Page 17 of Hawt Cowboy
“Coffee’s fine,” I say, staring straight ahead.
He chuckles. “You always this easy to please?”
“No,” I answer. “But I’m learning silence is safer.”
He laughs harder at that, and something about the sound slides right under my guard. We stop at a roadside diner for coffee to-go, and when we step back outside, he nods across the street. “Hey, that’s one of my sponsor’s stores.”
Sure enough, there it is —Wilder’s Western Wear, bold red letters on weathered wood, a window display of boots, belts, and embroidered shirts.
Before I can object, he’s already halfway across the street. “C’mon, Brooks. Time for wardrobe upgrades.”
“I have clothes,” I insist, following despite myself.
“You’ve got blazers and slacks,” he says, holding the door open with a grin. “You look like you’re headed to a board meeting, not a rodeo.”
“That’s because I’m not competing.”
“You’re with me,” he counters. “Which means you’re part of the show. Gotta look the part.”
The store smells like leather and cedar oil. Every surface gleams with cowboy polish — racks of pearl-snap shirts, jeans, tooled boots. The manager, a tall man with a handlebar mustache, lights up when he sees Cash.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in! Cash Dalton in my store again! And this must be the lady we’ve seen in the photos?”
I freeze. “Oh … the photos.”
Cash slides an arm around my waist before I can finish. “Yep, that’s her.” His hand is warm, steady, dangerously convincing.
The owner grins. “Well then, my friend, you and your girl need to sport our clothing and accessories all the time. Pick her out some pretty things – and you too, Cash. On the house. Miss Brooks, what size shoe do you wear?”
“Oh, no,” I protest immediately. “That’s not necessary.”
But Cash is already leading me toward a rack of blouses. “See, Brooks? Told you the universe agrees with me.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
He picks up a sleeveless ivory blouse with tiny pearl buttons and holds it up against me. “This one’s perfect. Shows off those shoulders.”
“I don’t know if that’s me.”
He ignores me, moving on to a denim skirt. “And this. I bet your legs would do this justice.”
I snatch it from him, shoving it back on the rack. “You’re insufferable.”
“Trust me, now.”
The owner reappears, carrying a stack of boxes. “Two pairs of boots for the lady, two western hats, and shirts. All of these are available in other sizes should she need them. Consider it part of the Dalton charm package.”
I try again. “This really isn’t necessary.”
Cash tips his hat. “Sponsor insists. Can’t argue with free marketing.”
I sigh, defeated. “Fine. But I’m paying for lunch.”
He grins. “Deal.”
An hour later, we step back into the sunshine. I’m wearing one of the new blouses — white with delicate turquoise stitching — tucked into my jeans. My old shoes are gone, replaced by brand-new boots that fit like they were made for me.
Cash whistles low. “Told you so.”
