Want Me, Cowboy. Maisey Yates

Poppy was not his type at all. She was not tall, or particularly leggy, though she did often wear high heels with her 1950s housewife dresses. She was petite, but still curvy, her hair dark and curly, and usually pulled back in a loose, artfully pinned bun that allowed tendrils to slowly make their escape over the course of the day.

      She was pretty, in spite of the fact that she wasn’t the type of woman he would normally gravitate toward.

      He wasn’t sure why he was just now noticing that. Perhaps it was the way the light was filtering through the window now. Falling across her delicately curved face. Her mahogany skin with a bit of rose color bleeding across her cheeks. In this instance, he had a feeling the color was because she was angry. But, it was lovely nonetheless.

      Her lips were full—pouty or not—and the same rose color as her cheeks.

      “I don’t understand your point,” he said, stopping his visual perusal of her.

      “I’m just saying you’re taking about as much of a personal interest in finding a wife as someone who was buying a car.”

      He did not point out that if he were buying a car, he would take it for a test drive, and that he had not suggested doing anything half so crass with any of the women who’d come to be interviewed.

      “How many more women are you seeing today?” he asked, deciding to bypass her little show of indignation.

      “Three more,” she said.

      There was something in the set of her jaw, in the rather stubborn, mulish look on her face that almost made him want to ask a question about what was bothering her.

      But only almost.

      “Has my sister sent through cost estimates for her latest design?” he asked.

      Poppy blinked. “What?”

      “Faith. Has she sent through her cost estimates? I’m going to end up correcting them anyway, but I like to see what she starts with.”

      “I’m well aware of the process, Isaiah,” Poppy said. “I’m just surprised that you moved on from wife interviews to your sister’s next design.”

      “Why would you be surprised by that? The designs are important. They are, in fact, why I am a billionaire.”

      “Yes. I know,” Poppy said. “Faith’s talent is a big reason why we’re all doing well. Believe me, I respect the work. However, the subject change seems a bit abrupt.”

      “It is a workday.”

      Deep brown eyes narrowed in his direction. “You’re really something else, do you know that?”

      He did. He always had. The fact that she felt the need to question him on it didn’t make much sense to him.

      “Yes,” he responded.

      Poppy stamped.

      She stamped her high-heel-clad foot like they were in a black-and-white movie.

      “No, she hasn’t sent it through,” Poppy said.

      “You just stomped your foot at me.”

      She flung her arms wide. “Because you were just being an idiot at me.”

      “I don’t understand you,” he said.

      “I don’t need you to understand me.” Her brow furrowed.

      “But you do need me to sign your paychecks,” he pointed out. “I’m your boss.”

      Then, all the color drained from her cheeks. “Right. Of course. I do need that. Because you’re my boss.”

      “I am.”

      “Just my boss.”

      “I’ve been your boss for the past decade,” he pointed out, not quite sure why she was being so spiky.

      “Yes,” she said. “You have been my boss for the past decade.”

      Then, she turned on her heel and walked back into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

      And Isaiah went back to his desk.

      He had work to do. Which was why he had given Poppy the task of picking him a wife. But before he chased Faith down for those estimates, he was going to need some caffeine. He sent a quick text to that effect to Poppy.

      There was a quick flash of three dots at the bottom of the message box, then they disappeared.

      It popped up again, and disappeared again. Then finally there was a simple: of course.

      He could only hope that when he got his coffee it wasn’t poisoned.

      * * *

      Three hours and three women later, Poppy was wishing she had gone with her original instinct and sent the middle finger emoji to Isaiah in response to his request for coffee.

      This was too much. It would be crazy for anyone to have their assistant pick their wife—a harebrained scheme that no self-respecting personal assistant should have to cope with. But for her especially, it was a strange kind of emotional torture. She had to ask each woman questions about their compatibility with Isaiah. And then, she had to talk to them about Isaiah. Who she knew better than she knew any other man on the face of the earth. Who she knew possibly better than she knew anyone else. And all the while his words rang in her ears.

       I’m your boss.

      She was his employee.

      And that was how he saw her. It shouldn’t surprise her that no-nonsense, rigid Isaiah thought of her primarily as his employee. She thought of him as her friend.

      Her best friend. Practically family.

      Except for the part of her that was in love with him and had sex dreams about him sometimes.

      Though, were she to take an afternoon nap today, her only dreams about Isaiah would involve her sticking a pen through his chest.

      Well, maybe not his chest. That would be fatal. Maybe his arm. But then, that would get ink and blood on his shirt. She would have to unbutton it and take it off him...

      Okay. Maybe she was capable of having both dreams at the same time.

      “Kittens are my hard line,” the sixth blonde of the day was saying to her. All the blondes were starting to run together like boxes of dye in the hair care aisle.

      “I...” Poppy blinked, trying to get a handle on what that meant. “Like... Sexually... Or?”

      The woman wrinkled her nose. “I mean, I need to be able to have a kitten. That’s nonnegotiable.”

      Poppy was trying to imagine Isaiah Grayson with a kitten living in his house. He had barn cats. And he had myriad horses and animals at his ranch, but he did not have a kitten. Though, because he already had so many animals, it was likely that he would be okay with one more.

      “I will... Make a note of that.”

      “Oh,” the woman continued. “I can also tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue.”

      Poppy closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to not run out of the room and hit Isaiah over the head with a wastebasket. “I assume I should mark that down under special skills.”

      “Men like that,” the woman said.

      Well, maybe that was why Poppy had such bad luck with men. She couldn’t do party tricks with her tongue. In fairness, she’d never tried.

      “Good to know,” Poppy continued.

      Poppy curled her hands into fists and tried to keep herself from... She didn’t even know what. Screaming. Running from the room.

      One of these women who she interviewed today might very well be the woman Isaiah Grayson slept with for the rest of his life. The last woman he ever slept with. The one who