Page 75

Kenny.

Nothing like spending ninety minutes relieving tension only to have it reintroduced in human form.

He was leaning against the wall near the entrance, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Mikayla.”

I stopped. “Annie isn't here.”

“I know. I came to see you.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don't.”

I stepped around him.

He moved into my path.

“Come on, Kay-Kay.”

I hated when he called me that.

To be honest, I hated most nicknames. Except Mickey. When Damon called me Mickey, my insides turned to warm honey.

When Kenny called me Kay-Kay, I wanted to file a restraining order.

“So.” He studied me. “Damon Lockhart.”

I waited. When he didn’t continue, I prompted, “What about him?”

“He's not really your usual type.”

My eyebrows rose. “You have no idea what my type is.”

“Come on. He's a small-town country boy.” The condescension in his voice made my spine straighten.

“And?”

“And you're you.”

I stared at him.

He apparently thought that was an explanation.

“Damon is intelligent,” I said. “He's hardworking, loyal, funny, and kind. He knows how to fix things without calling someone else to do it. He remembers what people tell him. He notices when someone's uncomfortable and does something about it without making a big production out of it or wanting to get brownie points for his good deeds.”

Kenny blinked.

I wasn't finished.

“He treats people with respect regardless of their bank account. He doesn't need to prove he’s the smartest person in the room. He's confident without being arrogant. He can laugh at himself. And he makes a damn good breakfast.”

I stopped. Mostly because I'd run out of breath.

Kenny stared at me. Then laughed. “Well, look at you. Defending your cowboy.”

“He doesn't need defending.”