Page 86 of The Cowboy's Second Chance Bride

“What if I want something casual?”

“Then you don’t need a matchmaker; you need an app that specializes in hookups.”

Cal made his way to us, a slow stroll with one hand in his pocket. He arched a brow in question. I gave him a large smile to show I wasn’t uncomfortable. He came up to the bar next to me, ordered a drink from the bartender, then turned around to face the crowd.

“How’s it going, babe?” Cal nodded to the blond toad. “Hitchens.”

Toad nodded back. “Beckett.”

I shifted so I could see Cal better and pointed to the guy he’d just addressed. “TheHitchens?”

“His father. But they are like minds.”

“Ah, got it. Well, Mr. Hitchens, here, was asking me about matchmaking.”

Cal smirked. “I doubt that’s what he’s really interested in.”

“Me too.”

Hitchens held up his hands in defense. “Hey, I was just trying to get to know you. You guys have had a lot of press lately.” He sneered. “You can’t blame a guy for his curiosity. Besides, she is the prettiest thing in the room.”

I bristled at being called a thing and was about to say something when Cal moved in behind me and wrapped a possessive arm around my waist.

“Don’t talk about her as if she’s not right here, and don’t refer to her—or any women or person, for that matter—as a thing.” His tone was cold and steely.

Hitchens chuckled. “Whatever.”

“Sabrina has an impressive right hook. I’m confident she’d like to show it to you.”

I leaned back against Cal. “Hmm, among other things. Like that handy knee thingy you taught me.”

Hitchens seemed unfazed. “A bit of a scrapper, huh? I guess you’d have to be, growing up in casinos and gambling dens.”

The way he said “casinos and gambling dens” was laced with disgust. And he clearly thought this might get a rise from me. This guy had been trying to push my buttons from the minute he had my attention, from flirting to insults, like he was going through a checklist of keynotes to hit.

“I’m not ashamed of how I grew up.”

Hitchens shrugged. “Too bad you can’t right hook the IRS. I bet it’s frustrating to have them dig back through your dad’s winnings. Or was it you who didn’t file the taxes on his estate? Like father, like daughter maybe?”

Cal’s body stiffened behind me, and his hand gripped my hip. I pressed a hand to his as a cue that Hitchens’s words didn’t bother me. Then I noticed that the gentleman behind Hitchens had turned as if he was trying to listen. His smartphone was on the bar, closer to Hitchens than himself. It took about three beats before I figured out who he was and what the game was. I slid off the stool and moved quickly around Hitchens to the other guy, who jerked up, surprised by my sudden appearance next to him.

“Mr. Smith, is it? Wasn’t that how you introduced yourself at the press conference? Is there something you’d like to ask me, Mr. Smith?”

I glanced at Cal. Anger burned in his eyes.

At first, the man had the decency to stammer, but then he gathered himself and puffed up like a rooster. “There is a lot of dirt in your backyard, Ms. Holloway, and I plan on exposing it.”

“And you call yourself a writer. I’m not sure exactly what you mean about dirt. There is nothing in my past that I am ashamed of.”

“Everyone says that, but they always lie. I will expose you. I will show the world who you really are and what you come from.” He grabbed his iPhone.

What I came from? He’d said it like my roots were a bad thing, which was ridiculous. But then something dawned on me.

I leaned in close to Mr. Smith and pretended to dust lint off his shoulder. “Tell Dalton Beckett that never once in my mother’s short life did she regret her choices. She knew what type of man the forever type was and what type of man was a loser, and that’s why she picked my father over him. That, Mr. Smith, is what I came from.”

The reporter leered and leaned in. “You can fling your insults, but we are only just getting started. You haven’t seen anything yet.” He narrowed his eyes.

I wondered if Mr. Smith had a personal stake in this fight. I made a mental note to find out. But my guess was he just liked being mean.

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