Page 75 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

“Yes,” she said, looking back down at her phone.

“I’m sharing a cab with you. You might look at me for more than two seconds.”

She bristled, looking over at him again. “Aren’t you supposed to be naked in Times Square?”

“I’m not that kind of cowboy.”

“Which kind are you?”

“The real kind.”

“Oh. Well. Please don’t tell me you have cows in the trunk.”

“Nope.”

“Great. Well.” She looked back down at her phone, her pulse doing a strange, fluttery thing at the base of her throat.

“My name is Zack,” he said. “Zack Camden. Are introductions not the thing in the big city?”

She rolled her eyes and put her hands flat on the seat, her phone still under her palm. “Grace Song.”

He stuck his hand out and she shifted, releasing her hold on the phone and moving to shake his hand. His fingers were rough, his skin hot. She felt a zip of lightning shoot through her, zipping straight to her stomach, making her feel all tight and weird.

Then he pulled away and she wondered, for one, heart-stopping moment, if he’d felt it, too. Then he reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Black, and unadorned, like hers. But hers wasn’t caseless by choice. His screen was probably getting all scratched up in his pocket. That...denim and his muscles. It was probably being crushed in there. Poor shiny device.

“Sorry,” he said. “Normally I’d consider this rude but it’s work-related so...”

“What did you think my phone usage was—unicorn-related?” she asked, curling her lip.

“Funny,” he said, hitting the accept button. “Yep. Uh-huh. Landed about an hour ago. Going to the hotel. Nope. Nope. Not going. Nope. Hotel. ’Bye.” He hung up, then set the phone on the seat between them.

“Business, huh?”

“Yep.”

“What sort of business?” she asked, completely unsure as to why she was bothering to play his little let’s-be-friends game.

“The business kind,” he said. “The kind you don’t wanna do, but have to because...business.”

She blinked. “I don’t understand not wanting to do business.”

He looked her over, his dark gaze assessing. “I bet you don’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“You look like a business type.”

She smoothed her plum pencil skirt and charcoal-grey jacket. She did not look business-y. She looked classy, feminine and well put-together. Though, she’d basically just confessed to being a workaholic, so maybe she should cut him some slack. Or not.

“And what does a business type look like?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. He looked her over again and his gaze lingered, very obviously, on said breasts.

“It’s not a look so much. You seem kinda stiff. Although, also you just admitted you were a business type.”

“Fair enough.”

“What sort of business do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a financial advisor.” She wished she could take it back as soon as she’d said it. Because he hadn’t told her, so why was she telling him? Because deep down, she really was trained with manners, good graces and all kinds of things that didn’t exactly scream “ice-cold business bitch.” She was working on that. Mainly because if something about her demeanor screamed that a little louder she might not be fending off clients at lunch meetings.

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