Page 2 of Hawt Cowboy
Cash Dalton is still surrounded by reporters and a wall of fans that part and re-form like a living thing each time he raises that lethal smile. He’s taller up close, broader too, sweat tracking a clean line through arena dust at his temple. His hat’s pushed back just enough to show off those green eyes, and every camera flash loves him as much as he loves it back.
Here he is … my new assignment. My last chance, if Marlene’s email is more threat than pep talk.
I wait while he signs a kid’s brim with a flourish that turns the mother’s knees to water. He side-hugs a woman in a sequined tee that reads JUST LASSO ME, and I hear the shutter clicks from ten phones. The rodeo announcer is still booming his name over the loudspeakers like a benediction from the Church of Bad Decisions.
Time to work.
“Savannah Brooks.” I step forward, smile professional and small. “Public relations. The board sent me.”
He doesn’t take my hand right away. He looks at it like he’s deciding whether to shake or kiss it. One corner of his mouth tips higher. “Guess they finally decided I need a babysitter.”
“I prefer the termdamage control.” I don’t lower my hand.
His palm is warm and calloused when he finally closes around mine. A low-voltage shock skims up my arm. He holds a fraction too long, confident enough to turn even a handshake into theater. Finally, he lets go, thumb dragging my knuckles. His hand dwarfs mine. It’s warm, rough, and entirely too sure of itself. For a moment, I forget the checklist in my head and remember I’m still human.
“Cash Dalton,” he says, as if the grandstands didn’t chant it. “Hope you brought a big mop, sweetheart.”
“I brought contracts, schedules, and a list of things you’re never doing again.”
That grin. Wide enough to be a dare. “Can I see the list?”
“Not until you promise to read it.”
“Darlin’, I don’t read anything unless it’s got my name at the top and a dollar sign next to it.”
“Perfect,” I say sweetly. “Page one.”
He laughs, and it’s a rich, easy sound that vibrates through my ribs despite every wall I’ve mortared into place. Focus, Brooks. You’re here to fix him, not feel him.
A reporter elbows in from my left. “Cash! One forThe Okie Ledger?”
I pivot, already a buffer. “Two minutes,” I say, professional smile back in place. “Then he’s due for medical check and sponsor quotes.”
Cash cocks a brow at me. “Am I?”
“You are now.”
I run the quick hit with the reporter—two softballs and a local angle about lifting up young riders—nudging Cash with my shoulder when his answers start drifting toward cocky. He adjusts, to my surprise. Plays the hero instead of the hell-raiser, lines up beneath my cue cards like he can read them off my face.
Interesting.
When the reporter thanks us and peels away, Cash leans in. His voice drops into a private register that feels like a gloved hand closing around a secret. “You always boss a man around before you know what he likes?”
“I don’t manage your likes, Mr. Dalton. I manage your outcomes.”
“Tell that to the way you nudged me.” His eyes flick to my shoulder, then back to my mouth like he’s imagining a different kind of pressure. “Thought I might owe you dinner for that save.”
“No dinners,” I say softly. No second chances. No bracelets shared with other women. “There’s a sponsor corral in fifteen. You’ll thank them by name, you’ll pose with their signs, and you will not—under any circumstance—make a joke about their beer tasting like pond water.”
He presses a hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“You did,” I say. “Twice. Last season.”
He looks—briefly—caught. Then he smiles like a man who never met a fence he couldn’t clear. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“Your file reads like a fireworks manual. I’m just here to label the fuses.”
He laughs again, but there’s something else underneath it now—curiosity, maybe. A flicker that says he’s not used to a woman refusing to be charmed and sticking the landing. The crowd shifts, pulling his attention. A handler waves. A girl with a poster board sign declares herself FUTURE MRS. DALTON in glitter glue.
