Page 21 of Hawt Cowboy
“No. Just … trying not to melt.”
“You sure it’s the heat?”
I spin around to glare, only to catch a full view of him pulling the new shirt over his shoulders. The motion is fluid, muscles shifting under sun-browned skin. He grins because he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“You keep sayin’ that, but you’re still here.”
I grab my outfit from the rack. It’s a soft chambray shirt and a flowing skirt that hits mid-thigh. The skirt thing is new for me – something I don’t usually wear. But fighting it will only make things worse.
“Turn around,” I order.
He smirks but obeys, whistling under his breath while I change.
When I’m done, he turns back and stops cold. His grin fades into something quieter, heavier. “Damn, Brooks.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
He holds up his hands. “Just sayin’. You look … so right.”
“Thanks, Cash. Maybe after I powder my face and touch up my make-up, I’ll feel more positive about having photos taken again.”
“Can I watch?”
“Watch what?”
“Watch you do your face. I love to see a woman doing that. Used to watch my mama at times.”
“Well, I guess. If that keeps you quiet for a moment or two.”
As I hurry through an ordinary procedure, Cash has me feeling as if I’m under a microscope. I laugh a little under my breath as he studies my cosmetic application techniques.
“Should we put a little powder on you so you’re not glistening?” I ask, sarcastically.
“Brooks, I’ve come to the conclusion that I might let you do just about anything to me … as long as …”
Before he can finish, the photographer bursts in. “Perfect! Let’s get you two outside while the light’s still soft.”
They set us up in front of a weathered barn. The air smells like hay, horses, and well, horse manure.
“Okay,” the photographer calls out. “Let’s start simple. Cash, arm around her waist. Savannah, angle your face toward him. Gorgeous!”
I can feel his palm at my back, hot even through the fabric. The first click of the camera flashes like lightning.
“Now, look at each other,” the photographer says.
Bad idea, I’m thinking.
His eyes lock on mine. They’re amused, and a little too knowing.
“Closer,” the photographer calls. “Perfect tension right there. Beautiful.”
Cash’s thumb brushes a small circle against my side. It’s barely a touch, but my pulse goes wild.
“Let’s get one where you’re laughing,” the photographer says. “Something candid.”
Cash leans in and murmurs against my ear, “I can think of a few ways to make that happen.”
