Page 39 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
Fucker. He knows I hate that ma’am shit. I keep my mouth closed, teeth grinding so hard I’m sure to have a headache later. When I don’t respond to his taunt, his nostrils flare and I feel a sense of pride that I’ve ruffled his pompous feathers.
He straightens and clears his throat. I’m too mad to even roll my eyes at him.
“First, you invited reporters to my house. I don’t appreciate that. I stay away from the papers. Always have. And second, you have no business being on any horse if you don’t know how to control it. And third, when someone saves your life, you don’t tell them to F off. You get down on your knees and thank them.”
He’s breathing hard, but his anger is no match for mine. The blood rushing through my body has reached its boiling point and all I want to do is punch Holt in his too-handsome face. But as I’m a freaking astronaut, I can’t. A broken hand would get me taken off flight rotation. And if I’m not risking that over some creepy text messages and deliveries, I’m sure as hell not risking it over Holt’s hard head.
Verbal annihilation it is.
“So glad to really know what you think of me, without all that polite bullshit you drown yourself in, cowboy. But let me set you straight. I didn’t invite those reporters here. I don’tdoPR unless expressly told to by NASA. I don’t like it. And I sure as shit didn’t want anyone to know where I was. That’s the whole point of me being here in bumfuck Texas, surrounded by horses and dirt.”
“Oh really? Then who else would benefit from spreading the word that NASA’s most famous astronaut just happens to be staying on West property?”
“Pearl.”
Holt blinks. Then he blinks again.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Does that surprise you?Really?” At his blank look, my lip curls. “You think because a woman has her nails done, wears oyster shit around her neck, and speaks like an American impersonating Downton Abbey that she can’t be a back-stabbing bitch? That she can’t strike back in an underhanded way and let a few reporters know who she saw at the West house before she was unceremoniously fired? Non-disclosure agreement be damned.”
“I…” Holt tries fishing for words, but he comes up with nothing.
“Yeah, that’s right. I may be blunt, curse like a sailor on leave, and dress like a biker bitch, but if I’m going to stab you, it won’t be in the back. It will be face to face where I can see the pain flash in your eyes.”
Damn, I gavemyselfgoosebumps with that speech.
“Jules, I’m sorry, I—”
“And second, I was on Bess.Bess.”I throw my hands in the air. “Even you have to know that she is the saddest sack of bones in your whole goddamn stable. I was supposed to plod along with Tucker as my guide like a good little horse-riding newbie until I learned the ropes. I’m not stupid. No matter what you may think of me. I didn’t get to where I am today because I don’t know how to evaluate risk or know my own limitations. I amthisclose to a promotion and I wouldn’t jeopardize that by trying to hot-shot around on one of your godforsaken horses.”
Holt takes a deep breath, the fight leaving his shoulders. It signals that I’ve won. I know that he feels bad and that I could just walk away right now, victorious in our verbal skirmish. But when a man is going down, you might as well take him down all the way. Another lesson learned from daddy dearest.
My fist comes up between us and I dig one knuckle into Holt’s sternum. “And third, if I want to tell you to fuck off, I most certainly will. I was about to dismount crazy Bessie all by myself. There was no need for you and your hero complex.”
Holt’s eyebrows shoot up and he chokes on whatever it is he’s trying to say.
“You heard me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed why you don’t like me.” I don’t wait for him to disagree, because even I don’t want to make such a polite bastard as Holt lie. “I don’t simper, or swoon or wait quietly for a man to notice me. I don’t ask permission. If something needs doing, I get it done. I don’t know if you’re just a throwback from the 1950s lifestyle or you get a hard-on for weak women, but either way, I don’t care.”
“I donothave a…” He waves his hand in the general direction of his crotch. His impotence in even being able to say the word ‘hard-on’ surprises a laugh out of me.
Which has Holt smiling.
And as angry as I am, and as much as I want to punch all those reporters and stomp on their cameras, my vagina does a little dance at the flash of Holt’s pearly whites.
My vagina is such a whore.
I let out a big sigh, which blows a lock of hair out of Holt’s face. His smile widens.
To win the war, sometimes strategic retreat is necessary.
Taking the anger out of my voice, I instruct, “Seeing as the kitchen is demolished, you need to order something for dinner. I don’t like Indian food. Anything else will do.” Then I turn my back on Holt and finish marching up the stairs. At the top landing I look over my shoulder, catching him staring at my ass.
“And Holt?” His eyes jump up to mine and he blushes. “That whole ‘getting on my knees to thank you?’ Not going to happen.” He looks down and rubs the back of his neck. Which is also flushed. “In fact, me being on my knees at all is probably a hopeless fantasy. But you on yours before me?” Holt’s eyes snap back to mine so fast, I’m sure he’s given himself whiplash.
I stretch out the moment, pursing my lips and tapping my chin in contemplation before letting a slow, sensual smile stretch across my face. “Now that might be a mental image I could get behind. Or on, as it were.”
* * *
HOLT
