Page 15 of Hawt Cowboy
When the fan bounces away, I turn on him, whispering sharply, “Donotsay things like that.”
“Why not? Sounded believable, didn’t it?”
“That’s the problem.”
He leans close, murmuring so only I can hear. “Then maybe we’re doin’ this right.”
By the time the last autograph is signed, I’m running on fumes. The day’s been a circus, and all I want is a shower, silence, and maybe a time machine to undo every life choice that led me here.
We pull into the motel near the next arena stop — a low, sun-bleached building with a flickering vacancy sign that looks one power surge away from dying.
The clerk is already waiting behind the counter, two keycards in hand. “Reservation for Dalton and Brooks,” he says brightly. “One room, two double beds. Paid in full by your agency.”
My stomach drops. “Excuse me? There must be a mistake. We needseparaterooms.”
He shakes his head. “Afraid not, ma’am. Your booking came through from a Ms. Tate herself. Said this was exactly what you wanted.”
Cash’s grin spreads slow and wicked. “Looks like Marlene’s taking this fake-dating thing real serious.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is thereanyother room available?”
“Sorry,” the clerk says. “We’re full up. Next nearest place is forty miles down the highway.”
Forty miles. After a twelve-hour day.
I exhale through my nose, jaw tight enough to crack. “Fine,” I mutter. “One room. Two beds.”
Cash tips his hat to the clerk like he just won something. “Appreciate it, partner.”
As we head down the narrow hallway, my voice drops to a hiss. “Don’t even start.”
He chuckles, swinging the key around his finger. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Though I’ve got to hand it to Marlene -- she sure knows how to sell the story.”
Inside the room, I toss my bag onto the nearest bed and glare at the floral-print curtains. “Unbelievable,” I mutter. “I’m documenting this for HR. And for the record, if you so much as snore, you’ll be moving outside.”
Cash laughs, deep and warm. “Darlin’, you keep talking like that, I might just behave myself.”
Cash tosses his hat onto one bed and drops his duffel beside it. “You take the bathroom first.”
I grab my overnight bag and retreat faster than dignity allows. The shower helps, but not enough. When I come out, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, barefoot, flipping through channels on the television. His T-shirt clings to his shoulders. He looks … comfortable.
“Don’t you dare make this weird,” I warn.
He glances over, that half grin tugging his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I roll my eyes and climb into my bed, facing away from him. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Brooks.”
A few minutes later, the light clicks off. The sound of the air conditioner fills the silence. I close my eyes, but all I can think about is his low, steady breathing from the next bed — and how every line between real and pretend feels thinner by the minute.
Chapter 12
Cash
She’s pacing the length of the motel room like a cat in a cage, muttering about how “professional boundaries” are sacred. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, boots off, watching her.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she snaps.
