“Where the hell is the bastard in charge of this bloody circus?” The man strode into the barn, pinning Nikki with a steely gaze as he shook water off his coat.
He would have a British accent. He could probably read the directions off a box of Preparation H and make it sound momentous. Nikki pulled the barn door closed behind Lord Pompous Ass and an older man just as another bolt of lightning lit up the evening sky. Wagging his tail in greeting, her dog, Chester, trotted over to inspect the visitors.
“I’m Nikki Devereaux, Mike’s barn manager,” Nikki said, attempting a pleasant tone. She swiped her face with a sodden sleeve, managing only to smear something gritty across her cheek.
In contrast to her own bedraggled appearance, the younger man looked like he’d stepped off the cover of a Barbour catalog. Tall and sophisticated, he speared long fingers through wavy chestnut hair that gleamed under the barn aisle’s fluorescents. As he took in his surroundings, Nikki hunched deeper into her windbreaker. Odds were good the lights were not her friend.
On any other day, she might admire this walking specimen of male perfection. In another setting, with his ire directed at someone else, she might think him magnificent.
But it wasn’t. And she didn’t.
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