The Cowboy Upstairs. Tanya Michaels

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      The oval table was big enough to seat eight. Marc and Becca sat next to each other, toward the center, and Sawyer went around to the other side, taking the chair opposite Marc.

      “It’s so cool Mr. Sawyer could have dinner with us!” Marc grinned so broadly that Sawyer noticed for the first time that the kid was missing one of his bottom teeth.

      Becca hesitated. “Actually, he might be staying a few days. Or longer.”

      “In the new upstairs room?” Marc shot out of his seat with a whoop of excitement.

      “Marc Paul Johnston, what kind of table manners are those?”

      “Sorry.” He slid back into his chair, his tone sheepish. But he was still smiling.

      Sawyer locked his gaze on his plate, not wanting to make eye contact with the kid. If he returned Marc’s grin, Becca might think he was encouraging the boy’s rambunctious behavior. Besides, it was discomfiting to be the source of so much joy. He’d signed autographs for kids at rodeos and assisted tourists with children, but he’d never had prolonged exposure to one. You’ll be an uncle soon. Would he be close to his future niece or nephew? Doubtful. He sure as hell wasn’t close to his brother.

      Charlie hadn’t even been the one to share the news that he and his wife were expecting; Sawyer’s mom had told him the last time he talked to her on the phone. The next day, Charlie had sent a terse email and Sawyer had replied with dutiful congratulations. That had been a couple weeks ago, and he could still hear his mother’s chiding tone in his head.

      Gwen’s due at the end of October. Surely you’ll want to arrange your schedule so that you can be here?

      He’d told her he really couldn’t say what his schedule would be in the fall, but that he’d be in touch. Then he’d quickly found an excuse to get off the phone. The truth was, even if he could make it, what would be the point? His sister-in-law was a nice lady, but her own family lived close to the ranch, so she had plenty of support. And as for Charlie... Ever since his older brother had returned to the ranch from college, the two of them could barely be in the same room without an argument erupting. Their father always sided with Charlie. Their mother just wanted everyone to get along. In her mind, that meant Sawyer—the outnumbered younger son—should cave.

      “Something wrong with your pizza?” Becca asked tentatively.

      Sawyer realized he was scowling. “Uh...you were right about it being hot. I burned the roof of my mouth,” he lied.

      “Kenny Whittmeyer’s dad burned his hand when he took Kenny and me camping,” Marc volunteered. “We were roasting marshmallows and he said a whole bunch of bad words. I—”

      A trumpet sound came from beneath the table, and Becca shifted in her seat, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. She glanced at her son. “You know I’m only checking this because of the race, right?”

      He nodded, informing Sawyer, “Mama has a no-phone rule at the table. But we make ex-sections ’cause of the race.”

      “Exceptions,” Becca corrected absently, reading a text. She frowned, but put the phone away rather than responding. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”

      Sawyer shook his head, letting the growing boy snag it, and reached for his glass. “What’s this race you mentioned? Are you a runner?” He could easily imagine her in a marathon. She seemed disciplined enough, and judging from her toned figure, she did something to keep in shape.

      “Not literally. I’m running for mayor.”

      Sawyer choked on his lemonade.

      “You find that funny, Mr. McCall?”

      Hell, yes. Weren’t politicians supposed to kiss babies and suck up to people? Becca was far too imperious for that. She hadn’t even been able to pay for a pizza without lecturing the hapless delivery boy.

      She misinterpreted the smile he was fighting. “I’ll have you know that women are every bit as capable as—”

      “Whoa. No argument here. I’ve known plenty of badass women.”

      “So what’s the big joke?” She challenged, those eyes sparking again.

      He doubted there was any answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Might as well go with the truth. “The idea of you courting votes is a little funny, don’t you think? You seem like someone who speaks her mind, whether the opinion is popular or not.”

      “And that’s bad? Community leaders should be honest and straightforward.”

      “In theory, sure.” Feeling Marc’s gaze on him reminded Sawyer that there was a seven-year-old listening to his cynicism. “But don’t listen to me. I’m just an outsider. What do I know about the people of Cupid’s Bow?”

      Becca stood, gathering up the empty plates. “About that—you being an outsider? Would you mind finishing your lemonade on the porch and enjoying the evening breeze while I call Brody Davenport? I need to start checking your references.”

      “No problem.” He scraped his chair back. “Checking up on me is the responsible thing to do.”

      She gave him a smile that was part apology, part amusement. “Well, I’d hate to accidentally rent the room to a dangerous alien robot.”

      “That would be awesome!” Marc said.

      “Which,” she told him affectionately, “is why I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”

      Sawyer understood not letting a second grader run the household, but alien robots aside, he was pretty sure Becca preferred to be the one making decisions no matter who was involved. Just like Charlie. But a hell of a lot prettier.

      * * *

      AFTER BECCA FINISHED her phone call, she tucked in Marc, who was supposed to read for thirty minutes, then go to sleep. From the excitement on his small freckled face, she suspected he wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about her new tenant, but she had to admit he’d been great with her son.

      She should go thank him. And let him know the room was officially his.

      She stepped onto the front porch, where the heat was sticky in comparison to the air-conditioned house but not intolerable. Intolerable came in August. Sawyer glanced up from the swing with that too-appealing grin that could’ve belonged to a movie star; the spectacularly vivid sunset behind him added a cinematic effect. The only thing missing was a musical score. Becca told herself she was unaffected and had always liked books more than films, anyway.

      “Did Brody vouch for me?” he asked.

      “He said I should kick you to the curb—that you’re a pain in the ass who likes to get his own way.”

      Sawyer shrugged. “Well, who doesn’t like to get his way?”

      Hard to argue that. Brody had also said Sawyer was dependable, loyal and never drank to excess or let himself get goaded into bar fights, like a few of their former rodeo friends.

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