Page 10 of Love You
“We’ll come up with a game plan at the rodeo tonight.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “You really think beer-swilling, cheering crowds are a conducive work environment?” Clearly, it was a rhetorical question.
“Yup, I work better in chaos. Jeez, lighten up, Francis.”
She looked at him as if he was one electroshock shy of the loony bin. Apparently, she didn’t know the movieStripes, his and his brothers’ favorite.
“It’s Darcy,” she said.
“Miss Wallace if you’re nasty.” Win winked and when nothing registered in that sweet-as-apple-pie face of hers, he blew out a long breath. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Janet Jackson is, either?”
She shook her head, got up, and started to leave.
“Don’t forget to wear your shit kickers,” he called to her back.
* * *
Darcy didn’t have a pair of cowboy boots; she couldn’t get the shaft over her calves. But at six-thirty, Win showed up, wearing a pair of brown suede ones with pointy toes, faded Levis that fit him better than any jeans she owned fit her, and a straw cowboy hat that saidHURLEYacross the front. He looked more surfer than wrangler with his shaggy locks and golden tan. Actually, he looked like a model in a Guess jeans ad. All he needed was Claudia Schiffer and a motorcycle.
It was a little sickening.
He’d brought Hilde a bouquet of flowers that looked like something he’d picked up outside a gas station. But her grandmother cooed over the carnations like they were the most exotic posies known to mankind. Then she fixed him a sandwich and a glass of milk. He sat at the breakfast bar wolfing down the food, flirting with Nana until she blushed. The man was a serious ho. How had Darcy even managed to repel the sluttiest guy in Glory Junction? It didn’t say much for her skills at seduction.
“You ready to go?” she asked impatiently.
“What’s your hurry, you got a date with a bull?”
“The only part of the rodeo I like is when the flag girls ride out on horseback for the national anthem and we’re going to miss it.”
“Yeah, I like that part too.” He waggled his brows and she considered smacking him upside the head, except her grandmother wouldn’t like it. “Let’s go, then.”
He took his dishes to the sink, which surprised her. After seeing his studio apartment the other night, she’d gotten the impression that he didn’t know what a sink was. On the occasions she’d fed his cat it had taken all her willpower not to clean the place.
They got in his Jeep and made the thirty-five-minute trip to Reno with his radio blaring awful rap music, him drumming the steering wheel, singing at the top of his lungs. A couple of times when they’d stopped at signal lights a car would draw up alongside them and the female driver or passenger would gape at Win like he was a movie star. It was nauseating.
He found a parking spot in the VIP section of a dusty dirt lot that had been marked with chalk lines. A bunch of kids, wearing neon vests, directed traffic. The minute she got out of the Jeep, the smell of manure and hay hit her. Win grabbed a blanket from the back. Although it was close to eighty degrees out, it got cool in the desert at night.
He looked at his watch. “Shit, if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the mutton busting.”
She snorted. As far as she was concerned mutton busting was sanctioned child abuse. Win guided her across the uneven lot, through the rodeo grounds to their box seats. Oh goody, they were right up front.
Win shielded his eyes and checked out the unobstructed view of the bucking chutes. “These are righteous. You want a beer, some funnel cake?”
She wondered if that last request was a gibe about her weight. “I’m good.”
“Are you? You seemed a little sex-starved to me the other night.” His lips quirked.
She elbowed him in the ribs. “You promised not to bring that up again.”
“No, I didn’t. I promised not to tell anyone, which I haven’t.”
“Wow, such a gentleman. Someone ought to give you a Nobel Prize.”
He made a clicking noise with his tongue and made a pair of guns with his fingers. “That’s me, gentleman extraordinaire. I’m getting a beer. You sure you don’t want one?”
“I’m good,” she said, though she wouldn’t mind funnel cake.
He must’ve read her mind because he returned with not only the funnel cake but nachos and a tri-tip sandwich. A beer for him and a soda for her. “I’ll start my diet tomorrow,” he said, and put the food between them to share.
