Page 84 of Right Number, Wrong Man
I don’t know why his politeness is making me so uncomfortable and irritable, but it does. Teeth gritted, I hop out and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans.
It’s been ages since I’ve worn denim and months since I’ve worn pants. Dresses are my go-to—even in winter with thick tights or thermal leggings—but these bootcut jeans are suffocating my ass and thighs.
I try to calm myself by inhaling the sweet perfume of wildflowers growing in a meadow across the road. They’repretty, a whole rainbow of colors swaying in the light breeze, but I don’t feel one bit better.
The twittering birds don’t help, either. I find birdsong irritating rather than relaxing because I can never help wondering what they’re screaming about in their bird language.
I imagine it’s something like,Hey, hey, I need to take a shit!Or maybe,I want to fuck! I want to make babies!And then us humans go,Aww, that sounds so lovely.
Clutching at straws to keep my composure, I go back to the old reliable: annoying Colt.
I smirk, crossing my arms. “Instead of a town car, shouldn’t you be driving one of those huge pickup trucks? You know, to compensate?”
Yes, that’ll do it. That’ll piss him off and?—
“I ain’t got nothin’ to compensate for, thank you very much.” He laughs, one hand clasping his groin as he tips his hat at me with the other. A blush ignites my face. “And you ought to be careful what you wish for, Spitfire. If I drove a truck and you jumped out in jeans and red cowboy boots, folks might mistake you for a real country girl.”
My mouth gapes. Why isn’t he mad?
“Yousaid I should wear something outdoorsy! These boots are the only pair I have and just becauseyougave them to me for my thirtieth birthday. To be honest, I don’t know what you were thinking. Boots seem like a giftyouwould enjoy, not me.”
Colt clicks his tongue. “They ain’t just any old pair of boots, woman. They’re from Lucchese.”
“I don’t care,” I lie.
The bootsaresuper comfortable and I bet they’d look extra cute with a summer dress. I’m kicking myself for never trying them on before, but that’s none of his business. Later, I should look up that brand name.
“I didn’t say the country girl style looks bad on you, did I? But there’s somethin’ missing…” Colt says, eyes burning with icy fire as he leans down to me. Slowly he takes off his hat and drops it on my head. “There. Perfect.”
I don’t dare to move, nerves racing under my skin.
The hat is too big for me. His body heat clings to it and it smells nice, like herbal shampoo.
“Did you bring me to the middle of nowhere to make fun of me?” I hiss.
Colt’s gaze drags from my feet upward, leaving a trail of invisible flames along my hips and chest to my face. His eyes linger on my lips.
“Ever heard o’ the hat rule?” he asks, his drawl thicker than before.
“That sounds silly. Whatever it is, I don’twantto know.Youput the damn hat on me anyway!” I stick my tongue out and slap his chest.
My fingers tingle at the contact.
Oh-em-gee… those muscles…
Colt’s cheeks turn pink. “My grandpa Jim taught me about the hat rule. In his youth, he was a real old-fashioned cowboy and a bull rider. He was full of that kinda wisdom. But I guess you’ll never know what the saying means. Your loss.”
He grabs the hat and puts it on before he strolls to the trunk and pops it open, lifting out a clinking crate.
“What’s in there?” I ask, craning my head to peek inside.
“Empty bottles,” Colt says and starts lining them up on fence posts around the meadow, one on each.
“We could’ve gone to a shooting range. You know, like normal people?”
“Nope. You ought to learn to shoot the way Dad taught me. Call it a family tradition.”
He grins at me over his shoulder, and I realize the man hasn’tstoppedsmiling since I opened the door. Is he on drugs? Wait, amI? Is that why I’m so woozy?
