Page 2

I stand there for a long minute, phone still in my hand, jaw so tight it feels ready to crack. I could throw the thing into the fence, watch it shatter, but that’s a waste of good plastic.

Goddamn it.

I look down at my jeans, stained with sweat and dirt, and laugh. Guess I’m training a movie star.

Overhead, the sun pushes down even harder, but the world keeps turning. I pick up the hammer, grip it tight, and slam the last staple flush. It feels good, brutal and final.

A few hours later, I stalk back to the house, boots grinding in the gravel, each step pounding out the irritation in my skull. My shirt is glued to my skin, sweat trickling down my spine, every crease and seam digging in like punishment. I yank the shirt over my head as soon as I hit the mudroom, tossing it straight into the laundry basket. It lands with a wet slap and, for a second, I stand there, chest heaving, sweat pouring off me like I’m trying to drown out the day.

The house is quiet except for the ticking of the big clock over the kitchen archway and the low hum of the fridge. My favorite time of day.

My jeans are so caked in dust they could stand up by themselves. I toe off my boots, fingers already fumbling with my belt. Raw knuckles protest, but I don’t give a shit. All I want is water colder than a tax collector’s heart.

I walk naked through my home and head straight for the master bathroom. The shower blasts full force, and I step under the icy spray without flinching. My head drops forward, letting the water slam against the back of my neck, cutting through the heat and the bullshit. Muscles unclench, at least a little. I brace my hands against the cool tile, letting everything burn out of me for as long as it takes.

Tomorrow, I have to read through the info Cash sent over and decide how I’m going to deal with my Hollywood starlet. But tonight, I rinse the day off and pretend I’m not about to become a goddamn babysitter.

I wake up in a mood. My neck aches from yesterday, and my hand throbs like a warning. The kitchen is pale with early light, that weird blue-gold that hits just before the sun torches the fields. I pour a cup of coffee hot enough to scald and pop the lid on my laptop, fucking sure I’m not prepared for what Cash is sending over.

The top message in my inbox is from Cash Montoya. “For Your Eyes Only.” Cute. I click it.

First thing I see is Inez Raine’s fancy ass bullet-pointed resume. Rodeo Queen Diaries. Commercial deals. Network pilot. Some indie movies I’ve never heard of. Christ. Under “Special Skills,” she claims she grew up around horses. I snort into my mug, and coffee nearly goes up my nose.

I look over the information about her family. Fucking hell, they’re Hollywood royalty. Her father is Jordan Raines, who’s directed everything from box office blowouts to little art house flicks that win awards in France. Her mom, Teresa Raines, went from child star to producing huge Hollywood blockbusters.

Then there’s the brother. Bradley Raines, the golden boy.

And now their little princess is coming out here to play cowgirl, expecting me to polish up her act so she doesn’t break her neck or, worse, embarrass herself on national television.

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

Then I scroll. There’s a .jpg of Inez Raines attached to the bottom of the email.

I click on it and choke as coffee stings the back of my throat, and I cough so loud the sound echoes around the large room.

Because there she is staring dead at the lens. Full, wild hair the color of fire, loose around her shoulders and catching the light. The green of her eyes is unreal, the sort of saturated emerald you see on magazine covers. Her mouth is a soft, wicked curve that promises trouble, just on the right side of cocky.

She’s got curves meant for sin. A body built for tangled sheets and trouble, tits straining the button-down she’s wearing and a waist that flares out to hips filling the frame. I can’t fucking breathe for a second. Hollywood princess, my ass. She looks like the kind of woman who’d laugh in your face if you tried to call her “princess.”

Her skin’s pale with freckles dotting her cheekbones, a constellation of trouble. My cock stirs, hot and immediate. She looks nothing like what I expected, and exactly like every problem I never knew I wanted.

Holy shit.

She’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. And she’s coming to my ranch tomorrow.

Fuck me with a stick. I’m in so much trouble.

CHAPTER TWO

INEZ

I can do this, runs through my mind on a constant loop.

The little white rental shudders so hard the dashboard rattles, and gravel pings up in the wheel well like bullets. Out here, the Texas sun attacks from every direction, bouncing off the hood, blaring in every window, and turning the inside of this car into a sweatbox. The AC whines in protest, barely spitting lukewarm air, and my brand-new shirt is already sticking in unfortunate places.

Behind me, Hank, my French Bulldog, sits in his plaid car seat, seat belt clipped fast, jowls drooping as he glowers at my reflection in the rearview mirror. He has not blinked in at least two minutes. The last time I checked, he was drooling, but now he just radiates judgment. I can feel it coming off him in waves.

“Okay,” I try again, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. It’s slick with sweat. “We’re almost there, Hank. Five more minutes, and we will make a good impression. Remember, you’re a support animal with a calm, grounded presence, and I’m a total natural-born cowgirl.” My voice sounds as desperate as I feel.