Page 9 of Hawt Cowboy
“Uh-uh,” she says. “You’re not driving. You’ve been drinking.”
“Light beer,” I protest.
“Doesn’t matter.” She holds out her hand for the keys, palm steady, voice firm. “Give them here.”
For a heartbeat, I just stare at her. Not the tight-lipped handler Marlene sent, but the woman who smells like wildflowers. The one who makes me want to test every line she draws.
Finally, I drop the keys into her hand. “You always this bossy?”
“Only when someone needs it.”
She climbs in, starts the engine, and I slide into the passenger seat. The truck rumbles to life.
As we pull onto the dirt road, I glance sideways. She’s focused on the dark highway ahead, jaw tight, hair falling loose.
“Thanks for savin’ my career tonight,” I say, half teasing.
Her eyes glance toward me, then back to the road. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve still got a reputation to rebuild.”
“Guess I’ll need your help with that.”
She exhales through her nose, that little sound she makes when she’s trying not to laugh. “You need a miracle, Dalton.”
I grin, stretching an arm behind her seat. “Good thing I believe in divine intervention.”
She shakes her head, fighting a smile that finally breaks free. “You are insufferable.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, watching her profile in the glow of the dash. “But you’re still here.”
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away either. And for the first time tonight, I figure maybe that’s its own kind of victory.
Chapter 7
Savannah
Morning light slices through the cheap motel curtains like judgment. What part of me feels guilty? I roll onto my back, one arm flung across my eyes, and replay last night in fragments remembering the neon lights, the smell of beer, and the feel of Cash’s hand at the small of my back. How can I forget the way he smiled each time when he knew it got to me?
Lord help me!
I’m supposed to be immune to charm. It’s literally in the job description. Yet one slow dance with Cash Dalton and I’m standing on the edge of professional disaster.
A text buzzes on my phone. Marlene, of course.
Status report?
I type back:Alive. So is he. No fights, no arrests.
Before I can hit send, I hear the unmistakable sound of a man whistling outside my door. Deep, lazy, and entirely too pleased with himself.
I close my eyes. Please, no. Then a knock. Three slow raps.
I glance down at myself in a tank top, no bra, silky pajama shorts, bare feet on cool tile, hair a tousled mess that even a miracle couldn’t tame. Fantastic. Exactly how every professional dreams of greeting a client.
I open the door to find Cash leaning against the frame, hat in hand, coffee cup in the other. His jeans are new but his grin is the same old trouble.
“Mornin’, boss lady.”
“Don’t call me that.”
