I've got a list a mile long of things I was planning to do before she got here, starting withshave properlyand ending withpretend I’m not a washed-up has-been.
I'm batting zero on both counts, and she’s due to arrive tomorrow morning.
So when I hear tires on gravel down at the end of the drive, I assume it's a propane delivery or Clay Henshaw stopping by on his bike to tell me that the Timberline's running a burger special and I should come down soon.
But the truck that rolls up is a dust-dulled silver Chevy with Montana plates and a horse-trailer hitch, and when the driver's door opens, every thought I had queued up in my head…disappears.
The woman is a stunner.
In Hollywood, I met glamorous actresses and beautiful models with faces and bodies you could only dream about. And I'm telling you, the woman who just stepped out of that truck and is staring at my house, makes them all look ho-hum.
She’s lean, tall-ish, and her dark hair is tied back in a knot that's already losing the fight. She’s in worn jeans, scuffed boots, a faded tank under an open flannel, and she’s got the kind of posture that says she doesn’t mind getting dirty or taking you to task for being a lazy SOB.
No makeup that I can see…just a body and an attitude that’s already makin’ me stiff in my jeans.
And my heart doesn’t do the polite little flutter you get when a pretty woman smiles at you in a bar. This is a full-body check into the floorboards, and I have about three seconds to get my face in order before she looks toward me.
When she does, I put on the grin that’s carried me through years of hot and heavy nights.
"What can I do for you, ma'am?" I call from the porch, tipping my chin up.
She stops in the yard, one hand on her hip, and takes her time studying me, from the propped ankle and probably the unruly scruff framing my smile.
"You Beck Aldridge?"
"Depends who's asking."
"Laurel Dempsey."
My brain, already operating under reduced conditions, takes another half-second to catch up.Laurel?As in Maverick's sister? As in my horse trainer?
As in the woman currently standing in my yard in a pair of jeans I could rip off with my teeth?
"You're early."
"I like to get a jump on things,” she says, and obviously realizes too late how I’d take that.
My brows fly up my forehead, and I drag my gaze from her boots back to her eyes. “I have no problem with that."
She still hasn't smiled.
I ease myself forward in the rocker, and with as much dignity as a man in my position can muster, make it to my feet.
The crutches that I rarely use lean against the rail about eight inches farther than my pride will admit I can reach, and I'm not about to go scrambling for them now. I get down the porch steps one at a time—good leg, bad leg, good leg,curse silently, bad leg—and by the time I'm on flat ground, she's in front of me with her arms crossed, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair.
She’s got green eyes.Fuck, me."Mav told me a lot about you, but he left out an important detail."
“What?”
“That his little sister is a goddamn knockout."
She doesn't even blink. “You expected mybrotherto tell you that?”
I shrug. “It’s possible.”
“I came for the paycheck,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And the horse.”
"Lucky horse."
