Page 11 of Eight Second Hearts

“What the fuck?” I grunt, setting down my menu. “Was that necessary?”

“You stalkin’ us, camera girl?” he asks, his eyes hard despite the pleasant smile on his lips.

I scowl at him. “First off, I’m a journalist, not a photographer.” His expression eases just a little. “Second, can’t a girl get some food?”

He tilts his head. “Kind of a coincidence you came to the same restaurant we did.”

“Yeah. What a coincidence I came to the one restaurant across from the fairgrounds like everyone else,” I mock before rolling my eyes. “If you didn’t want to share the space with the press, you should have gone somewhere further away.”

The low chuckle he lets out makes something inside me sit up at attention. I’ve never been into older men, not before, but fuck if Ramiro Mondragon doesn’t have something else going for him that I clearly like.

“Rayos!” he says, shaking his head, but his smile is still tight. “You’re right. It was silly of me to think this was purposeful.”

I grin. “Exactly. Very silly of you.” I point to the menu. “But since you’re here, any recommendations for what I should order?”

He narrows his eyes on me, and I know he didn’t buy my bullshit. That’s okay. I’m not afraid of them running away. They have to be in the same place for the next four days.

Ramiro leans forward on his elbows and meets my eyes. “I suggest you stop trying to get this story, Indie.”

I raise my brows and lean forward myself. “See, I can’t do that.”

“And why is that?” he asks.

“I’m tired of writing the fashion column. It’s a waste of my talents. If I get this story, I get to write something else.”

“Fashion columns don’t sound so bad,” he shrugs.

“Let me tell you, writing them is nowhere near as fun as it sounds,” I counter, watching his own eyes.

Ramiro has a very nice face, one that should be in movies rather than at a rodeo. The man was made for the big screen. More so, he was made to play the hero. Every bit of his persona is tailored to be gentlemanly and poised.

Which makes me think it’s just a front.

He tilts his head at me, and the slow smile that curls his lips feels more like a challenge than a smile. “Suit yourself,periodista.” He stands and leans over the table, getting in my space. I don’t move, letting him far too close to be professional. Our eyes stay locked as he taps the menu beneath my hand. “Try the chicken fried steak. It’s great here.”

“Noted,” I breathe. I’m proud I keep my expression neutral, but damn if my voice doesn’t bely just how effected I am by his closeness. It pisses me off when he smirks and straightens before rejoining his table.

Smooth motherfucker.

The waitress returns and plops the sweet tea on the table. “What’ll you have, darlin’?”

“The chicken fried steak,” I grumble, handing her the menu. “Thanks.”

Chapter 8

Tripp

“That gonna be a problem?” I ask when Ram rejoins our table. The reporter sits a few tables away, her eyes on her phone. She doesn’t look up at us, not until she realizes I’m looking at her. Once she does, she levels her gaze with mine, unintimidated. I look away first.

“Why would it be?” Ram asks, shrugging. “She’s just here to eat dinner.”

“And I’m the easter bunny,” I grumble with a shake of head. “She keeps sniffing around and?—”

“It’s fine,” Ram interrupts me. “I’ve got it handled.”

I take a sip of my lager and stare at him. “Seems like you’d like to handle it a little more, honestly.”

Ram rolls his eyes. “You would say that.”

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