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Silas pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his hat back with two fingers, exhaling slowly through his nose. Sweat beads on his brow, and he takes an extra beat before replying.
“Fuck me with a stick,” he mutters under his breath, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to hear those words. Good God. He’s got the Mr. Grumpy Pants persona down to a science. I’m honestly not sure if I want to kick him in the shins for his arrogant attitude or kiss him until we’re both breathless. Maybe both?
The silence is thick enough to chew. I turn the engine off, every nerve buzzing as I fumble for my bag. The keys slip under the seat, and I have to contort myself to fish them out, which is not dignified. My hair snags on the seat, yanking my head sideways, and something in my knee pops as I lurch upright.
Hank watches this disaster unfold with zero emotion.
I get out of the car fast, like ripping off a bandage. On the other side of the hood, Silas has crossed his arms and is giving me a once-over that would flatten most supermodels. I try to stand tall, even though my skirt is stuck to the backs of my thighs and I’m blinking sweat out of my eyes.
We stand there, staring each other down.
The surly cowboy gestures toward my feet. “Those shoes aren’t gonna work.”
I glance down. White sneakers, already dusted orange from the gravel. I bought them last week at the Farmer’s Market on Melrose, where boots are more of a fashion statement than a survival tool.
“They’re my comfy traveling shoes,” I say, which seems like a totally lame argument.
Silas smirks, slow and crooked, then pushes off from the hood and circles toward me. “Hope you brought a pair of boots.”
“I have two pairs of boots, thank you very much,” I growl and reach into the backseat to unbuckle Hank. Silas’ eyes follow me as I set Hank on the ground and reach back in the car for his bowl and a bottle of water.
The air’s thick as honey, hot and charged. My hair’s falling out of its bun, but I’m not about to fix it right now. I pour Hank a bowl of water and set it in front of him. “Here you go, little buddy.” I give him a pet and watch as he gulps down the water.
“The dog gets bottled water?” Silas grumbles under his breath.
“What else would he drink?” I ask as I reach for Hank’s suitcase. I glance over and catch Silas looking at my eyes, just for a second, like he’s searching for something in there. Whatever he sees, it gives him pause.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says finally.
“Neither are you.” My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he hears it.
His eyes stay on mine, unblinking, the sunlight catching the deep brown and making them glow in a way it hurts a little to look. Sweat runs in a quick line down his jaw, cutting through the stubble.
I don’t blink. Holding my ground is the only power I’ve got.
We’re circling each other, silent but loud with challenge, the kind of standoff that makes even the carsick dog fall quiet. Hank’s head is lifted, taking everything in with a majestic disregard.
Silas folds his arms again, thumb tapping his bicep. “So, let me get this straight. You’re here to learn how not to embarrass yourself on TV, and you brought a French Bulldog who drinks bottled water with you.”
I let him have it right back. “That pretty much sums up the situation.”
A small twitch at the side of his mouth, almost a smile. I’d do a lot for that smile. He doesn’t let me see it for long.
He plants his boots and levels me with the full force of that brown-eyed stare. “Hope you’re tougher than you look.”
I laugh, but it comes out weirdly breathless. “We can all have hopes and dreams.”
He narrows his eyes, but I see the humor shining from them.
CHAPTER THREE
SILAS
This was supposed to be easy. Drop her in the cottage, keep my distance, teach her how not to get herself killed, and get her back to LA in time to shoot her TV show. Hell, I even had Rosa go out at sunrise, open all the windows, and spray that lemon-sage crap around so it wouldn’t smell stale.
Complete waste of time. Because the second Inez Raine stands in front of me in the driveway, blinking against the sun, every single plan I had goes straight out the fucking window.
She’s got a suitcase in each fist, little wheels scraping across gravel. The dog trots along beside her like he owns the damn ranch. She laughs at something Hank does, head thrown back, hair catching every stray beam of sunlight, and I feel something start to crack in my goddamn chest. Even my stupid ass cock wakes up and joins the fun.
