Chapter Two
Chet
“Can I help you?”
I turn from admiring the bustling street scene outside a stylish corner office.In the doorway stands a rakish hunk looking twelve steps out of place in casual business attire, his long, rangy body and lean, chiseled face more befitting a Hollywood hunk than some local-yokel property manager in Arm Pit, Kentucky.
“Mr.Palmer?”I ask, with only a quick glance at the glossy, laminated press kit in my hand.Sounds like a minor thing, but after the morning I’ve had?Quite a feat, let me tell you.
Country Boy blushes and inches another step further into the office, off the rack loafers whispering across the laminate flooring beneath their size twelve (hubba, hubba) soles.
“That ...that was my Dad’s name,” he blurts, cheeky southern accent dripping with pure honey glaze.I struggle not to shiver at all the racy romcom tropes buzzing through my mind at the moment.“I ...I’m Grady.”
Grady.Fucking perfect.Grady.Because of course he is, the sexy little country bumpkin’.Of course he is.
I nod at his extended hand, taking another step closer to grip it.It’s warm, soft, and smooth, but also?Strong as fuck.I’ve shaken a thousand hands in my time at Wild West Studios, and no one has ever given me a grip quite so firm before.
“Grady?Palmer?”I tease before releasing my hand from his strong, masculine grip, tempted to smooth out the startled bones but resisting at the last minute.“So ...alsoMr.Palmer?”
“Sure, yeah, technically, but...”Grady waves one big, raw-boned hand toward a chair across from his desk.It’s clean, uncluttered, borderline sterile, like maybe he doesn’t spend much time in here?
I sink into it a moment before he eases down onto the corner of his desk, cool teacher style.My overstressed little heart flutters at my close proximity to his obviously packed crotch.“So, how can I help you today?”
I tut-tut playfully because quietly?Subtly?My gaydar is kind of bouncing off the charts right now.It’s nothing obvious, per se.No pride socks hiding beneath the predictably cuffed hems of his predictably khaki slacks.No rainbow-colored friendship bracelets around his gently furred wrist.No stolen glances in the quiet office or blushing cheeks beneath his hungry gaze, just ...something about long, lean, sexy Grady that makes me think we might play for the same team?
“I’m Chet Forrester,” I say patiently, partially so that I won’t get all gushy sitting in front of him, but also because honestly?He should know this shit already.“From Wild West Studios.”
Grady acts appropriately star-struck.“No shit?You mean, like, an actual real live studio, studio?”
I chuckle at his Gee Golly Willikers response.“Yes, Grady, I ...have you not been briefed on any of this yet?”
He snorts and then mutters as if to himself, shaking his head so that his sandy brown curls dance across his unlined forehead.“Briefed.Dossier.I feel like this is the dang White House or something all of a sudden.”
He stands slowly, inching around the corner of his desk as if tired of only half his ass resting on a solid surface.The chair he sinks into is squeaky, stiff, and from the look on his pretty boy face?Seems downright uncomfortable.
Again, the whole scene is giving off first day on the job vibes.
I sigh.Grady sure is pretty, and oh how nice it would be to hear that smooth, southern twang muttering sweet nothings in my ear all night, but I’m not in town to get railed breathless by some country bumpkin’, no matter how big his long, veiny hands are or how cute his sexy little dimples might be.
“Look, let’s start over, Grady,” I huff.Then, when his jaw sets stiffly, and his soft green eyes cloud menacingly, I beam a quick Hollywood smile and add, “Can I call you Grady?”
“Well,” he oozes, as if we’re about to set off on some cattle rustling adventure together.“That’s a far sight better than Mr.Palmer, I suppose.”
