Page 77 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

As was sex with a stranger. Lower. Lower than box-lifting. Which was low.

“No, nor should you expect to,” she said. “We’ve only just met, while I’ve had a deep, involved relationship with my work inbox for years.”

“That’s longer than a lot of things.”

“Longer than most marriages.”

“Hell yeah. Less painful, too.”

“Well, that all depends.”

“On?” he asked.

“On which client I’m dealing with. And who one is married to.”

“Fair point. How close are we to your office?”

“Five minutes,” she said.

“Give me some financial advice.”

She arched a brow. “For free?”

“We’ll trade. I’ll give you a quick taste of my services, too.”

“Oh...please tell me you aren’t really a stripper going to a theme party.”

His dark brows shot up. “I think I’m flattered that you consider it a possibility.”

“Don’t be. I’ve been in the company of male strippers.” At a bachelorette party she’d basically fled. She’d spent the evening in the bathroom tapping out desperate emails on her phone. And she’d later been called a prude. But whatever. She could not handle random naked guys shaking it in her face. “Some of them are pretty...worse for wear.”

“Well, you are a surprise. Now where’s my consultation?”

“Pay off your mortgage before retirement. Never get involved in a land war in Asia. Your turn.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pen and a little note card. She arched her brow and watched as he started scratching the pen over the surface, keeping it turned away from her so she couldn’t see.

His teeth closed over his lower lip, the expression of concentration sending a shock of lightning straight through her. And for just one moment she allowed herself to think, with uninhibited enthusiasm, that he was one fine specimen of a man.

Not the kind of man she would ever go for. He wasn’t clean-cut and clad in a suit. He didn’t have glasses and a reedy frame, which seemed to be her type, if two lovers was an indication of type.

He was as far from that type as you could get. He had those untrendy jeans—blue Wranglers—a plain button-up shirt and he was built like a house. Broad and hard-looking. Like his muscles had muscles.

Also, he had that rough-looking ghost of a beard on his face. Like he was just too darn manly to shave or something.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her the card, his fingers brushing hers, a spark passing from his body to hers. He smiled, like he’d felt it, too, and it made the blood in her veins turn to warm honey.

Oh...

She looked down at the card and an unexpected laugh broke through her lips. He’d drawn a fox. All sketchy lines, in black ink, sitting in the middle of a street, tall buildings behind him.

“This is your professional offering?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Ouch. I didn’t know you were an art critic.”

“Maybe I missed my calling.”

“Maybe. Though, I think most critics have a little bit of a meaner look about them.”

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