He took the jacket, his lips curving into a light smile. “We bought them the first chance we could after getting jobs. Hunter’s is dark brown, Faye’s is a light camel color, and Mark’s was a lighter brown.” He took the jacket and shrugged into it, looking like a guy who’d just found home.

Her ovaries flipped over. Just right over and then danced around. “It’s nice,” she croaked, heat flooding her face. “What else is in here?” She buried her head in the closet, seeing more dress shirts and fancy clothes. All hanging perfectly and organized both by color and fabric. Man. The guy really did have control issues. “Where are your T-shirts?” After she’d gotten herself under control, she turned back toward him.

He moved to the dresser again. “Before you ask, I like boxer-briefs. I am not getting tighty-whities, or full-on boxers, or going commando. That’s nonnegotiable.”

His underwear. They were discussing his underwear. Her breasts tightened in total betrayal of her mind. This assignment might actually kill her. Could a woman die from a sexual attraction that was so wrong for her? How was she going to pretend to be his fiancée? Though, that would give her an excuse to touch him. Maybe a little. Just a little. Okay, she’d have to keep it to a little—like just his arm and maybe his tough-guy neck. Or his chest. Just how hard was it?

“Brigid?” Raider turned from pulling out a stack of perfectly folded T-shirts.

What had he asked her? Her mind went blank. “Shoes,” she gasped. “What about shoes?” Loafers wouldn’t do it.

Raider tossed the shirts on the bed and headed for the closet, leaning over her somehow. “Box in the bottom.”

Her breath heated, and she turned, ducking down and pulling out a box. Her butt brushed his knees on the way down, and was that a groan? She glanced over her shoulder and up, and his face was a polite mask. She must’ve imagined it. When she drew the box out, he backed away.

Then she flipped open the top to reveal black cowboy boots—the real kind. No heel, square toe, broken in. “Wow,” she breathed.

He nodded. “They’re good for riding motorcycles as well as moving pipe.”

She shook her head like a dog with a face full of water. “You’ve moved pipe?” The term meant moving sprinklers to water all of a field, and she’d spent half her life doing it for low pay at their farm.

“Yep. In Kentucky, summer job as kids. We didn’t move those fancy ones with the wheels. No.” He smiled at the boots. “We unhooked, lifted, moved, set down, and rehooked them up.”