I shoot him a look. “Are you insulting my company?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes at me. “No, I’m insultingyou. If anything, yourcompanyshould be warned before entering.”
I chuckle, pulling out a bag of shredded cheese and then hunting in the pantry for tortilla chips. “There’s nothing wrong with sex, Harrison, you should try it sometime.”
I can practically feel Harrison’s eye roll.
“And for your information, I do get tested. And I’msafe,so those tests come up empty.” I shoot him a meaningful look before popping my plate of chips and cheese in the microwave.
Harrison laughs at that. “Good to know.”
Despite—or perhapsbecause of—the constant ribbing, Harrison and I are best friends. Have been since the secondgrade. Cedar Ridge, Montana isn’t all that big of a place, and I think we both felt lucky to have found best friends in each other so early in our lives. Growing up, we did everything together. School, sports, extracurriculars. We even dated a few of the same girls in high school. It’s not as unusual, and therefore dramatic, as one might think. Living in a small town means there are few options. So yes, we might have punched each other out a few times, but we always got over it.
And even now, we have essentially the same job. We’re ranch hands on Thatcher Ranch. It’s one of the biggest cattle ranches in the west and pretty much accounts for most of the town’s economy. And it’s a great place to work. Harrison’s also a rodeo athlete, so he’s often gone from the ranch, traveling the circuit, and works at Thatcher Ranch during his off season.
Speaking of which … it’s a bit late for both of us to be up considering we have to be at work at 7 a.m. “What are you doing up?” I ask, pulling my nachos out of the microwave and digging in.
Harrison makes a face. “My truck’s been acting up. Just spent the last few hours trying to fix it out in the parking lot.”
I offer a sympathetic grimace.
“I’m not quite ready to admit defeat, but I might need to take it to a mechanic.”
“Rough stuff,” I mutter.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Eh, I’ll live.” With that, he crumples up the now finished bag of potato chips he’d been munching on and tosses it in the trash. “Well, I’m going to bed. Night, Graham.”
“Night,” I mumble through a mouthful of nachos as he crosses the living room and disappears through his bedroom door.
I stand in the kitchen, finishing my snack under the dim glow of the overhead light. And ten minutes later, I’m crawling into bed and dozing off.
Chapter three
Delilah
I’m about to smash my head into a wall. With a groan, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing viciously. Maybe if I rub hard enough, it’ll get to my brain. Restart it or something. Becausesomethingneeds to happen in order for me to get through this day. This week.
This project.
It’s been four days since I agreed to write the romance book. And the first three days went well. I mean, most books don’tstart outwith a sex scene, so I was fine and dandy until … now. I wrote the intro, the meet cute, set up the stakes and the conflict, all that good stuff. I’m working from an outline the “author” whipped up, so it was easy enough for me to cover some good ground in the first few days.
But I knew today was coming. And here it is.
Ellie and Parker are supposed to have sex today. Right now. In this goddamn scene I’m trying to write. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot, for the life of me, get them to do it.
I’d even spent the last few evenings preparing by reading as many spicy romances as I could find at the local bookstore. They lay scattered across my desk, full of sticky notes in prominent places. I’ve got the mechanics down—both of the actual act and the structure of the scenes. But for some stupid, unfathomable reason, I justcan’t write it.
“Pickles,” I moan, glancing over to his sleepy form perched on the windowsill. He gives a muted chirp in response. “Help me,” I beg.
But Pickles knows less about sex than I do. He may be the only one.
I huff out an aggravated sigh, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling. I’m about to psych myself up again and force another go when a knock at my front door startles me. Pickles springs from the windowsill and vanishes into my room.
Frowning, I stand, walking to the door and looking through the peephole. Curiosity spikes, and I open the door. “Hey,” I greet. “What do you want?”
My older brother, Harrison, stands on the threshold, shooting me one of his silly grins. “Hello, my sweet baby sister,” he sing-songs.
My eyes narrow, even as the corner of my mouth tugs up in a smirk. “What do you want?” I repeat.
