Page 38 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Relax, I’ve got you,” Holt murmurs in my ear.
Relax? How can I relax when I’m freakingseethinginside? Using all my strength, I sink my fingers into his thigh, unable to voice my anger just yet.
Too many witnesses.
I’ve ejected out of an F-22 at 13,000 feet over a barren desert. I’m on target to become the youngest astronaut commanderever, and I hot-wired the motherfucking International Space Station on my last spacewalk.But in less than a heartbeat, I have no doubt that my most googled picture will be of me in a cowboy’sarms.
I’m sure the majority of women will sigh at the cliché romantic moment come to life that will undoubtedly be plastered all over tomorrow’s tabloids. But what kills me is the thought that girls who look to me as a role model for breaking glass ceilings and kicking ass while still having boobs will now see me looking helpless, saved only by the strength of a man.
The large stallion eats up the long stretch of road to the main house.
I stare over Holt’s shoulder at the dirt cloud behind us, holding on to my anger and pretending that I don’t like the feel of his arms around me, or his warm breath tickling the curls at the side of my neck.
Instead, I’ll focus on the pommel that’s trying to go where no man has gone before.
Finally, we slow down, pulling up outside the open barn doors. Without waiting for Holt’s assistance, I push off his lap, sliding down and landing on my own two feet. Like I should’ve done with Bess.
“Whoa, hold on a minute,” Holts says, reaching out like he can somehow steady my descent.
“Fuck. You.” I stomp toward the main house.
“Excuse me?” I turn to see Holt dismount his horse. “Why do I deserve an ‘F you’?”
“Jesus! Can’t you even say fuck?”
“Now you’re mad that I don’t curse?” He shakes his head like he thinks I’m deranged.
Well guess what, motherfucker? Ifeelderanged at this moment.
I square up to him, spine straight, shoulders back. “Yes, I’m mad that you won’t cuss.” I throw my arms wide. “It’s freaking unnatural. And I’m also mad that you fucked up the works when the reporters started asking questions.” I step forward and poke him in the chest. “But most of all, I’m mad because you think of yourself as some saves-the-day kind of man and me as some damsel in distress.” I raise my finger to his face. “Clue in, cowboy. I’m nobody’s damsel.”
Whiskey colored eyes narrow to match mine. We stand like two people in an Old West stand-off for an incalculable amount of time.
That is, until Tucker’s voice breaks in.
“Um, Holt? You want me to brush down the horses?” He’s still on his mount, leading that traitorous bitch Bess, who now looks docile as can be, by the reins.
When Holt turns to address Tucker, I stomp my way back to the house.
Inside, I’m greeted by demolition chaos. Ray wasn’t kidding when he said he’d start right away. He’d showed up with the contract and a full platoon of workers just as Tucker and I rode off earlier.
I sidestep a broken kitchen cabinet lying in the foyer and hop over a power saw to reach the stairs.
I’m halfway up the steps before the front door slams open behind me.
“Now just hold on, Julie Starr,” Holt calls to me over the sound of hammering and sanding. “You don’t get to be all high and mighty over something that’s your fault, and then stomp off like a child.”
My whole body stills. I pivot my boot on the stair tread. “My fault?” My voice is low and dangerous and if Holt had any sort of street smarts he’d get his fine ass back to the barn right now. “Myfault?”
Instead he takes off his hat, tossing it on a sawhorse. “Yes. Your fault.” He follows the same path I’d taken, coming to a stop at the base of the stairs, running his hands through his sweaty hair before resting them on his hips.
Like a lion about to pounce, I take my time dropping down a few more steps until my eyes are level with his. Just a few inches between us. I’m somewhat surprised that his plaid shirt doesn’t burst into flames from the anger radiating off me.
“You want to tell me how what just happened is somehowmyfault?” I don’t recognize my voice. I’ve spent my life pretending to play along, all the while doing my own thing. You get farther faster that way. Confrontation just slows down the works. I learned that from years of living under the general’s roof.
But right here, right now, there is nothing I’d like to do more than lay into the pretentious, ass-kissing, goody-two-shoes, hot-as-fuck cowboy in front of me.
“Sure thing,ma’am.”
