Page 37 of A Cowboy in the Streets

Chapter 15

James

Chloe

Your cowboy was the scowliest I’ve ever seen him this morning. What did you do to him?

James

He’s not my cowboy. He’s my boss.

Chloe

Maybe that’s the problem. The cowboy in the streets needs a little time being a beast in your sheets.

James

I’m not going to dignify that with a response.

Chloe

Dignity, schmigity. I’m beneath that.

How could I have been so wrong?

The man had needed a hug, not a mouth mauling. But I hadn’t been able to see that through my lust-fueled glasses. Worse, it hadn’t been only lust. I had thought we were having a moment. A connection. When really, he was having a moment with his dead ex-wife.

Humiliating.

So I did what I always did when life had the audacity to screw with me. I held my chin up and focused on the horses.

And I avoided Adam like the plague.

Which proved surprisingly easy for the first two days post kiss. He did his thing, I did mine. Hell, he probably thought he was the one avoiding me. For some reason, that annoyed me. What was he so afraid of? Did he think I was going to corner him in his office again and force him into round three of humiliating mouth encounters?

Now that I had determined Belle wasn’t truly opposed to riding, per se, I narrowed my focus to her tack, starting with the saddle. Plenty of horses were less than thrilled with having the girth cinched tight around their belly. Unfortunately, that was a safety concern for the rider, so it was non-negotiable.

But that didn’t mean we couldn’t make it more comfortable for her.

I examined Belle’s saddle carefully. It was in good shape, and I could tell the fit wasn’t the issue—it had been sized appropriately for her back and shape.

“Heard you managed to stay on Belle.”

I looked up from the saddle to see Steven leaning against the doorframe of the tack room, arms crossed. “You heard right.”

“We should celebrate. You ever been to the Painted Cat?”

I shook my head.

“It’s the good bar in town.”

“As opposed to the bad bar?” I asked.

He grinned. “Now, honey, I don’t think there’s any such thing as a bad bar. So long as there’s alcohol, I ain’t picky. But it does have the benefit of being within walking distance from my house.”

If that was an invitation, I wasn’t biting. I didn’t like being called honey. I probably shouldn’t like being called buttercup, either, but somehow that felt entirely different. I suspected it had to do with the man.

Steven was plenty good-looking. He had that whole tall, dark, and handsome thing nailed down. But he reminded me of a babbling brook. Lots of noise without a whole lot going on beneath the surface. He didn’t pull me in deeper.

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