“Before we go on,” I interrupt, sitting forward. “I need to tell you guys I’m buyin’ a golf course.”

Everyone at the table goes silent.

“You are?” Knox looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “You into golfing now or something?”

“Or something,” I agree. “I want a very specific golf course. Silver Birch Country Club.”

The money guys exchange looks. “I don’t know that it’s for sale,” one says, scribbling notes.

“Then you call them and make them an offer they can’t refuse,” I tell them. “That’s how this works. You”—I point at them—“take my money and turn it into things I want. That’s what I pay you for.”

Two of the money guys protest, flipping through papers and mumbling about how they’re going to need time to go over company information for the golf course, see how we can make it profitable, blah blah blah. The one at the end of the table—with the laptop—just writes a few more notes. “I’ll get on it, sir.”

That one? He’s getting a raise. “You do that.” I look over at Gage. “Sorry to interrupt. You wanna talk about the new well?”

My brother lights up with enthusiasm. Gage leans back in his chair and talks about the new well for a long time. How many barrels a day we’re averaging, and how long before production slows. How much it’s costing a day to run the thing. The numbers are good. The barrels are good. I knew it was a good spot. The suits are pleased, too. They scribble down notes and one types into his laptop like we’re shitting nuggets of wisdom at them. Like this is a surprise? The Prices always know oil. It’s in our blood. I’m only half paying attention, though. I’m thinking about Ivy and what she’ll look like when I see her again. Short skirt? Or one of those sexy numbers that gets tight at the knees and makes her legs look like a wet dream? More fuck-me shoes? Will her glossy hair be up or down?

As Gage goes on and on about whether or not production can be increased with a second crew on an adjacent well, Clay leans over to me.

“You snare the classy blonde?”

“Not quite yet, but I’m going to.” I glance over at him. “Meeting her tomorrow to look at a starter house.”

“Starter house?”

“Yeah, small-time shit. Three million dollars or something. Only eight bedrooms.”

He grunts. “Doesn’t sound that impressive. I thought you wanted forty rooms.”

“I know. She wants us to start small so we can see ‘what we like.’”

Clay looks amused at the thought. “She doesn’t know you all that well, does she?”

She doesn’t. But she will.

Ivy

I’m nervous as could be on Wednesday. I’m supposed to meet Boone at the office and drive him out to the potential house. It’s a bit outside of Canyon Lake, which means we’re looking at close to an hour drive. It’s going to be just me and Boone, alone in the car together.

And that makes me nervous. Not because I think he’ll do anything untoward . . . but because he’s going to be alone with me and we’re going to talk. And whenever we talk? He flirts. And I’m getting really bad at resisting his flirting.

I hope this house is nice. I hope it’s exactly what he wants so I can lock him down into escrow, get an advance prior to closing, and then I can keep him at arm’s length. That is the ideal situation. It’ll solve my money problems, my Boone problems, all my problems. I don’t need a romantic entanglement right now, not when I should be focusing every moment on scrounging more money for my sister’s college education.

Instead, I’m spending far too much time fussing with my appearance. I wear my hair in a smooth bun and make sure it’s pinned tight. I leave a lock of hair free to dangle at my brow, just because it looks a little disheveled and seductive . . . and then I tuck it back in because I don’t want to be seductive.

Or do I?

I’m a mess. I shouldn’t want to be sexy for a client. That should be the last thing on my mind. But then again, Boone’s not quite like any other client. He’s also not like any other man I’ve ever met. There’s something incredibly self-assured about him, and yet at the same time, there’s a core of vulnerability. He wants respect for his hard work, but he doesn’t want to change who he is. That’s why he wants the house . . . and me.

And he wants me because in his eyes, I’m “classy.” A lady. Boy, he’s got me pegged all wrong.

I consider that as I get dressed for our meeting in a dark navy jacketed suit. The skirt on this one is a little short and tight, and that, of course, is not why I’m picking it . . . It’s for the sexy red stilettos that go perfect with it. They say the clothes make the man—or woman—and whenever I meet a client, I dress to the nines. It doesn’t matter if they’re buying a trailer or a mansion; I have to look the part. I put on a silk slip to go under the jacket, a string of my favorite fake pearls, and then smooth my bun. It’s hot as Hades in Texas today, so I skip the pantyhose. That’s my only concession to not looking as “classy” as I could.

