Page 5 of Dirty Cowboy

“Does it hurt?” His voice is a low rumble, equal parts concern and something else. Something that makes my brain short-circuit.

I realize I’ve been staring at him like he’s the last piece of chocolate cake at a wedding, so I snap out of it.

“Nope, barely felt it.” I fold my arms across my chest, as if that’s going to undo the fact that he just undressed me like it was nothing.

“Hello, Emma.” His voice does something to me and a shiver slinks down my spine.

“Hi. What... What are you doing here?” I manage, though my brain-to-mouth coordination is clearly malfunctioning.

In one effortless motion, he peels off his Metallica T-shirt, and my neurons officially explode. Because wow. Just wow.

His torso is sculpted. Like, Michelangelo-would-cry sculpted. He’s tan, muscled, and there’s just the right amount of dark hair dusting his chest. I’m mesmerized, watching the way his abs flex under the fluorescent lighting like they have a personal vendetta against my common sense.

I am officially doomed.

But then, he’s pulling the shirt over my head, and reality crashes back in. That signature Eric scent of leather, hay, and soap envelopes me, and for a second, I forget what words are.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice slightly strangled.

“You’re welcome.” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, and muscles bunching like a human Greek tragedy. “I was hoping you’d be in the meeting.”

I blink. “Meeting?”

“The one your brothers scheduled. You weren’t on the invite list?”

I scoff. “Why would I be? They barely let me handle cases bigger than lost pets and cheating spouses.”

His eyes twinkle with something—pity? Amusement? “That’s a shame, because I need your help with a case.”

My ears perk up. Finally. “Tell me more. I’m looking for a challenge.”

“Didn’t I see a mountain of case files on your desk?” He quirks a brow, teasing.

I wave a hand. “Nothing worth my time. Now, tell me about this case.”

“It’s serious.” His voice drops, thick with intensity. “And you’re the only one who can help me.”

My heart does something wild in my chest. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming. Is there a but coming?”

“But…” He exhales. “It’s not up to me.”

And there it is.

“It’s up to your brothers.”

Of course, it is.

I groan. “Don’t you have any say in this?”

He chuckles, his abs flexing in a way that should be classified as a crime. “Do you even know your overprotective brothers?”

I roll my eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“Aren’t you too young to handle dangerous cases?”

I straighten, squaring my shoulders. “I’m twenty-five. And my case record is better than Tristan’s—one hundred percent success rate.”

His smirk deepens. “Tristan says ninety-eight percent.”

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