Page 12 of Cowboy Superstar

“I’m willing to just … go with the flow. For now. Just to see how it goes.”

He brushed a kiss on her temple.

“I’ll take it. And your coat.”

He was sweet, and Windsor had no defenses for that. Inside, behind the layers of armor and chains locking down her heart, she felt something turn soft and melty.

Soft and melty? I’m practically a legendary Hollywood bombshell. I don’t do soft and melty.

She did seductress, temptation, untouchable, man-eater … but soft and melty was not in her repertoire. And yet, as he helped her out of her coat, while she was still staring at that damn river, Windsor knew she was in trouble.

If he’d simply shut the door and told her he was going to fuck her on the bathroom counter, she would have been better equipped to respond. But sweet and gentlemanly left her completely out of her depth.

As Bo strode into the dressing room with the hair and makeup station he had installed for her—another thing she didn’t know how to handle—Windsor couldn’t help but marvel at the cowboy version of Silas Bohannon. She was surrounded by good-looking men with attractive physiques all the time. She had lived in Hollywood her whole life. Perfect exteriors were a dime a dozen. But in her experience, they were often the outer coating to someone who was fake, selfish, and looking for any opportunity to get ahead.

Those kinds of people didn’t make sure you had the nicest room in the house—unless it would benefit them somehow. They didn’t thoughtfully build a dressing room more elegant and functional than you had in your own home on the off chance you might use it someday. And they certainly didn’t share life-altering wisdom while overlooking stunning scenery, brush a kiss across your temple, and take your coat like a consummate host.

No, only Silas Bohannon is that whole package.

And even though it had been only moments since Windsor had agreed to go with the flow, she knew she was in danger of being swept so far down the river of life that she wouldn’t even recognize where she was.

Is that such a bad thing? The question floated in her mind, even as her ingrained reactions urged her to keep swimming upstream. Old habits didn’t die immediately, and recognizing the wisdom of his words didn’t mean that she wasn’t terrified to give it a try.

Silas studied her quietly from the doorway of the dressing room, as if giving her room for her thoughts.

She pasted a bright smile on her face. “Are you ready? I’m sure you must be starving. Just wearing those clothes must burn a million calories.”

“No.”

She used her patented laugh. “Okay, a few less than a million.”

He shook his head. “You think I don’t know when you’re acting? Cut the shit, Win. You can be real with me … even if you’re scared as hell. In fact, I’d prefer it. Covering up what you feel … let’s just say, I see right through it, and the more you try to hide it, the more I assume you’re freaking out inside.”

How dare he? Windsor stood straighter and taller as he slouched perfectly against the doorway, arms crossed and looking so comfortable while she was in danger of falling apart if she didn’t keep a tight lock on her emotions.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest to mimic his comfortable posture.

He pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward her with a shake of his head. “Now you’re just lying. And I don’t have many rules, but I sure have one big one: don’t fucking lie to me. Not to my face, standing in my own home. Have the courtesy and respect to at least be honest with me. And if you can’t do that, then we’re already done here.”

His words crashed into Windsor with all the subtly of a car wreck.

“I … I don’t …” She looked down, away, at the tub, the window. Her stomach twisted and knotted, and she had absolutely no idea what to do, say, or how to respond.

Image, not honesty, had been drilled into her as a child. And standing in Silas Bohannon’s superb Montana bathroom, she realized just how fucked up that was.

“Then maybe I can’t do this …” She chanced a glance up at him to find his aqua gaze soft on her, not accusatory. She swallowed, terrified of drowning in him. “I honestly don’t know how. Or if I’m capable of it.”

She sucked in a breath and turned toward the mirror. She pressed her palms against the countertop, and he reached alongside for the tap and flipped it on. He grabbed a rolled washcloth from an artfully arranged stack and soaked it under the stream. His big hands twisted and wrung the excess out before he handed it to her.

“That’s a start.”

She took it and patted her sweaty neck and flushed cheeks for a few moments before she met his gaze in the mirror.

“I just want real, Win. I couldn’t stand being constantly surrounded by fake people who never said what they really thought or meant. It grates at the soul when you know you’re always being lied to.” He flipped off the tap. “Out here, people are real. They speak their minds, even if you don’t like what they’ve got to say.”

“Imagine that,” she said quietly, dabbing her chest through the V of her chamois shirt.

“Just don’t lie to me. If you’re freaking out, that’s okay. If you’re thinking about running for the hills already, I get it. But at least do me the courtesy of being real with me. That’s the only way I roll, and without it, I’m just not interested.”