A Weaver Proposal. Allison Leigh

and her temper glowed warm all over again. “I assume your employer will send a bill.” It wasn’t a question. “I’d have given you a tip if I hadn’t had to wait eight hours for you to show up.”

      Derek Clay managed to keep from grinning outright as he looked at Sydney Forrest, the sister of his cousin’s husband.

      He’d come by the place to check on her as a courtesy, since he lived closest to the out-of-the-way cabin that she’d moved herself and her ugly paintings into a few days ago. And while he was genuinely concerned that she’d been living without heat, he wasn’t all that interested in the woman herself.

      Definitely a looker. But he knew from Jake that she liked living in the fast lane. Along with that, she was snooty. And undoubtedly high-maintenance coming from the moneyed background that she had. None of these qualities was high on his list of attractive attributes in a woman, no matter how good she looked.

      “I’m sure they’ll appreciate the prompt payment,” he offered, then stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek, by the way.”

      She eyed his hand—which admittedly had a smear of grease on the back of it and had since he’d been wrangling with an ancient tractor engine inside which his mom’s latest cat had decided to have her kittens—with clear distaste. But then she seemed to swallow hard and stuck her slender hand briefly into his. “Sydney Forrest,” she offered.

      “I know. You’re Jake’s sis.”

      Her fine, dark eyebrows drew together over a narrow nose that tilted up just a bit at the end, saving her oval face from being too classically pretty. “You know my brother?”

      Her tone implied that anyone of his ilk couldn’t possibly, and despite his efforts, his ornery grin cracked through. “‘Fraid so, Syd.” He couldn’t help laying on the hick, given her obviously appalled reaction. “You and me? We’re practically kin seein’ how your brother’s hitched to my cousin.”

      He didn’t think her ivory face could get any whiter, but it did. “You’re … related to J.D.?” Her rosy lips spread in a thin smile that wasn’t reflected at all in her dark blue eyes.

      “Yup. Derek Clay. So some might even call you and me kissin’ cousins,” he added, because she obviously was not going to see the humor in any of this.

      Still, something about the situation left him feeling itchy and irritated because—snooty or not—she was pretty damn beautiful.

      Her eyes were a deep, dark blue and now, as a steely glint came into them, they iced over. They reminded him of black ice.

      “You could have just told me who you were.” Her voice was cold as a witch’s behind, but the cadence of her words nevertheless had an almost hypnotic molasses-smooth sway.

      “You maybe could have waited three seconds for me to do so before jumping on that high horse of assumptions you ride,” he returned blandly. “Don’t worry your pretty head any, though. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

      “You can tell whomever you like.” Her vaguely pointy chin was set. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

      “No, ma’am,” Derek agreed. She was no more in the right or wrong than he was, when it came down to it. Still, her snooty attitude wouldn’t get her anywhere in Weaver, even though she was Jake’s sister and thereby connected to the Clay family, which was generally well thought of in the community. “I guess you haven’t.”

      And since she was connected to the Clays—to him—he pushed aside his general irritation with himself and her and reminded himself of the way he was raised.

      He looked past her sweater-bundled shoulder into the cabin’s interior. “Watch that pilot light,” he warned. “If the thermocouple is failing, it’ll go out again no matter how careful you are. And don’t wait an entire day to ask for help when you need it.”

      She crossed her arms and managed to look down her narrow, turned-up, sexy nose at him, even though she stood about a head shorter than his six-three. “I did call for help,” she reminded him as if he were dense enough to have somehow missed that point.

      “Did you call the number for the Double-C that Jake left you?” He didn’t need to see the chagrin she tried to hide to know that she hadn’t. He’d been at the Double-C since before dawn that day working with his father, Matthew Clay, who ran the family ranch. If Jake’s sister had called, he’d have known about it.

      She hadn’t called.

      “I didn’t want to impose.” Now that enticing sway to her voice had gone all stiff.

      And he was irritated all over again with himself because he felt some regret for that. “Nobody in the Clay family would consider it an imposition. Maybe you’d know that if you’d have bothered to come to Jake and J.D.’s wedding last summer and taken time to get to know us.”

      Her jaw dropped a little. “Is that what Jake said? Or is this just your know-it-all take on it?”

      Jake hadn’t said a word against his sister. “Weddings tend to bring out the crowds in my family.”

      “As they do in mine,” she returned coolly. “If I could have made it, I would have. I was here for my Aunt Susan’s wedding to Stan Ventura a few months ago. He’s sort of family to you Clays now, isn’t he, yet I don’t recall seeing you there.”

      He had missed that wedding, but not because he’d wanted to. “I was in Cheyenne. On business.” He gave the lie with no regret. He’d been attending a funeral.

      She smiled with no humor. “Is that an excuse that only applies to you? Maybe I was away on business when Jake and J.D. were married.”

      “Were you?”

      Her head tilted slightly and her shining blue-black hair slid away from her high, patrician cheekbone. “Yes.”

      “And what is your business, Sydney Forrest? I hadn’t heard that you worked for Forco.”

      Her chin rose a little. “My sister and brother run Forco. I sit on the board.”

      “Anything else?”

      “Racehorses and art.”

      In her Southern warm-honey voice, art came out more like ahhht, and it sent heat down his spine that he didn’t welcome. “Art like those monstrosities you hung on the wall in there?” He jerked his chin over her shoulder.

      “I suppose you prefer a paint-by-the-numbers nude lounging on black velvet?”

      “Don’t go knocking the combination of velvet and naked skin until you’ve tried it.” He leaned closer. “Kissin’ cousin.”

      She jerked back, a flash coming and going in her eyes. “I cannot believe you are even related to J.D. She is perfectly lovely and you are—”

      “—not a woman, that’s for sure.”

      “Odious,” she finished, witheringly.

      “And you’re a snob,” he countered. “You work on that little problem, cupcake, and I’ll work on mine.”

      “Cupcake?” Her eyes narrowed to slits and she took a step back, shutting the door smack in his face.

      Not that he didn’t deserve it.

      If he had a door to slam in her face, he’d probably do it, too.

      “Nice meeting you, cuz,” he said loudly through the door. Then he turned away and headed toward his truck.

      He’d give her about a week, and then she’d be hightailing it back to her pampered life in Georgia.

      As far as he’d ever been able to tell, that’s what spoiled rich girls always did when the going got tough. Ran.

      He reached the truck and swung up into the driver’s seat,