Page 7 of Hawt Cowboy
“Relax,” he murmurs. “We’re just sellin’ the image.”
“It feels more like you’re buying trouble.”
“Maybe I like the price.”
I mean to pull back, but the music keeps us moving. My body knows how to sway even when my mind’s screamingstop. His chest brushes mine with every turn, and I can smell the mix of leather, soap and the faint burn of whiskey on his breath.
Focus Savannah. You’re here for spin control. Try to keep your professional distance.
Except there’s no distance. We’re close as we can be … well, almost. The heat from his body slides through the thin space between us, warm and dangerous. I can feel the flex of his chest every time he laughs.
He leans in enough that his hat brim touches my hair. “You look good when you’re mad.”
“That’s convenient,” I whisper. “It’s my default setting around you.”
He laughs—a low rumble that almost feels indecent. The sound sends heat crawling up my neck. Around us, a few phoneslift higher. Flashes explode in white bursts. Reality slams back in. Cameras. Fans. Career implosion.
I step away so fast his hand slips from my waist. “Congratulations, Dalton. You just made tomorrow’s front page.”
He grins, unbothered. “Good. Maybe they’ll spell your name right too, sweetheart.”
I freeze. The floor tilts. He tips his hat, half bow, half tease, and the flash of another phone blinds me.
Tomorrow I’ll spin the story,I think, turning toward the exit.Tonight, I just have to survive the man.
Chapter 6
Cash
Savannah Brooks walks off that dance floor like she’s stomping out sparks -- and hell if it doesn’t make me want to strike another match.
Who does she think she is, ordering me around like I’m some rookie still learning to ride? She’s got rules, schedules, and a voice that could stop a bull mid-charge.
Problem is, I like it. She fits against me like a secret I shouldn’t have learned … soft, perfect, already memorized.
The sway of her hips as she disappears through the crowd shouldn’t hit me the way it does. But it does.
I toss back what’s left of my beer, set the bottle on the table, and start after her. I’m not about to let her walk out thinking she won this round.
She’s by the doorway, tablet clutched like a digital security blanket. I slide in front of her before she escapes.
“Leaving already, sweetheart?” I drawl, letting the word roll slow just to see that flicker in her eyes -- the one caught somewhere between fury and something she doesn’t want to name.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Yeah, and I told you I don’t take orders real well.”
Her jaw tightens. “Then maybe start learning, because I’m not your fan club. My job is to keep you out of trouble.”
I lean close enough for her to smell the leather and dust still clinging to me. “Funny thing, I was thinkin’ you were the one draggin’ me into it.”
She exhales, frustrated, eyes darting to the bar where a couple of phones are still lifted. “One more photo of you getting into trouble and Marlene’s gonna have both our hides.”
I smirk, lowering my voice. “Then stop scolding me and start dancin’ again. That’s the shot they’ll remember.”
She blinks, caught off guard, and before she can argue, I take her hand firmly, but not rough, and guide her back toward the floor as the band shifts into another slow number. She quickly places her tablet in her bag and sets it on the dance floor in front of the stage.
Her palm fits against mine like it was made for it. She’s stiff as a fence post at first, fighting every bit of give in her body. I slide my other hand to the small of her back, feel her breath hitch, and that’s when the real fun begins.
