“Rawley?”
“Yes.” Skylar couldn’t help the blush creeping up her neck.
“Good choice. I’ll get another glass of water, then I’ll be right back to take your orders.” Connie winked before bustling away.
“Thanks, Connie.”
Skylar watched as Rawley glanced around, his eyes scanning the room until they locked with hers, and he grinned. As hemade his way through the tables in the center of the diner, his boots clicking on the tile, people kept stopping him to talk with friendly pats on his shoulder, and she noticed that most of the women were looking at him, their gazes lingering on his muscular frame in the tight T-shirt. When he finally reached the booth, he stood beside it, and that was when she noticed the holstered gun on his right hip and the gold badge hooked on his belt on his left. He wore a Kevlar vest with ‘Livestock Agent’ stitched on it.
“Would you mind moving to the other side? I don’t like my back to the door.”
“Oh, of course.” She slipped from the booth, moved to the other side, and slid onto the bench. Damn, he smelled good. She watched him remove his hat, and almost groaned. If she had to choose which look was best, with or without the hat, she’d never be able to make a choice. His dark hair was thick and curled on the ends at the nape of his neck. His eyes were so very, very, dark. She wanted to scrape her fingernails against the scruff on his jaw and neck. Damn. When he raked his fingers through his hair, she clenched her fists to keep from reaching out and doing it too.
Rawley sat down after she did.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself. How’s your day going?”
“Busy. You?”
“My character won’t talk.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Skylar laughed. “I’m an author and my character is refusing to talk.”
“I see. How long have you been doing that?”
“Fifteen years now. How long have you been a livestock agent?”
“Twenty years.”
“That’s a long time. You must enjoy it.”
“I do. My great-grandfather was a livestock agent, and I loved listening to him tell me about his day.” Rawley shrugged. “I’m glad to be making a difference out there.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“I’m in the theft department.”
“Theft? As in… rustling?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Skylar shook her head. “It’s hard to believe that still goes on, but growing up on a horse farm, I get it.”
“As long as there’s livestock, there will be rustlers.”
“I understand that. Some people will do anything.”
“Yes, they will.” He tilted his head.
“How old are you, Rawley?”
“Forty-two.”
She stared at him, then smiled. “I’m thirty-five.”
