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“Thanks,” I say. “Me too!” I shrug off the familiarity. Where would I have met this cowboy? No doubt my tiredness and the rough start to my day are catching up with me.
“I’m Trey.” He holds out a hand, and I shake it, and a little zing runs up my arm.
“Jessa,” I reply. I need to get my head in the game. Zing or no, I’m not repeating the mistake I made in New York a couple of months ago. I haven’t even seen this guy’s face, no way could a voice, and a touch, make me interested like that. I’m just tired, and pregnant. Hormones must be my problem. I need to stay focused, professional. At least until I can collapse into their guest bedroom. A good night’s sleep is all I need. “Thanks so much for taking this interview.”
“Our pleasure.” He gestures toward the large farmhouse. “We’re headed this way. Do you have any bags?”
I grab the single suitcase I brought with me from the backseat of the car. I’ve worked as a journalist ever since I got out of college, and I have learned over the years that packing light is always the better choice. I’ll never miss anything I didn’t bring nearly as much as my shoulder will hurt for days after a trip where I pack every set of shoes I think I might need.
He reaches for the bag, and I’m faced with a choice. Try to wrestle this chivalrous cowboy for my bag, and probably set a bad tone for the whole trip, or just let him take it. I opt for the latter. This whole pregnancy thing is making me soft.
“How was your trip?” he asks, as he leads me toward the house.
That niggling of familiarity touches me again, but I dismiss it. I haven’t met a lot of all-out cowboys in my day, not real ones anyway. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have forgotten this one. “It was fine, but a little long. You guys are off the beaten path out here, but it’s beautiful country.”
And it is gorgeous. I hadn’t gotten to see much of the state before night had fallen and hidden it from my view, but what I’d seen had been breathtaking. My time here isn’t limited—Argus just wants the story ready for edits within a couple of weeks. Maybe I can take a day trip to see Yellowstone before I jump on another plane. How often am I going to get to Wyoming, after all?
“We like it out here,” he says, a smile in his voice.
I don’t ask if he misses being so far from good Chinese and a movie theater. “I’ll bet,” I say instead.
We reach the large deck that surrounds what looks to be the whole house—and the house itself is huge. My whole condo building could fit inside of it with room to spare. How many people live here? My research into the Hollisters had been cut short by the flight schedule—not to mention the fact that my morning sickness had taken up—literally—my whole morning.
A few more steps and we reach the front door. Chivalrous man that he seems to be, he opens the door for me and holds it. I know he’s only trying for politeness, but it means passing quite close to him.
I walk by him quickly, not wanting to pause so close to this large man that I barely know. But after I’m through the door, I stop to appreciate the décor.
>
If I’d had to pick a living room out of Country Living or similar as the consummate ranch house, I would’ve picked one just like this. The front door doesn’t open into some fancy foyer. Instead, it opens into a small open space with a large great room on the left, and a chef’s dream kitchen to the right. Huge windows in the great room face what promises to be a stunning view in the morning light. Woodwork is everwhere, with all the windows and trim created from some light, pretty timber. A large stairwell—the kind you could carry a loveseat up without taking care to face it any which way—stands between the kitchen and the living room.
A large loft above the great room really brings the country style to life, with sanded log spindles and banisters. Big rugs cover the hardwood floors, and there’s a hint of whatever they had for dinner in the air that makes my mouth water. I haven’t eaten since right before I got on the plane—not good.
Would it be rude to ask the Hollisters for dinner? Or, at least, a snack of some sort?
I turn to my host, and he greets me with a polite smile. “I’ll show you to your room. I know it isn’t a hotel, but you do get your own bathroom.”
That smile. That face.
My ears ring, and I sway on my feet. It’s him.
Everything goes black.
Chapter 2
Trey
Instinctively reacting, I catch the journalist in my arms before she can crash against the hardwood floor. What the fuck just happened?
I lift her into my arms and carry her toward one of the big sofas in the living room. She seems to be breathing fine, but I wonder if I should be yelling for Clay or Joshua to call an ambulance. Her soft skin touches my clavicle where my T-shirt has been pulled down by the way I’m carrying her. And she smells good. Damn good.
I shake myself mentally and lay her carefully on the couch. The fuck am I thinking? I have half a hard-on going from carrying an unconscious woman around. Abstaining from sex for years has apparently turned me back into a fucking teenager.
I’m usually able to shut off that response to women. But there’s something about her. She smells like fruity shampoo and her body feels perfectly suited to my arms. And she’s pretty—well, she’s beautiful, if I’m being totally honest. She isn’t rail-thin like the style these days, but I like her curves. Her light brown hair is just a little curly, and I suspect it’s fairly long, although I can’t tell for sure with the loose bun style she’s has it wrapped in.
I reach out and brush a sheaf of hair that has fallen out of her bun and over her eye, then I almost jump out of my skin when those big brown eyes open wide.
“What happened?” she asks, panic coating her voice. She tries to sit up, and I put a hand on her shoulder. Not trying to restrain her, trying to get her attention.
