Page 6 of Dirty Cowboy

I lift my chin. “That’s his. Mine’s a hundred. That’s one-zero-zero-point-zero, and zero fails.”

His gaze flickers with amusement. He takes a step closer, heat radiating off him like a bonfire. “If you’re really interested, you should ask your brothers about it. Tristan might actually need the help.”

I swallow. “Okay. I will.”

A devilish wink. A slow, teasing grin. And then he does the thing—the thing that fries my brain completely. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over my cheek. Just a whisper of a touch, but it might as well be a lightning strike.

“I’m sorry, but I have an errand to run,” he says, voice low and husky. “And I need a shirt before I go.”

My gaze drops to his bare chest again, and my brain collapses in on itself like a dying star.

“I’m sorry about your shirt. I’ll have it washed and returned,” I manage.

“Nah. Keep it. Metallica looks good on you.” A pause. “Do you even know who Metallica is?”

The moment he says it, I decide I’m never washing this shirt again. Ever. And it’s getting a prime spot on the pillow next to mine.

“Ems?” His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

Desperate to focus, I drag my gaze away from his chest. “Yeah, I know Metallica. I also know Luke Bryan, Johnny Cash, Blake Shelton?—”

His lips twitch. “I get it.”

He checks his watch. “I should get going.”

“So, do you want me?” I blurt.

His brows shoot up, and I turn into a human fireball. “For the case,” I clarify quickly.

He tilts his head, studying me. “Like I said, ask your brothers. Good seeing you again, kid.”

And just like that, he gives me a slow, warm, entirely unfair smile, fist bumps my arm, and saunters away.

Kid?He still sees me as a kid?

I watch his retreating back, wondering how many women have fallen under his cowboy spell. I saw him in that barn years ago, banging into a woman, so I know how he operates.

But none of that matters if he still thinks I’m just some girl with a childhood crush.

“What the hell happened here?”

I yelp as Tristan appears, eyeing the Metallica T-shirt and the puddle of tea.

“I, uh, bumped into Eric.”

Tristan narrows his eyes. “I see that.”

I clear my throat. “Eric mentioned a case.”

Tristan sighs. “Be in my office first thing in the morning.”

The early bird catches the worm. And finally, something good.

I mentally high-five myself. By tomorrow, I might be closer to Eric—and my promotion.

Maybe even both.

“Maybe wear something different?” Tristan tugs at the shirt. “Doesn’t Greg keep spare clothes in your office?”

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