Yeah, she’d already presumed a helluva lot.

“No prepackaged vacation, son. You’ve got the time to do with it as you wish while Cora and I are in Europe—”

“Wait. You’re going with her?”

His dad grinned and winked at Cora. “The cat’s out of the bag now, muffin.”

Muffin? No. Oh, hell no. This wasn’t happening.

Fletch’s gaze winged between them and he couldn’t believe his eyes. His seventy-seven-year-old father and his seventy-year-old office manager were looking at each other with . . . dear God, was that lust?

My eyes. Please. Make it stop.

“I know it’s surprising,” his dad offered.

Talk about an understatement. “How long has this been goin’ on?”

“A few months.”

“A few months?” Fletch repeated.

“Give or take. And it’s more proof of how preoccupied you are that you didn’t even notice.”

Just another point he couldn’t argue.

“I’ve had my eye on Cora for a few years, but I figured a smart, classy woman like her would turn down a busted-up former oil rigger such as myself.”

“Oh, you and that silver tongue. There’s not a busted up thing about you, Bruce Fletcher. You literally run circles around men half your age,” she volleyed back.

“I ran after you pretty good, huh?”

“I sure didn’t mind getting caught,” Cora practically cooed.

Holy. Fuck. He’d have to jam stakes in his ears to keep from hearing shit like that again.

“I also have to thank you for introducing me to the Mud Lilies,” Cora said. “They offered me great advice that bolstered my courage to let Bruce know the attraction was mutual.”

Damn Garnet. Always trying to play matchmaker. Or was that Pearl? Vivien was a sneaky woman. And Tilda. Not to mention Miz Maybelle . . . dammit. They were all in on it. They were all about to get an earful about their damn meddling.

“So Cora and I booked the vacation together,” his dad said.

“Together together? Like sharing the same . . . ?”

“Room? Yes. And we’re beyond needing the lecture about practicing safe sex, son.”

“Bruce!”

His dad leaned over and whispered something in Cora’s ear that made her laugh. And blush. And whisper something back that made his father blush.

Fletch flopped into the closest chair, wondering if he was hallucinating.

Calling his colleagues and claiming to be the butt of a joke would make him look like an idiot who didn’t have control over his own practice or his only employee.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up at his father. “Son? You okay?”

“No. You couldn’t have . . . oh, mentioned this last night when we spent two hours together watching the game?”

“What would you have done?” his dad demanded. “Argued? Fought this—us? No. This was the only way. Even if you do nothing but catch up on your sleep and the medical journals, it’ll be time well spent.”

The thought of sitting around in his house, doing nothing for days on end made every muscle in his body seize up.

Then again, the idea of hopping on a plane, living in a hotel, traipsing through some touristy hot spot in the name of relaxation made him break out in hives.

But it was apparently a done deal; he’d have to find a way to deal with it.

“When do you two leave?”

“We’re driving to Denver tonight. Cora’s convinced me to spend Tuesday at the Natural History Museum. Our plane to Heathrow leaves at four a.m. on Wednesday.”

Suck it up. Your dad is excited about this. Weren’t you just worried he wasn’t getting out of his place enough?

Yes. But hopping on a plane to Europe seemed a drastic way to curb his addiction to cribbage and Judge Judy.

“I’d say something witty or profound, but I’m at a loss for words right now and the only thing I can think of is you’d better send me some damn postcards.”

After he left his work office, he immediately went to his home office.

Six weeks.

How the hell was he supposed to fill forty-two days?

He didn’t golf. Or fish. Or play tennis. Or hike. Or mountain bike.

His father and Cora had been right in pointing out his lack of outside interests.

He blew out a breath. Think, man.

His gaze snagged on the gigantic pile of medical journals and bovine and equine practices updates. He could tackle a couple of those every day.

Good. Keep going.

He could finish the paper he’d started about the Ludlows’ Australian sheep-raising philosophy on U.S. soil. They’d gladly give him hard data.

Another good idea. Tedious, but necessary since it’d been a few years since he’d had anything published.

If he could do anything, how would he fill his time?

Easy. He’d spend all of it with Tanna.

Fletch stopped pacing. Why was he just thinking of her now?

Because even after the amazing night they’d had, duty had called. So he wasn’t sure if they were technically seeing each other.

And he wanted to see a lot more of her.

Problem was, his house was in Rawlins and she was staying forty-five minutes away.

So move. Go to her. You can read anywhere. As long as you’ve got your laptop you can work on your research paper.

Brilliant.

Also, here was his chance to make good on his promise to help Renner determine whether a commercial stock-breeding program was financially viable. Jackson Stock Contracting purchased rough stock strictly for their own use, but with the company garnering tons of national awards, other stock contractors had approached Renner about expanding into a commercial breeding program. Genetics was Tobin’s area of expertise. Fletch was supposed to delve into specific rules and regulations of a se**n collection facility, interstate transport, and equipment needed. Now with all this free time . . . Renner wouldn’t say no to him. Especially if the man wasn’t paying for his time.

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