Page 17 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
Granted, most of the time I don’t even acknowledge when the weekend comes. One day rolls right into the next when you’re working on a ranch. But since patching things up with my brother, and with Rose coming home from college on the weekends more frequently than she has in the past, I began to look forward to Fridays. I’m enjoying more time with my siblings, whether that means putting up with Rose’s obnoxious humor or driving down to Clear Lake to see Flynn and Jackie. Lately it feels like I have an actual life rather than just an existence.
But Sundays suck.
Because Sundays are when it all goes away again. Even now I hear Rose starting her stomp down the stairs, her heavy suitcase thudding behind her. I make my way to the foyer.
“All set to head back to your ridiculously expensive high-rise apartment?” I ask once she’s cleared the last step with a bang.
Rose quirks an eyebrow. “Theridiculousthing is that I, with no income, save for inherited oil royalties, can manage to live in a decent apartment, while you, with your oil moneyandhoity-toity organic, grass-fed cattle money, still live in semi-squalor.”
“Hey—I’m getting it fixed up. In fact, while you were packing, I set up an appointment with a contractor.”
“Contractor? You fixing to tear shit down?” She looks around the house. “’Cause we’ll actually need someplace other than the barn to hold the wedding.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m not tearing shit down. But we need a new kitchen at least, for the caterers and all. And the guy I talked to said he has a connection to some expensive interior decorator who can design it.”
Rose crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, that’s a relief. Who knows what this place would look like ifyoutried doing it.”
“I do live here, you know? So, technically, I’m the one whose opinion truly matters in the long run.” I point to her large, cumbersome suitcase. “And you’re one to talk. I may be a guy, but even I know that that is one butt-ugly suitcase. Brown leather with brown writing? Does it even have wheels? What’s the point of a suitcase if it’s ugly and non-functional?”
Rose sucks in a loud gasp of air. “Are you serious?” She gestures wildly toward the rectangular boulder of leather at her feet. “This is a vintage Louis Vuitton Damier Trunk!”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare at what I’m sure cost more than my truck. “It’s ugly.”
She throws her hands in the air, then hauls her vintage piece of crap upright. “I can’t even with you. You hillbilly—”
“Hello?”
I freeze at the singsong greeting in a husky, femme-fatale voice I know all too well. The same voice that transfixed me from outer space, and the one recently used to kick me out of her apartment only hours ago.
Rose’s head peeks around my side. “Jules?”
“Hey there, pussy cat, what’s shaking?”
Slowly, I pivot on my tube-sock clad heel to see Jules, motorcycle helmet under one arm, back-pack over her shoulders, standing in the open doorway.
“Wow, this is a surprise!” Rose looks at me. “Or is it? Maybe you thought I’d be gone by now?” She elbows me in the ribs.
“Jesus, Rose,” I say, rubbing my side, “I’m not sixteen trying to sneak a girl into the house. I had no idea Jules was coming.”
“Please.” Rose rolls her eyes. “At sixteen you were dreaming of horses and cows, not girls, you weirdo.” She looks at Jules and smirks. “He was a real cowboy-nerd.”
Jules snorts.
Rose holds up a hand to one side of her mouth, stage whispering, “Still is, really.”
I huff out a breath. “Okay, you done now?” I try glowering at my little sister, but it doesn’t make a dent in her smug attitude. But then, I didn’t really think it would.
I look at the biker goddess standing in my front door. “Whyareyou here?” I ask her, inwardly cringing at my rough tone.
She shuts the door, giving me a great view of the tight jeans hugging her slim hips and perfectly proportioned ass. She steps into the foyer but stops when she catches me looking pointedly at the boots on her feet.
“Sheesh, cowboy.” She rolls her eyes, but back-steps to lean against the wall so she can drop her helmet and unlace her boots. Her manly, black, studded biker boots that shouldn’t turn me on but do.
“I’m here ’cause I refuse to do this wedding stuff by myself,” she says, dropping one boot to the floor.
“By yourself?” She can’t be serious. “I have a freaking contractor coming to the house tomorrow for this damn wedding. I’m going to have to shell out some serious money to get this place visitor ready in just four weeks.”
She puts her hands on her hips and I try not to register how the move highlights her tiny waist. “Seeing as you have millions, I don’t see what the problems is, Mr. Moneybags.”
