. He couldn’t blame them. If the situation wasn’t at his expense, then he would have probably been smirking and enjoying himself along with the rest of the audience, watching the idiot who had lost to the little girl with the cigar.
He might have lost the hand, but he had a feeling he’d win the game.
And it was hardly dirty poker. Cricket had started it, after all.
She was in over her head, and he knew it.
When he’d heard that James Maxfield owned the property next to his, Jackson had figured he’d swoop in and buy it now that ownership of the man’s properties had reverted to his family. But then Cricket had grandly taken control of the land—with great proclamation, per Jackson’s brother, that she was going to be a rancher.
But Jackson knew there was no way in hell Cricket had the chops to start and run a ranch. It was hard enough when you had experience. She had none. And he knew she had some of her dad’s money, but it wasn’t going to be an endless well.
She was out of her league.
And a month spent as her ranch hand was more than enough time to show her that.
“Also, you should bring my pony,” she said.
She was placated by the pony. He was going to end up getting that pony back. He knew it down in his bones. Because in the end, Cricket had not one idea of the amount of work that went into having animals. No idea the amount of work that went into working a ranch. Working the land.
She was stubborn and obstinate, and different than her sisters.
Their families might be big rivals, but they all worked in the same industry. He’d watched Cricket grow up. He had a fair idea of her personality. And he also had a fair idea of just how privileged the Maxfield family was.
They had a massive spread, worked by employees.
Any vision she had of ranching was bound to be romanticized.
He knew better.
He knew people looked at him and figured he was just another guy who’d grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Well, not literally. They didn’t look at him and think that. He looked like a cowboy. But the fact was, he had grown up in a family that was well-off. At least, for most of his life. He was still old enough to remember when they had struggled.
He knew his younger brother didn’t remember much of that time, and their youngest sister, Honey, didn’t remember it at all. But Jackson did. He also knew Cricket had never known a moment of financial struggle in all her life. It wasn’t that he thought she was stupid. She wasn’t. She was bright and sharp, and a bit fierce.
He had always found her fascinating, especially in contrast with the rest of her family. Even before it had turned out her father was a criminal and a sexual predator, Jackson had always found the Maxfields to be a strange and fascinating family. So different from his own. There had always been tension between James Maxfield and his wife. Wren and Emerson had always seemed like perfect Stepford children from an extremely warped, upper-class neighborhood, cookies from the same cutter.
But not Cricket.
She had never been at the forefront of any of the events they had put on at the winery. And though Maxfield Vineyards and Cowboy Wines might have been rivals, they often attended each other’s events. Professional courtesy, and all of that. And scoping out the competition. So he’d seen Cricket many times over the years. Usually skulking in the background, but then, when she got older, not there at all. One time, three years ago or so—she must’ve been eighteen—she’d been out on a swing in the yard, wearing a white dress he was almost certain she didn’t want to be wearing. It had been dark out there, and inside, the Maxfield event room had been all lit up.