Page 18 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Want me to kiss it better?" The words are out before I can stop them.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, lips parted slightly. For a second, neither of us moves. Then she pulls her hand back, color rising in her cheeks.
"I think I'll survive without your magic lips, thanks."
"Your loss. My magic lips have healing properties. Ask anyone."
"Anyone being the two girls waiting for you to call?"
"Jealous?"
"Of what? Your imaginary healing powers or your real inflated ego?"
"Both are pretty impressive."
She picks up the hammer again, but she's smiling. "Just shut up and show me how to do the next part."
We eatlunch in the shade of the truck, sitting in the bed with our legs dangling over the edge. The metal's hot enough to burn, but neither of us seems willing to move. She's packed sandwiches that are definitely not ranch standard—some kind of fancy bread with actual vegetables and what looks like real cheese, not the processed stuff Gavin lives on.
"Where'd you even find arugula out here?" I ask,examining my sandwich like it's some kind of archaeological discovery. "Did you have it shipped?"
"I have my ways." She takes a bite of hers, and a drop of mustard catches on her bottom lip. It sits there, golden and tempting, and it takes everything in me not to lean over and lick it off. "Clara Mae's actually got a decent selection if you know what to ask for."
"Clara Mae stocks arugula?"
"She called it 'fancy lettuce' and charged me twelve dollars for it."
"You paid twelve dollars for lettuce?"
"It's arugula. And yes. Some of us have standards."
"My standard is 'will this kill me?' If no, I eat it."
"That explains a lot." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, destroying my mustard fantasy. "So, what's your story?"
"My story?" I ask.
"Yeah. Everyone's got one. Gavin's the washed-up rodeo star nursing a bruised ego and possibly a death wish?—"
"Don't let him hear you say that. He still thinks he's making a comeback."
"—and Trent's the responsible one with the weight of the world on his shoulders and a desperate need for a vacation he'll never take. But you... you're harder to figure out."
I lean back on my elbows, the hot metal of the truck bed burning through my shirt. The sun's beating down, and I can feel sweat gathering at the base of my neck. "Not much to figure out. I'm just a guy who's good with numbers and better with people."
"That's not a story. That's a resume. And a boring one."
"You want the real story?"
"I want something real. Everything here feels like you're all playing characters. The cocky one, the grumpy one, the smooth one. But who are you when you're not performing?"
The question hits harder than expected. I sit up, taking a long drink from my water bottle to buy time. "What makes you think this is a performance?"
"Because I do it too. PR is ninety percent performance. Smile at the right people, say the right things, pretend you give a shit about their product launch or their brand message or their revolutionary new way to sell basically the same thing everyone else is selling."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is. Was." She corrects herself, then looks confused about which tense to use. "I don't know what it is anymore."
