Page 10 of Hawt Cowboy
He holds out the cup. “Peace offering. Figured you’d need caffeine after all that worrying you did.”
I take it because it’s coffee … and because ignoring him seems impossible. “You’re up early for someone who doesn’t like taking orders.”
“Didn’t sleep much.” His eyes roll over me, catching the mess of my hair, the faded tee I threw on. His grin deepens. “Guess I was thinkin’ about that dance.”
I tighten my grip on the cup. “You were drunk.”
He shakes his head. “Two light beers don’t make me drunk. I remember every second. Especially how mad you were.”
“Mad is my natural state when you’re involved.”
He chuckles. “Then I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”
I step aside, motioning to the small table by the window. “If you’re here for a briefing, sit. If you’re here to flirt, leave.”
He sits. “Can’t a man do both?”
“We have a press meet at nine, then sponsor photos, and a signing event at noon. Try not to set anything on fire before then.”
He leans back in the chair, legs stretched out. He’s the picture of relaxed defiance. “You really think I’m that bad?”
“I think you like being that bad.”
He grins. “Depends on who’s judging.”
I pretend to scroll through notes, but my heart’s beating too fast. He’s watching me … really watching, eyes soft instead of sharp for once. It does something unwise to my pulse.
“You don’t have to look at me like I’m a ticking bomb,” he says quietly. “You can just … talk.”
That throws me off. “Talk about what?”
“Why you hate your job so much.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Last night, you looked like someone who wanted to be anywhere else. Like you’ve been doin’ this too long.”
“I don’t hate my job.”
He studies me like he’s calling a bluff. “Sure about that?”
I swallow hard. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you keeping your image clean.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But sometimes I think you’re tryin’ to scrub somethin’ off yourself, too.”
That hits deeper than I want it to. I grab my tablet, trying to break the moment. “We leave in ten minutes.”
He stands, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. “Can’t wait. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the scent of coffee and cedar soap hanging in the air, along with the inconvenient truth that I’m no longer sure who’s managing who.
Chapter 8
Cash
I’ve faced rank bulls with less patience than what it takes waiting on Savannah Brooks. She told me ten minutes. That was twenty ago.
I lean against the hood of the truck, coffee in hand, hat tilted to block the morning sun. Every time I think I’ve got her figured out, she flips the damn script. One minute she’s scolding me like a Sunday school teacher, the next she’s standing in the doorway lookin’ like a sin I wouldn’t mind confessing’.
