Page 81 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

He picked up the handset.

“Hello,” he said, growling already.

“Yes, Mr. Camden. There’s a visitor here for you. Grace Song. She’d like permission to come up.”

It was as if all his penis’s hopes and dreams had come true.

Down, boy, she’s not here for that.

Well, why the hell else would she be here? Unless she was looking for Fox in the City Part Deux after she’d discovered his identity.

Maybe she’d used Google to find him. Though, he had no idea why she would. He was some random guy she’d shared a cab with, who’d done a rather terrible sketch on a card for her.

“Yeah,” Zack said. “Send her up.” He paused.

He looked down at where his hand still gripped the towel. Well, that would have to be taken care of.

He dropped it and left a pool of snow-white terry cloth on the floor before going back into his bedroom and opening up his suitcase.

He ought to get his suit out. If it was wrinkled Marsha would probably have his ass on a platter. Apparently “hobo chic” as she had once called it, was not a thing.

He tugged out a pair of jeans and shrugged them on, pulling them up and stuffing all relevant parts down in there carefully before doing the zipper with even more care. He did not need a zipper incident.

He heard a light knock on the door and he went out into the living area. He walked to the door and opened it. It really was her. All five-foot-nothing of her. Dark hair still pulled back in that little bun pinned primly at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks a pale pink, a streak of blush paint over porcelain skin. Her eyes were deep brown, nearly black, framed with lush dark lashes.

She was perfection. And he hadn’t even gotten to her figure, which, though petite, packed the kind of punch that...well, that made him lust again.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

She looked him over, from his face down to his bare chest, to his jeans, which were barely hanging onto his hips, and the color in her cheeks deepened.

“Your phone,” she said, holding a delicate hand out.

“What?”

“This is your phone,” she said.

“Come in.” She looked to the left, then the right. “What, are you afraid entering my hotel room is a felony or something?”

“I don’t know you,” she said.

“We shared a cab.”

“An act I don’t even commit with the closest of acquaintances. I guess I don’t have to worry about you kidnapping me and making a pair of underwear out of my hair.”

“That is completely disgusting. Also, something Pato might do.”

“Pato?”

“He’s a...modern artist.”

She raised her brows. “Okay.”

“Coming in?”

“Sure,” she said, stepping grandly over the threshold. “Now where is my phone?”

“It’s on my bed. I haven’t touched it since I got out of the cab. I’m not in the mood to deal with...well, anything. And I can order fried chicken and pornography from the comfort of my own bed so...”

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