A Cowboy of Her Own. Marin Thomas

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      Holy smokes. Someone would have to put a loaded gun to his head before he answered that question.

      She fluffed her hair. “And I’m not a blonde.”

      “I like your dark hair.” Especially when she wore it loose and the strands fell across her shoulders.

      “I don’t have curves.”

      He put one hand on each hip and his fingertips almost met in the middle of her back. “Your curves are perfect.” He wanted to slide his hands beneath her shirt and caress her naked skin.

      “Plus, I’m short.”

      “You’re the perfect height.” If he pulled her against him, the top of her head would fit snugly beneath his chin. All this talk about her imperfect body played havoc with his male anatomy, and his jeans grew uncomfortably tight. “You finished?”

      “Finished with what?”

      “Your tirade.”

      She stamped her foot on top of his boot.

      “Ouch!” He dropped his hands from her waist.

      “I don’t know why I ever thought you were cute.”

      He grinned. “You think I’m cute?”

      “I used to back in high school.”

      Porter recalled one afternoon when Wendy visited the pecan farm and her eyes had followed him when he and his brothers had played football in the yard.

      “Now you’re nothing but a...a...”

      “Go on.”

      “A...a...womanizer!”

      He couldn’t deny the charge. He’d flirted with a lot of cowgirls through the years, but what most people didn’t know was that he could count on a single hand—minus the thumb and forefinger—the number of one-night stands he’d had. He wasn’t a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. He liked spending time with a woman and getting to know her. And right now he was thinking he’d really like to get to know Wendy as more than his sister’s friend.

      “Well, say something!”

      “You’ve had too much to drink.”

      “And you’ve got a big ego.”

      Big ego? He couldn’t think of anything he’d done or accomplished that was important enough to brag about. He was nothing better or worse than a down-home country boy. “It’s one in the morning and we haven’t checked into a motel yet.”

      “For a guy who enjoys partying, you’re in a hurry to end the night.”

      Porter regretted bullying her into proving she knew how to have fun. If he’d known it would be a touchy subject with her, he never would have suggested they stop for a drink. “Hop in the truck, Wendy.”

      “Is it true what your sister said? That the reason you date airheads is because you have no self-confidence?”

      Ouch.

      “Dixie thinks you’re afraid of girls with brains because they’ll see through you.”

      The conversation was becoming less and less amusing. “See through me to what?” As soon as he asked the question he wanted to take it back. Arguing with an inebriated woman was not a smart thing to do.

      “See that you’re intimidated by smart women. Women who have more than big boobs and pretty faces going for them.”

      He reacted without thinking, grabbing her shoulders and pressing her against the side of the trailer. “Just remember—” his mouth hovered above hers “—I gave you a chance to shut up.” Then he kissed her.

      Porter expected Wendy to push him away—instead, she curled her arms around his neck and sank into his body. Her mouth was soft and inviting and by his second pass across her lips, he was lost. Needing more, he flicked his tongue against the corner of her mouth, and she opened to him. She tasted like sweet whiskey and he couldn’t get enough of her no matter which way he angled his head. When her tongue entered his mouth, he groaned at the electric zap that shot through his chest and headed south to his groin. With her body plastered against him, it was impossible to hide his arousal from her. Only when Wendy’s moan drifted into his mouth did he realize he was cupping her breast.

      The soft mound fit perfectly in his palm, and he wanted nothing more than to strip off her shirt and bra and see her naked. He moved his hand to the back of her head and held her steady as he deepened the kiss.

      The rumble of a car engine reminded him that they were standing outside in plain view, and he ended the kiss slowly...a nibble here. A nibble there. The lights in the parking lot provided enough illumination for him to make out Wendy’s expression. Dazed was the best word to describe her vacant stare.

      “Was that the kiss of a man who’s intimidated by a smart, savvy woman?”

      Wendy opened her mouth but no words came out and she didn’t protest when he set his hands on her waist and lifted her into the truck cab. He shut the door and got in on the driver’s side. He was afraid to look at Wendy, because he knew she wouldn’t stop him if he tried to kiss her again.

      “Porter.”

      He kept his eyes on the steering wheel. “What?”

      “You’re a good kisser.”

      Swallowing a groan, he turned the key in the ignition and shifted gear. The motel wasn’t far, but Wendy fell asleep before he’d even driven a mile. When they arrived at the Holiday Inn Express, the parking lot was jammed. He left a snoozing Wendy locked in the cab and went into the motel to register.

      “I’m sorry, we only have one room left,” the night manager said.

      “Okay, I’ll check out the Best Western.”

      “They’re full up, too. Hampton Ball Bearing is hosting its national conference this week and the motels in town are all booked. The room I have available was a late cancellation.”

      The ball-bearing gods were conspiring against Porter. “I’ll take the room.” He handed over his credit card. “And I need a rollaway.”

      “I’m afraid all the rollaway beds are in use.”

      Great. Porter signed on the dotted line, then slid the key cards into his pocket and returned to the truck. “Hey, sleepyhead.” He shook Wendy’s shoulder. “We’re at the motel.”

      He helped her from the cab, then made sure she was steady on her feet before he grabbed the overnight bags and locked the truck. Their room was on the first floor next to the exit, and he ushered her inside, then locked the door.

      “What’s wrong?” he asked when she scowled at him.

      “Is this my room or yours?”

      “We’re sharing the room.”

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