Page 22 of Hawt Cowboy
I swallow a laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sigh.
Another flash.
“Excellent,” the photographer says. “Let’s do one last shot. Cash, tilt her chin up just a bit. Savannah, look at him like you mean it.”
I start to protest, but his fingers are already under my chin, lifting gently. Our eyes meet again, and suddenly I’m not acting anymore. Neither is he.
The shutter clicks. Once. Twice.
“Perfect,” the photographer says, backing away. “Got it. That’s a wrap.”
We stay there too long, his hand still at my jaw, my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the photographer disappears toward the tent, Cash moves first. Or maybe I do.
Either way, our mouths meet halfway.
It’s not planned. It’s not posed. It’s not pretend.
It’s soft at first -- very hesitant -- then deeper. A kiss that’s real enough to shatter every rule I swore I’d follow. By the time we pull apart, I can’t remember who started it, only that I didn’t really want it to stop.
Cash looks down at me, breathing rough, voice low. “Guess we gave ’em their headline.”
I take a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
But what I don’t say -- what I can’t say is that I’m terrified this isn’t just pretend anymore.
Chapter 16
Cash
Iswear the sun’s never looked so damn golden as it does right now, dipping low behind the sponsor ranch and throwing streaks of light across the open field. The whole place feels like a postcard — white fences, dinner tables set under string lights, soft guitar music floating on the breeze.
Savannah’s standing beside me. Her hair blows wild in the wind—careless, beautiful. I notice the pink on her cheeks from the long afternoon. She’s stunning — everything I want to keep and hold precious. Each time she laughs, it warms my heart because it means she’s dropped that whole mean girl boss vibe she’s been carrying around. Seems like this fake relationship is helping, not hurting a damn thing.
Dinner’s being served by the ranch owners, the Harts. They’re good people, all hospitality and charm. When Mrs. Hart comes over with her warm smile, she says, “Y’all are welcome tostay the night. No sense driving after all that wine. We’ve got a guest room ready.”
Savannah starts to politely decline, but I cut in. “That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am. We’d be honored.”
She shoots me a glare, but Mrs. Hart beams. “It’s settled then. You’ll have the upstairs suite. View of the pasture and a big ol’ king-size bed. Can’t beat that.”
I almost choke on my drink. Savannah’s fork stills midair.
Mrs. Hart doesn’t notice, bless her. She pats my arm and moves on. I glance at Savvy. She’s blinking at her wine glass like it might hold the will to live. “Relax,” I murmur. “We’ve survived one room before.”
“That room had two beds.”
I grin. “This one has a view.”
Dinner stretches long — laughter, small talk, another glass of wine. Maybe two too many. Savannah’s trying to stay composed, but her guard’s slipping. I can see it in the way she leans a little closer when she laughs, the way her fingers tap against the stem of her glass when I look at her too long. By the time dessert’s over, the ranch glows with strings of light like a constellation come to earth.
We thank the Harts, and Mrs. Hart leads us upstairs. “Now, y’all just make yourselves comfortable. There’s a fire in the sitting room if you want it, and that big tub in the bathroom’s perfect for two. Towels are fresh and fluffy.”
I don’t dare look at Savannah after that 'perfect for two’ comment. I can already feel the heat rolling off her. When the door closes behind us, the silence is thick enough to taste. The mood changes as we check out our accommodations. A definite upgrade from motel on the road life.
The room is stunning with warm wood beams, a big stone fireplace, and a picture window looking out over the fields. Thebed is massive, draped in cream linen and a quilt that looks handmade.
Savannah sets her purse on the dresser, jaw tight. “One bed.”
