Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII: The Cowboy Who Never Grew Up. Kimberly Raye

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      He arched an eyebrow. “Tom and Jerry?”

      “A golden retriever and a Chihuahua.” She meant to stop there, but he kept looking at her as if he expected more and the words slipped out on their own. “My mom passed away in a car accident when I was just a few months old. My dad traveled a lot, so I spent way too much time staring at the inside of a hotel room. He bought me videos to help pass the time. I had every cartoon collection out there, but the Tom and Jerry ones were my favorites.” A smile tugged at her lips. “My dogs are always roughhousing and fighting, and so the names seemed to fit. What about you?” Not that she cared, but it was better to talk than sit quietly and lust after him. “Any pets?”

      “Just one.”

      “And?” she prompted when he seemed hesitant to continue.

      “A miniature Yorkie named Tinkerbell.”

      “It figures.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “You’re the cowboy who refuses to grow up. I should have known you’d have a sidekick named Tinkerbell. But a Yorkie? What kind of a self-respecting badass buys a dog that can double as a powder puff?”

      He shrugged. “I didn’t pick her. She picked me. Somehow she ended up scavenging around this old rodeo arena just outside of town. She managed to jump up into the back of my pickup and follow me home one night. She’s been with me ever since.”

      She had a quick visual of him cuddling a tiny, yapping Yorkie and her chest hitched.

      The realization made her back go ramrod-straight. So what if he had a dog? That was no reason to go all soft and gooey inside. He was still a major thorn in her side.

      Still wild and crazy Pete Gunner.

      “Living out of a suitcase doesn’t exactly lend itself to pet ownership,” she pointed out, suddenly desperate to kill the vision of him cuddling a ball of fluff. “That’s why I never had one when I was growing up. How do you do it?”

      “My ranch foreman looks after her when I’m away.”

      “Lucky you.”

      “There’s no luck involved, sugar. It’s all hard work.”

      “I’m sure signing autographs is hell on the knuckles.”

      If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that she’d struck a nerve. He frowned. “I do a lot more than sign autographs.”

      “I forgot. You also dodge responsibility.”

      Silence stretched for a tense nanosecond as he eyed her. “Apparently I’m not too good at it because here you are.” His frown turned into a full-blown grin. “Then again, I might be a damned sight better than I give myself credit for—” he motioned to the passing scenery, reminding her of the six and a half hours she’d just slept away “—because here you are.”

      “You’re a jerk.”

      “Keep up the sweet talk—” he winked “—and I’ll surely be scribbling my signature before breakfast is over.” Challenge gleamed hot and bright in his gaze, daring her to say something else, wanting her to. As if he liked the verbal sparring.

      Crazy.

      Men like Pete usually had a big head to go with their bad-boy reputation. They were used to having their egos stroked, not deflated, but Pete seemed different. Maybe she was imagining things. Even more, she was making her situation that much harder. The point was to coax him into signing, not piss him off.

      She clamped her mouth shut and shifted her attention to the window while he went back to his breakfast. Pastureland stretched endlessly as they rolled along for the next ten minutes before the landscape gave way to haystacks and a sprawling one-story house with a gigantic wraparound porch.

      “Home sweet home,” Pete announced before shoveling in his last bite. He pushed from the table and slid the plate into a nearby sink. The bus took a left and started down the long lane leading up to the house. Pete reached into the stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of what looked like a lime-green slushie. “Margarita chaser,” he offered when she arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

      It figured.

      If the rumors were even close to the truth, he would probably follow that up with a six-pack and then pull a few Hooters’ girls out of the closet.

      She shook her head and he turned his attention back to the pitcher. Without bothering with a glass, he downed half of the container before finally coming up for air.

      “Don’t you think you should slow down a little?” she asked as they started to slow. “I need you sober to sign this.”

      “Don’t worry, sugar. I can do just about anything under the influence. I’m sure I’ll be able to scribble my John Hancock.” He set the remainder of the pitcher on a nearby countertop as they rolled to a complete stop. He grabbed the T-shirt draped across the back of his chair and pulled it on just as the bus door powered open.

      “If you could just do this really fast for me,” she said, blocking his path toward the door. “I’ll be out of here in a flash—”

      “I knew you’d make it!” The excited voice came from the doorway.

      Wendy turned and her elbow slammed into the pitcher, knocking it onto its side. Margarita oozed over the countertop and dripped onto the floor.

      She snatched up a dishrag and wiped at the mess just as a tall, lanky young man bounded onto the bus. He had the same killer-blue eyes as his older brother and the same whiskey-blond hair, which brushed the collar of his red-and-blue plaid Western shirt.

      “A promise is a promise.” Pete grabbed Wade Gunner in a quick bear hug while Wendy wiped at the spilled margarita and frantically scooped as much as she could back into the pitcher.

      “You’re just in time, too,” the young man told Pete. His eyes flashed with excitement. “It’s happening.”

      “Right now?”

      The boy’s head bobbed. “She’s about to pop any friggin’ second.”

      “Hot damn!” Pete exploded. “That’s my girl.” He headed for the door on the heels of his younger brother and panic bolted through Wendy.

      She dumped the last of the iced drink into the sink before her gaze dropped to the pale green stain on the front of her shirt. Great. Now she was going to reek of tequila.

      Except she didn’t.

      She caught a whiff of the almost-empty pitcher and smelled only fresh-squeezed lime juice and the sharp, pungent scent of vitamins.

      Wait a second—

      Her speculation stalled as she realized the counter was clear. Pete had bolted, and taken her contract with him.

      “You forgot the pen—” She started after him, but his long strides had him yards ahead of her by the time she lunged off the bus. СКАЧАТЬ