Truth is, I’m not classy. I’m a girl that never went to college. I’m a girl that flipped burgers and scooped ice cream until she got her realtor’s license. I grew up in a trailer—heck, I still live there. My dad’s in prison. My mom is god knows where. If he thinks I’m “cultured” it’s because of my clothes, or the fact that I do my best to look like I belong at hoity-toity Three Jacks Real Estate. Truth is, I’m a square peg in a round hole desperately trying to find a way to fit in, just like him.

Maybe I just hide it better. Funny how he refuses to change his appearance and that’s the only thing I can control when it comes to my situation.

I smooth my hands down my skirt, put in a pair of fake pearl earrings, and then grab my purse. I head straight for the office and grab my folder full of comps and the keys to one of the Lincoln Town Cars that the company insists we use for clients. I get in the car and pop open an air freshener (eucalyptus) and a CD of music (violins). I run a lint brush over the seats and floorboards to pick up any stray crumbs, wipe down the dash to ensure there’s no dust, and grab two bottles of ice-cold water. I’m ready. It’s time to go.

I glance at my phone’s clock. Two minutes until meeting time. It’s swelteringly hot and I don’t want my makeup to be ruined by sweat, so I start the car to cool off the interior and think about Boone. Off-limits, totally-a-bad-idea Boone who my sister would be truly pissed to find out that I’m going to go ahead and take the commission from anyhow. She thinks I should play it completely safe and aboveboard as a realtor . . . but I also don’t think she realizes just how desperate our financial situation is. That’s my own fault, too; I’ve shielded her from everything upsetting because I want her to have the easy, carefree college experience that I never did.

So I’m going to take Boone’s money.

And his business.

And his flirting. I’m not going to let it go anywhere, but I’ll play along. That won’t be too hard, seeing as how I’m weirdly attracted to the guy. Actually, maybe it’s not so weird. He’s blue collar, and I am, too, though I’m trying desperately to change to white collar. He says and does what he wants, and those are traits I admire, given that I rarely get to do either. Is he a little rough around the edges? Yeah.

Okay, he’s a lot rough around the edges. He’s also unshaven and his hair is long and shaggy. He wears T-shirts that—if clean—have holes at the collar and look like they’ve seen better days. He likes trucker caps instead of business suits.

But he’s also got an amazing laugh and a devilishly handsome smile. And big, strong, tanned hands. And—

Someone raps on my car window, right at eye level.

I jump, then look over to see Boone in a white, paint-splattered T-shirt, jeans, and his favorite trucker cap. He grins at me through the wild bristle of his beard.

I roll down the power window a few inches. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you over the air conditioner.”

He squints up at the cloudless sky. “Yeah, it’s a hot one. You ready to go?”

“I’ll drive,” I tell him, indicating my passenger seat. “You’re my guest today. Hop in.”

Boone gets into the car with me and a moment later, he waves a bottle of champagne under my nose. “Brought us refreshments.”

I look over at him, surprised. “I can’t drink while driving. That’s all you, I’m afraid.”

He shrugs and tosses the corked bottle into the backseat of the car. “I ain’t much for the fizzy shit. Bought it to impress you.”

“Or get me drunk?” I can’t help but tease as I pull out of the parking lot and into the busy downtown streets.

Boone snorts. “Why? I like my women responsive and willing.”

“And do you generally have a lot of women?” Shit, why did I have to go and ask that? Am I stupid? I must be stupid. I don’t care. I really don’t. Really. Of course, my brain’s not buying that any more than my racing heart is.

“Nope,” he says slowly. “It’s mostly business for me. Haven’t dated anyone in years.”

“Not even with all your billions?” I tease.

“’Specially not after that. Too much work to do and not enough hours in the day to do it.”

“Huh.”

“What, huh? What’s that mean?”

I shake my head and ease the car onto the entrance ramp of the highway. “Just surprised that you aren’t much of a ladies’ man, given how hard you’ve been hitting on me.”

“That’s because I finally found what I really want and I don’t plan on letting it get away from me.” There’s a teasing note in his voice to take the seriousness out of the statement, but it still gives me shivers.

Weird that I’m glad to hear that he’s not a player. Even though he comes across as a blowhard playboy, knowing that it’s just for me? That makes it all the more flattering and that much harder to resist. “I’m still not sure why you want me when you can have anyone.”