Page 3 of Please, Sir

“Your splinter,” he repeats, motioning for my hand. I stick it out for him to assess, and watch as his eyes roam over my skin. A bead of sweat curves around and down his neck, rolling toward his chest. I watch it until it swims beneath the V of open fabric, and look up to find hot cowboy watching me.

“Um,” I start, but I can’t come up with a lie on my feet, and with his big hands holding mine, my brain isn’t quite working right. “I was–”

He doesn’t seem to care that I was looking, or at the very least, he lets me off the hook. He brings my palm to his mouth, pressing his lips into my hand. His teeth are gentleagainst my skin, and his cheeks hollow a moment before he pulls back, spitting off into the lawn. With a tug, he brings his hat back down, then says, “there.”

I look at my palm, at the tiny pinpoint of red where the splinter existed moments ago. He sucked it out? And then spit it out?

And for some reason, I’m finding that extremely hot?

Am I a slut in Bluebell?

“Thank you,” I croak. Then it occurs to me that this hunk in a hat is hiding out back here, too. And honestly, I’d probably talk about back handsprings and stunt groups if I thought it would earn me a few more minutes with him.

“Who are you—what are you hiding from out here?” I ask, my eyes veering down to the ornate belt again. He notices, but waits for my eyes to return to his. Him watching me makes my heart thump madly in my chest, making me a little light headed.

“I was here with someone who no longer wanted to be here with me,” he says, and I get the impression that this man just spoke more to me in that sentence than he does most days. A man of few words is sexy as all hell.

Wait– “someone was here, withyou, and decided there was somewhere else they’d rather be?” A woman lefthimhere? I cannot imagine how hot the other guy must be, Jesus. I don’t think I’d leave this man’s side if he was on fire. He looks down at his boots, unknowingly giving me the opportunity to really check out the span of his shoulders, the strength in his chest, and the way his thighs put those jeans to the test.

He looks up, staring into my eyes for a quiet moment before he nods to my hand. “Clean it out when you get home.” He slaps it, his large palm heavy against mine, making the bones in my hand ache slightly. I like the ache, thedull flare of pain, the new sensations. “Keep pressure on it and it’ll feel better.” Without another word, he disappears around the barn. I peek around and watch as he filters back into the market crowd.

I look down at my palm, and close my eyes, heat flaring between my legs at the memory of his mouth on my skin.

I’m here for a fresh start. To teach health and coach cheerleading.

But my eyes pop open, still watching my mystery splinterslapping savior, and the only thing that has my focus?His ass.

CHAPTER

ONE

Current Day

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Dean asks, scratching the side of his jaw before tipping back his blended lemonade.

“Hmm,” I gruff, driving my awl into the supple strip of leather, the end held tight in my hand, buttery against my skin. Repeatedly, I move the awl over the tawny material, leaving unified crescent designs in its wake.

“How they got so much to say to each other,but nothing to say to us,” Dean says, tossing his empty cup into the bin below my table. “I sit in my office and listen to loads and loads of conversations–I mean, mostly about horses, football and jerking off, but still. They’ll talk till I just about can’t take it anymore, yet the moment I come out of my office, it’s like it pains them to give up more than a word or two.” He stacks his feet on the edge of my table. “Teenagers are something else, aren’t they?”

The haft on my awl cracks, and I reach below the table to my bag of supplies, retrieving a roll of black electrical tape. I start to wrap the haft, and peer across the sea of white tents, looking for her long, dark ponytail.

“Guess it’s different if they’re your own, huh?” Dean continues, repositioning his chair at my booth. “Jo Jo ain’t that way, is she?”

I bring the tape to my mouth and tear it with my teeth, dropping the roll in the bag. “The only time I get more than a couple of words out of Jo Jo is if we’re arguing about something.” I sit down, and return my focus to the leather belt in front of me, relieved when a couple of townspeople wander up.

Dean’s been my buddy a long time, but I’m just not in the mood to shoot the breeze today. Jo Jo and I have been running this booth together for years, but only in the last few months has she stopped showing up on the weekends. Today she came with me, but as soon as her boots hit the ground, she was gone and off with her friends without so much as a “I’ll be back” or “I’ll see you later, Dad!”

My therapist says this is normal teenage behavior and I believe her. The thing is, I can’t seem to wrap my heart around it. Every day she grows older, she becomes more of her own person, and I love seeing it. But it feels like theperson she is becoming is one that wants nothing to do with me, or this life. My therapist also says that this is normal.

I hate it.

I just want my daughter back. I feel like I’ve lost her to teenage angst, and I don’t know what to do.

“For what it’s worth, she seems happy as a clam when she’s at school. Her and the Brownstock girls, they’re thick as thieves, always giggling and clambering together.”

I smooth my thumb along the design, pleased with the way it’s turning out.

“Barrel, roping, cutting, reining, cow horse, ranch, youth, trail and pleasure! Jake Turner’s saddles are the best in Bluebell!” Dean greets the gentlemen approaching my table, and I glance up from my work to see a pair of familiar faces. Ranchers here in town.

---