Page 26 of Hawt Cowboy
I reach around her, groping for a towel, but end up palming her ass instead. She jumps, then giggles. It’s genuine, unguarded, the kind of laugh that hits me right in the belly.
“Not a mop in sight, Dalton. You’ll just have to drip dry.”
Savannah kisses my chin, then hops out of the tub, trailing water across the marble tiles in a way that probably breaks every rule in Mrs. Hart’s guest etiquette manual. I watch her move, the play of muscle and curve, and I want her all over again, but she’s already snatching for towels and tossing one in my direction.
“You’re such a menace,” she says, draping it around her shoulders and cinching it tight. Her face glows, lips swollen, eyes soft, and for a wild second I want to say the thing that’s been chewing at my tongue for days now. But I don’t. Not yet. I want it to be more than just a fuck and a hookup. I want it to be a real thing, and I want her to know it. I’ll find the right time.
Chapter 18
Savannah
Iswear I want to stay here next to Cash for hours. But, there’s another rodeo waiting for this man to ride in. I glance around the room, my eyes adjusting. Filtered light flows soft and golden through the ranch-house curtains, spilling across the quilt in lazy stripes. Somewhere outside, I hear the sound of a distant mower and someone whistling.
Cash is already up, pulling his shirt over that broad back, sunlight catching the edges of his hair. Damn, he looks good. He glances at me and grins. “Mornin’, Brooks.”
“Morning,” I answer, voice still husky from sleep. The sight of him should be illegal this early.
We dress, straighten the room, and head downstairs to find the Harts waiting with coffee that smells like heaven.
“Did y’all sleep well?” Mrs. Hart asks, all knowing eyes and sweetness.
Cash answers before I can. “Best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long while, ma’am.”
I shoot him a look, but she just beams. “You two come back anytime. Always nice to have lovebirds in the house again.”
“Thank you both for your hospitality,” I manage, cheeks warm.
Mr. Hart insists on packing us a small paper sack of muffins “for the road,” and we thank them again before heading out to the truck. The air is bright and clean, the kind that promises a new start.
An hour later, we pull into a roadside diner that looks straight out of an old western postcard — weathered wood siding, wagon-wheel benches, neon sign buzzing faintly in the morning sun. A hand-painted mural of cowboys riding into the sunset stretches across one wall.
Inside, it smells like bacon, biscuits, and stories. Ceiling fans spin slow above red-vinyl booths. A waitress with fringe on her apron waves us to a table by the window.
Cash leans back, eyes sweeping the place. “Now this is my kind of joint.”
“Mine too,” I admit, surprising both of us.
He studies me across the table, grin softening. “You look different today.”
“How so?”
“Like you belong here. That skirt, those boots, that hat…” He pauses, eyes crinkling at the corners. “If Stetson ever needs a new poster girl, they’d better call you first.”
I laugh, stirring cream into my coffee to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “You think flattery works on me?”
He tips his hat. “I don’t think, darlin’. I know.”
The waitress delivers plates piled high with pancakes, bacon and sausage. For a little while, the world feels small and easy. Just the two of us and the hum of old country musicdrifting from the jukebox. And maybe it is easy. Maybe I’ve spent too much time complicating everything.
I shoot Cash a smile — a knowing one. What we did last night was the highlight of my life. I’ve never been so turned on, yet had so much fun with anyone.
When we finally step back outside, the sun is already climbing high, turning the chrome on the truck mirror bright as fire. I realize I left my phone in the truck and I reach to check it.
One missed call from Marlene. Figures. I call her back.
“Savannah!” Her voice bursts through the speaker like static and caffeine. “How’s my favorite PR miracle worker? I saw the latest photos. They’re stunning!”
“Good, glad you like them. I have to admit … I haven’t seen them.”
