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“Then why’d you call Tiny over?”
“Christ, darlin’. How long you gonna be pissed about this?” he retorts, completely avoiding the question.
“As long as it takes to get a straight answer out of you.”
“Because you looked fuckin’ uncomfortable.” He sighs, takes off his cowboy hat, and tosses it down onto the dashboard. “And even though I’m an asshole like you say, I don’t get enjoyment out of making people feel bad,” he finally answers and turns slightly to meet my eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need you to focus on the important shit, like driving us to the lodge so I can check on inventory for the guests arriving this weekend before I have to head to Barn Four to deal with the chicken coop.”
“I wasn’t scared shitless. Or miserable,” I retort, and he shakes his head on a laugh.
“Whatever you say, darlin’.”
“I would’ve done it.”
He shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the seat. “I’m well aware of that.”
“And I would’ve done a damn good job.”
“Of course,” he says, but his voice is all placating. “You’d be the best damn bull sperm collector this ranch has ever seen. Hell, Ronald would’ve started to get worried about job security.”
I quirk a defiant brow at him. “I know you’re patronizing me, but I’m going to ignore that and tell you the facts…”
“And what are those facts, darlin’?”
“I wasn’t scared about collecting the stupid sperm, and I would’ve done a good job,” I declare. “So damn good, those bulls would’ve thought a fucking bovine hooker stepped on to this ranch and would’ve felt obliged to pay me commission. Or, at the very least, leave me a tip on the freaking nightstand.”
A smile starts to spread itself over his mouth, and Rhett bites his bottom lip to try to fight it. But it’s no use. A big-ass grin followed by a hearty laugh transpires, and the whole time, he’s just looking at me with amusement in his eyes.
“What?” I question. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re pretty fucking hilarious,” he comments. “Bovine hooker? Tips on the nightstand? I mean, hell, Leah.” A few more laughs jump from his lungs, but eventually, once they slow, his eyes switch from amused to serious. “Listen, I know you could’ve done it. There was never a question in that. I can see from the short time I’ve known you that you’re a strong, determined woman.”
His words take me by surprise, but I still feel compelled to ask once more. “Okay, but why didn’t you let me do it, then?”
“Because that’s the kind of situation someone should choose for themselves,” he responds. “Not get forced into. If you’re still geared up to do it when you’ve been here a while, you let me know, and we’ll head right back to Barn Six to collect as much specimen as you can handle.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the radio on the dashboard screeches, and a tiny, adorable voice comes through. “Josephine to Rhett. Josephine to Rhett.”
He smirks and grabs the receiver. “Rhett to Josephine. What do you need, honey?”
“Josephine would like to request to be picked up at Jenny Jameson’s house so she can help feed the chickens.”
Rhett’s eyes meet mine. “Looks like we’re gonna have to make a pit stop on the way to the lodge.”
I nod. “More than happy to oblige.”
Pretty sure I’d do just about anything for that adorable kid of his. She’s like the real-life version of a walking, talking sunshine-unicorn-rainbow. I mean, she’s not even in this truck with us and just her voice had the power to stop us mid-bicker.
“Okay, Joe,” Rhett responds into the radio. “We’re just leaving Barn Six and getting ready to head to the lodge, but we’ll swing by and get ya first.”
“What is your ETA, Rhett?” she responds, and I can’t not grin.
“She’s incredibly professional on the radio,” I comment and Rhett chuckles.
“Tell me about it. Some days, I swear, she’s five going on thirty,” he jokes and then proceeds to answer her. “ETA is fifteen minutes.”
“Copy that, Rhett,” Joey answers. “Josephine out.”
The responding smile on Rhett’s lips makes my heart do weird things inside my chest.
Which is completely stupid.
This man might be sinfully good-looking and the love and adoration he shows for his daughter could pull at any woman’s heartstrings, but ninety-nine percent of the time that I’ve been here, he’s either been avoiding me or been a big fat jerk.
Bottom line, Rhett Jameson might look like God’s gift to women, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand he’s nothing but certified trouble.
The last thing I’m going to do is let myself feel a certain way about a broody cowboy who walks around with an eternal chip on his shoulder.
No fucking thank you.
So, I do exactly what I should do in this situation. Focus back on the whole reason I’m here—Rhett Jameson’s busted-up leg.
