Annie would have to think that over. “Thanks for the advice.” She put out the palm of her hand. “Now, can I have my letter back please?”
“What’s the harm in sending this letter off to—”
“Don’t. Even. Think. It. This letter is never going to see the light of day.” She snatched the paper from Bridget’s hand, then crumpled it and tossed it into the bin. “There. It’s gone now. Promise me, that’s the end of Sam DeLuca.”
Bridget stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest.
“Bridget,” Annie said sternly, giving her a hard stare back. “Don’t forget who signs your paycheck.”
After a few seconds, Bridget blew out a breath. “Okay. I promise. No more talking about Sam DeLuca.”
7
A patch of bright blue Texas sunshine fought its way through an army of Dallas skyscrapers to stream through the corner window of Sam’s high-rise office. That little slice of heaven should have been enough to put him in a good mood, but not today. It was the first time since appearing on Single Gal that he’d gone in to work at the Big B Gas and Oil building. He thought he’d check his mail, go over a few budget reports, maybe even pop in on a meeting, but the ribbing—albeit good-natured—was enough to make him want to jump out the window.
Hey, Sam, been supplying gas lately?
It stinks that you were kicked off the first night.
How does it feel to be the most sought-after man in America?
In the week since the show’s premiere, he’d been inundated with offers. He’d politely and, in some cases, not so politely declined them all.
No, he didn’t want to go on any more reality dating shows.
No, he didn’t want to open an Instagram account and peddle sunglasses.
And especially oh-hell-no he didn’t want to make a fool of himself on Dancing With The Stars.
He wasn’t so naïve to think that the sudden interest was just about him. If he wasn’t Cyrus Byrd’s grandson, no one would give a flying fuck about Sam DeLuca. He should have listened to his gut and never gone on that show or done those interviews. Lesson learned. From now on, no matter how hard Becks or his mother or any other female on the planet pleaded or cajoled, if he didn’t want to do it, then the answer was going to be a firm and resounding no.
All he wanted was to go back to his regularly scheduled life. Up at five, he’d do a few chores around the ranch, shower and shave, then take the hourlong commute into Dallas. He’d spend the morning in meetings, grab lunch with a client, then it was back at his desk until six. At home, his mother usually had dinner waiting. After that, he’d read a book or play a game of Scrabble with Mom and Becks. If it was Friday night, then he’d head into Baylee Flats for a beer and a game of pool with some of his old high school buddies. It was a simple but busy life. And he liked it that way. If he found the right woman to share it with, great. But he wasn’t holding his breath.
The door to his office busted open. Becks walked in and flopped down in the chair across from his desk. His secretary, Stella, who’d been his father’s secretary before that and had worked for the company for over thirty years, hustled in behind his little sister, looking unusually frazzled. Stella pushed an errant lock of hair back into her otherwise neat, blonde bun. “I’m sorry, Sam, but she insisted on barging in before I could call you.” Stella gave Becks the same look of maternal disgust she used to give Sam whenever he’d pulled a similar stunt on his dad.
Becks responded with what Sam had long ago termed teenage girl face. “Before she could warn you, you mean.” His little sister was eighteen going on twenty-five. At five-ten, she was taller than their mother and too damn pretty for Sam’s mental health.
“I just saw you this morning at breakfast. What’s so important that you had to come into downtown Dallas in the middle of the day?” he demanded. “Don’t you have a summer job?”
“Four in the afternoon isn’t the middle of the day. And you know perfectly well that I have a job lifeguarding. But I’m off today. And we have urgent business to discuss. Tonight might be too late.”
He looked to Stella for help, but she just shrugged. “I can hold your calls for thirty minutes, but there’s a situation happening in the lobby.”
This got Sam’s full attention. “What kind of situation?”
“The place is crawling with journalists, or at least that’s what they call themselves. They all want to interview you. And not about the state of the oil and gas industry,” she added dryly.
It was that show again. What on earth had possessed him to go on it? Oh yeah. The answer was sitting across the desk from him, looking like she was bursting to tell him something. Whatever new scheme Becks had up her sleeve, Sam wasn’t buying it. Nope. Not today. Not ever again.
“Just do the best you can,” he told Stella, who immediately shot him an “easy for you to say” look. Were things really that bad out there? He looked at the phone on his desk and grimaced. Every line flashed red. He made a mental note to send Stella flowers. Or better yet, a gift certificate for a massage.
Becks waited until Stella had gone back to her office to ask, “What’s up with her?”
“The same thing that’s up with me. Why didn’t you tell me going on that show meant I was going to be hounded by the press?”
Her green eyes lit up. “Isn’t is awesome?”
He glared at her.
“Okay,” she said, trying to sound meek, “so maybe things are a little out of control. But I swear, it’s usually not like this. Sam! You’re famous now.”
“So what do I have to do to become unfamous? Is there really a mob down in the lobby or did Stella exaggerate?”
“Don’t worry. Your fifteen minutes will be up soon.”
“How soon?”
“When the season is over?”
“That’s not for another five weeks.”
“You could always go into hiding,” she joked.
“I have a business to run, remember?”
“Yeah, but you’re always saying that the business can run itself. Besides, it’s the ranch you really care about.”
He stilled. “What makes you say that?”
“Because it’s true. The only reason you work in the business is because Poppy wanted you to and you could never say no to him.” Poppy was the affectionate nickname Becks used to call their grandfather. Sam, on the other hand, had always called Cyrus Byrd “sir.”
He wished he could tell her that she was wrong, that he didn’t give a rat’s ass what Cyrus Byrd had wanted, but as usual, his little sister had an uncanny way of seeing things for what they were. Had he really just thought that Becks was eighteen going on twenty-five? More like going on forty.
“So what’s this important business we have to discuss?” he asked, knowing he sounded testy.
Becks opened her backpack and dumped the contents onto his desk. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of letters spilled out.
“Please tell me this is the response to all the colleges you applied to.”
“Ha ha. It’s the response you got from your television interviews.”