Page 6 of My Cowboy Trouble
My phone buzzes. Gerald, finally calling back about the PR crisis I abandoned. I look at the screen, then out the window where Sir Clucks-a-Lot patrols around like a feathered security guard.
I decline the call.
Thirty days. I can do thirty days. How hard could it be?
Not that I'd let any of these cowboys in on my thoughts, not for all the money in the world, but the truth is that Dusty Spur is bigger, dustier, and more… intimidating than I'd expected. The kind of place that smells like sweat and earth and lives up to its reputation in every creak of barn wood.
But I'm going to square my shoulders, slap on my best boardroom scowl, and pretend like I own the joint. That's always been my move—fake it till they're too scared to ask questions. My mother taught me that much—confidence, even if it's only skin deep, can carry you farther than the truth.
Inside, though? My stomach's doing barrel rolls.This place is nothing like the city. Nothing like the deals I've closed. And three very large, very smug-looking cowboys are standing there like they can already smell me floundering.
So I arch a brow and let my "don't mess with me" face do the talking. If they think I'm rattled, I'm dead.
From somewhere outside, Sir Clucks-a-Lot crows like he heard my thoughts and found them hilarious.
I'm ready, bitches.
2
GAVIN
Five a.m. comes way too fucking earlywhen you've been up half the night thinking about legs that go on for miles and a mouth that could probably cut glass with its sass.
Not that I'm thinking about the city princess. Much.
I'm in the kitchen making coffee—real coffee, the kind that could strip paint off a barn—when she stumbles in looking like a beauty queen after a three-day bender. Hair doing that sexy bedhead thing, mascara smudged under her eyes, and wearing pajama shorts that should be illegal.
"Coffee," she croaks, making grabby hands at my mug. "Need coffee."
"Morning, sunshine." I hold my mug out of reach because I'm not that nice. "Sleep well?"
She glares at me through squinted eyes. "Your rooster is Satan incarnate. He started crowing at four. FOUR."
"Sir Clucks-a-Lot likes to get an early start." I take a long, deliberate sip of my coffee, watching her track the movement like a starving woman eyeing a steak. "There's a pot on the stove."
She practically lunges for it, pouring herself a mug and taking a huge gulp before her entire face scrunches up and she gags. "What the hell is this? Motor oil?"
"Cowboy coffee. It'll put hair on your chest."
"I don't want hair on my chest." She takes another sip anyway, probably because she needs the caffeine more than she needs her taste buds. "I want a vanilla latte with oat milk and two pumps of caramel."
"Fresh out of pumps. But Asher might have some oat milk hidden somewhere. He's got a lactose thing."
"I don't have a lactose thing, Gav," Asher says, walking in right on cue because his timing is always annoyingly perfect. "I have refined taste buds."
He's already dressed and looking like he stepped out of a fashion ad, which is just wrong at this hour. He takes one look at Kenzie's pajama situation and his eyes do that thing where he's mentally removing what little clothing she's got on.
"Morning, beautiful. Rough night?" he asks.
"Your demon rooster?—"
"Ourdemon rooster," I correct. "You own him now, remember?"
She flips me off, whichjust makes me grin wider. "Where's drill sergeant Trent? I expected him to bang on my door with a megaphone.”
"He's already out with the cattle," Asher says, pouring himself coffee. "Said to tell you that you're late and to meet him at the barn in ten minutes."
"But it's only five-fifteen!"
