Page 4 of Wild, Wild Cowboy

Twice.

2

HANNAH

It was unfair that I woke up smelling like sins I had not actually partaken of. Cigarette smoke from the nicotine addicts who had huddled in the doorway of the Painted Cat, not bothering to avert their exhales as I passed. Stale beer from the guy who had jostled his mug against my back. Colognes both masculine and feminine. I sniffed my sweater and winced.

Ugh.

I did not believe for one second that Zack would be ready to go at eight a.m. Not after the six beers he’d consumed last night. Ranch chores and rodeo events were one thing, but I couldn’t expect my sewing club to outweigh his hangover. He didn’t even know me.

Except for my name, apparently.

And the way he said it, like he did actuallyknowme. I was so used to people looking straight through the nerdy girl with her nose buried in a book or an embroidery project. That was fine. I was comfortable with being invisible. Even if it stung sometimes.

Zack Hale, the golden rodeo star of Aspen Springs who probably had so many notches on his bedpost there wasn’t anywood left to notch, was the last person I ever expected to notice me.

But noticing was a long way from caring, and while I believed Zack was the sort of good-natured, golden-retriever type who always meant well, I wasn’t going to stake my reputation on him dragging his hungover body out of bed just so I’d be on time for sewing club, which was why I was on his doorstep at precisely 7:52.

I still gave him the benefit of the doubt and knocked first, though. After a suitable pause, my ear pressed to the wood to listen for sounds of life and hearing nothing, I pushed open the door.

And froze.

Because there was Zack, very much awake, standing by the window in a puddle of spilled sunshine, black headphones over his ears, fuzzy pink bunny slippers on his feet, and not a stitch of clothing to be found anywhere in between. He cradled a white bowl in one broad palm while he shoveled ramen noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. He should have looked ridiculous, but with the morning light sliding over his sculpted muscles like liquid gold, he could not have looked more perfect if Michaelangelo had carved him from marble.

I could feel heat spreading from my cheeks down my throat, but Zack didn’t seem at all bothered. He didn’t yelp or move to cover himself. Instead, he glanced at the oven clock and slurped up another mouthful of ramen.

“Hannah,” he said, a little too loudly, making me startle. He dropped the chopsticks into the bowl and tugged off the headphones, leaving them to circle his neck. “Want some breakfast?” he asked in a normal-volume voice.

I didn’t fluster easily, but good lord.

Fuzzy pink bunny slippers.

“My eyes are up here, Hannah Bell,” he said.

Mortified to be caught looking down—at hisslippers, notthere—my gaze snapped to his face.

“My feet were cold. The slippers were a Christmas present.” He grinned. “Breakfast? It’s my own personal hangover cure. Ramen and ginger ale.”

“No, thank you. I’ll grab something from Jo’s on the way to the library.” I glanced at the clock. 7:55. “If I have time. You said you’d be ready to go at eight.”

“And I will be. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, darlin’. I still have five—four minutes. Plenty of time.”

My mouth fell open as he resumed his naked ramen eating. Calmly. Like he really and truly believed that four minutes was more than enough time to go from bunny slippers to fully dressed.

I started to twitch.

He eyed me curiously. “You all right there, sugar?”

“I’m fine,” I lied as I fell apart inside. Not because an extra five minutes would ruin my day. It probably wouldn’t matter much at all either way. And still the anxiety of whether he would make his self-imposed deadline made my blood pressure rise.

“If you wanted me ready at 7:59, you should have said so.”

“No, it’s fine.” I showed him my teeth in what I meant to be a calm, carefree smile. Judging from the way his eyes widened, and his last bite of ramen went down with a sputtered cough, I did not succeed.

“I only need sixty seconds.” He tilted the bowl to his mouth and slurped up the last of the broth. The lines of his throat bobbed in deep swallows. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and dumped the empty bowl and chopsticks in the sink. “Time me.”

“What?” I asked.

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