Page 5 of Hawt Cowboy
“I’m here to work.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She sighs. “No. I haven’t.”
“You should. Reminds folks why they fell in love with this mess in the first place.”
“Love has nothing to do with it,” she says, but the words sound like she’s trying to convince herself.
We reach the back gate. Her vehicle is parked on the other side of the lot. I lean against the rail, arms folded. “You drive all this way just to babysit me?”
“It’s called oversight.”
“I’d call it destiny.”
She gives me a look that would stop a stampede. “Save it, Dalton. I know your type.”
“Do you?” I push off the rail and close the distance between us, slow enough she could step back if she wanted. She doesn’t. “Then tell me what type I am.”
“The kind who thinks charm is the same as sincerity.” Her eyes meet mine, unwavering. “The kind who forgets women remember the difference.”
That lands harder than I expect. For a second, the noise of the fairgrounds blurs, and I’m back at the kitchen table two years ago, telling Kenzie I’d found someone worth slowing down for. The girl from Amarillo with the easy laugh. By the time I got home from the next leg of the circuit, she’d taken the truck, my dog, and every bit of peace I’d had left.
Maybe Savannah’s not wrong about the type. Maybe I built the swagger to keep anyone from seeing the wreckage underneath.
“Maybe I’m tryin’ to change the definition,” I say finally.
“Try harder.” She turns, heading toward the parking lot lights.
I watch her go. Her walk’s deliberate, shoulders straight, but I can tell by the way she fidgets with her purse that she feels me watching. Every step of hers makes me want to follow, and that’s dangerous territory. I’ve spent years staying a step ahead of sponsors, women, and the past. She’s the first one who makes me want to slow down.
Kenzie’s voice floats through my head—my little sister, calling last week to report she and Matt are expecting.
“You keep running, Cash, you’ll miss the good things when they show up.” Maybe this is what she meant.
The band’s playing louder now … a love song wrapped in steel guitar and smoke. I picture Savannah at the edge of that dance floor, arms crossed, pretending she doesn’t want to move. I picture the look she’d give me when I hold out my hand anyway.
I shake the thought off, but it sticks. She’s got under my skin faster than any woman I’ve met, and I don’t even have her number yet.
Thunder grumbles somewhere beyond the arena. The air turns cooler. I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache start to settle in. Tomorrow it’ll be bruises and paperwork, same as always. But tonight, the world feels different … like I just rode eight seconds inside a storm and stuck the landing.
I glance back toward the tent, half expecting her to appear again. Nothing but dust and light. Still, I swear I can feel the imprint she left … her scent, her voice, the challenge in her stare.
“You think I can’t be tamed, sweetheart,” I mutter to the empty air. “Maybe I’m the one hopin’ you don’t stop tryin’.”
The storm breaks a little in the distance, a line of silver slicing the horizon. I breathe it in. Rain, sweat, and electricity. It’s a wild combination and it fits me like a glove.
Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s her. Either way, I know one thing as sure as I know the feel of a rope in my hand.
The ride’s just getting started.
Chapter 5
Savannah
The fairgrounds disappear behind me in the rearview, a blur of lights and dust. I’ve got the air conditioning on low and the radio off, trying to think, needing to take a deep breath. The tablet on the passenger seat blinks with unread messages from sponsors. For once I don’t want to look at them.
The Bluetooth chime cuts through the silence. It’s Marlene Tate.Oh boy!I thumb the steering-wheel button. “Brooks.”
