Page 4 of Dirty Cowboy

Greg smirks. “You’ve got all the juju you need right here.” He nods toward the pile of files with the usual mix of lying, cheating, no-good spouses. I sigh. As much as I love my brothers, they always give me all the crappy cases. Anything different at this point, would be a step up.

“Ems, are you even listening?” Greg snaps his fingers in front of my face.

“Yeah?” I blink.

“How’s your dad?” He crouches beside me, his hand warm on my arm.

I exhale, my shoulders sagging. “He’s the strongest man I know. He’ll get through this. He has to.” I say it more for myself than for him. Greg nods, but his eyes hold the undeniable truth that my father’s days are numbered.

He smacks the files on my desk like he’s trying to ground me to reality. “Well, this should keep your mind occupied.” He stands, smoothing his shirt. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

He starts to leave but pauses at the door. “It’s gonna happen, Ems. You’ll get your breakthrough case and the promotion, because you deserve it.”

I watch him go, my heart pinching.

I glare at the stack of files like they’ve personally offended me. Because they have. I flip open the first one and it’s another wife convinced her husband is cheating. Rinse. Repeat. I slam it shut and spin in my chair.

Thirty-three floors below, Manhattan hums with a morning rhythm that doesn’t give a damn about my personal turmoil. The skyline stretches forever with Central Park sprawled out like a quilt. People walk, laugh, live.

And all I can think is that I want more. More than tracking down serial cheaters. More than playing second fiddle to my brothers. More than sitting behind this damn desk, watching the world happen without me.

I kick my feet up onto the windowsill, admiring my perfectly pink toenail polish in the morning sun. From thirty-three stories up, I feel like I could do anything, but family cancer sucks.

Then I see the reflection.

My feet hit the floor, and my heart slams against my ribs as Eric Waters swaggers past my office.

What. The. Hell.

He tips his cowboy hat my way, winks—oh my God, winks—and strolls down the hall like he owns the place. His worn jeans mold to his body like they were sewn on and his Metallica t-shirt pulls at the shoulders in ways that should be illegal. The sound of his boots echoes against the marble, blending with the erratic pounding of my heart.

And just like that, the rhythm of my heart plays a cheerful tune.

I lurch to my feet, ready to investigate, but my damn rug betrays me. My foot catches, my balance evaporates, and I slam into the wall like a human cartoon. My cheek presses against the glass as I watch him stop outside the conference room. He pulls off his hat, runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair, and disappears inside, closing the door behind him.

Why is he here and why am I not part of this meeting?

I roam the office like a restless ghost for two solid hours. By the third, I wander into the staff kitchen and make tea, hoping to calm my nerves. I stir in a spoonful of honey, bring the cup to my lips?—

And walk straight into a wall of muscle.

The tea spills, scalding my chest.

“Hot, hot, hot!” I yelp.

I set the mug on the counter, yanking at my shirt like it personally betrayed me, fanning the burning tea from my skin. Before I can blink, Eric grabs the hem and—whoosh—there goes my top, sailing over my head and landing somewhere behind me.

Oh. My. God.

I’m standing in the middle of the office breakroom in my bra.

And Eric Freaking Waters is right in front of me.

His breath ghosts over my skin, cooling the scalding heat on my chest, but igniting something far more dangerous. My gaze skims from his well-worn cowboy boots, up over the perfectly faded denim that hugs his thighs, past a belt buckle the size of Texas, and up to a chest so broad I could set up camp on it.

And then—his face. That impossibly rugged, unfairly gorgeous face.

---