Page 16 of Haunted Spurs

In that exact, tiny fraction of a second, Ron Willers pulls off his Stetson, presses it to his chest, and gives me an altogether too-smug smile, that dimple practically victorious on his cheek.

“Pleasure, miss.”

“Stop, you can’t do this!” I snap, snatching up my bag and storming out of the assembly room to chase after him.

Ron has already crossed the threshold and is strolling down the town hall corridor with his usual insufferable king-of-the-world swagger. But when he hears my voice, he slows his pace, glancing back at me over his shoulder.

“Well, look how the tables have turned,” he murmurs. That damn smugness vibrates in his voice. “Now you’re the one chasing me.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m afraid they might launch straight into the stratosphere. “In your dreams, cowboy.”

He stops completely, leaning one shoulder against the peeling wall of the hallway. “Yeah, well… I’m pretty sure there’s plenty of material for wet dreams between us.”

I freeze in my tracks. I feel my cheeks ignite. I part my lips to blast him with a biting insult, but the words die in my throat when he runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, wetting it.

“Come on, I’m just messing with you!” he backpedals, holding his hands up in surrender, though the ghost of a smile still lingers in his blue eyes. “I mean, not really… but I don’t want to upset you. It’s just, well, I didn’t get the feeling that you didn’t have a good time that night…”

“It’s not that,” I cut him off sharply. The last thing I need right now is to keep replaying the memories of that night on a loop. I already do that too much. Way more than I’d like to admit to myself, especially when I’m alone in the dark of my room desperately trying to sleep.

His face lights up instantly. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward me. “So you did have a good time?”

“Ron!” I scold him, dropping my voice and looking around in a panic.

“I like it when you say my name,” he murmurs, closing most of the distance between us. His voice drops even lower. “You know… it sounds a hell of a lot better than new-cowboy. But hey, call me whatever you want. I’m not picky.”

God, he talks so much. I take a deep breath, trying to gather whatever shred of dignity and rational thought I have left. “Listen… let’s get one thing straight. I am absolutely not looking for a relationship.”

“Me neither.”

My lips part in surprise. Is he lying? I stare into his clear blue eyes, searching for a trace of deceit. He doesn’t look like a playboy at all; he looks like a fucking human golden retriever ready to fetch you a cold drink on the porch. But then, the memory hits me hard—how he knew exactly how to make my head spin, and not just my head. And, most importantly, I remember my golden rule: all men are, inevitably, pieces of shit.

“Okay. Perfect,” I declare, squaring my shoulders. “We’re on the same page.”

Ron smiles. He reaches up, grabs the brim of his black Stetson, and settles it low over his brow with one fluid, shamelessly masculine move.

Since when do I find men in cowboy hats this sexy?

Arrrrgh! I scream in my head, fighting a losing battle against my own traitorous hormones.

“Listen…” I start again, crossing my arms over my chest. “You have to drop out of the show.”

He throws his head back and laughs out loud. A warm, open sound that echoes down the hall. “Not a chance in hell, darlin’! I’m the owner of the haunted ranch,” he declares, suddenly dropping his voice into a dark, theatrical, movie-villain rumble.

A hot, inappropriate shiver runs down my spine. I suddenly have the desperate, insane urge to hear him read my novels out loud. To hear my darkest fantasies, the dialogue of my lords of the night, spoken by him in that raspy, vibrating tone.

God, Selene, get a grip.

“You’re the owner? Why on earth?” I croak, trying to clear my throat.

“Because… I bought it,” he answers simply, shrugging his broad shoulders like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then with disarming ease, he points toward the glass doors. “Wanna get some ice cream? There’s a little stand right outside.”

I huff, exasperated by his ability to pivot so smoothly. “Okay, listen to me. I have to do this ridiculous show. I’m contractually obligated. My agent backed me into a corner, and I need some kind of extreme experience to find inspiration and get unstuck on my next book.”

Ron stares at me in silence. The playful amusement fades from his features, and his gaze softens in a way that makes my stomach clench. He steps even closer, invading my personal space.

“Well, what’s the problem?” he whispers, tilting his head. “We’ll do it together. We’ll make a great pair.”

That is the problem.