Page 42 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
I meet Beck’s gaze, letting the steel settle back into my voice. “Looks like we’ve got no time to waste.”
The words steady me as much as they do him. Because this isn’t just his fight, not anymore. Every step he takes toward redemption pulls me closer to the future I’ve staked everything on. If he rises, I rise. If he falls, I fall harder.
I draw in a breath, quiet but certain, and lock the thought down. This isn’t just Beck’s second chance. It’s mine too.
“It’s been a long day. Why don’t you go in and get some rest? You reek of hospital,” I playfully turn my nose up at him.
He doesn’t—he smells incredible as always, but with a hint of the day on him. I might be mocking him now, but inside, though, I’m thanking him for not making me fight him on this, for not letting my plan collapse before it’s even taken shape. Because if he had quit, that would have meant I failed. And failure isn’t something I can afford.
“Wanna help me wash off?” he teases with a suggestive smirk.
And if I wasn’t convinced that he’s back, his flirting has just confirmed it for me.
I roll my eyes at him. “You wish, cowboy.”
Deep down, though, I’m tempted to give in. The night we had sex at the strip club lingers in my mind, and so does that night Beck doesn’t remember. But I cannot indulge myself again—I’m here to work, not mess around with him.
“Your loss. Have a good night, Quinn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bright and early.”
“Not so early.”
“I make no promises.”
He grunts in annoyance as he pushes past me, heading inside the house.
That could have gone south fast, so I’m grateful that Beck isn’t giving up, and I have a feeling Daisy had something to do with it. That explains the thumbs-up she gave me. I can’t ask her about it, but I’m grateful for whatever she did to bring Beck back from the brink.
16
BECKETT
Every time I think I’m done being surprised by Quinn, she throws another curveball my way. Maybe it would have been a good idea to give up after the restaurant ordeal because what she’s signed me up for today is straight-up diabolical.
Still, I find myself diligently following her into the old feed barn. She’s practically buzzing, head high, clipboard in hand. Bossy little thing. Me? I’m already regretting agreeing to this the second she smirks at me over her shoulder. Nothing good ever comes out of that look.
Inside, the place is transformed into more than a barn. Floodlights blaze down, big fans whir softly in the corners, and a backdrop of weathered wood and hay bales has been dressed up to mimic some glossy western fantasy. There’s a photographerpacing with a camera strapped around his neck, barking instructions to a pair of assistants hauling in ropes, saddles, and buckets of oil that sure as hell aren’t meant for the tack.
And then I notice the men in various stages of undress—half-naked cowboys leaning against props, flexing, laughing. Somebody’s getting baby oil rubbed into his chest while two women giggle nearby, and that’s when it hits me. This isn’t just a calendar shoot. It’s that kind of calendar shoot.
I cock a brow at Quinn. “You cheeky, cheeky girl. If all you wanted was to see me half-naked, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
She doesn’t even flinch, just rolls her eyes. “You’re doing this for charity. Smile, pose, look appealing. That’s it.”
I scan the room again, noting the makeup table, the piles of shirts cut open at the chest, the bottles of water stacked against the wall, and the heavily laden snack table.
“Smile, pose, look appealing,” I echo, slow and amused.
A model nearby hollers a joke about who gets the centerfold, and everyone laughs. The whole place hums with playful, borderline sinful energy.
And suddenly, I don’t hate the idea as much as I thought I would.
The photographer waves me over like I’m some prize bull at auction. “Mr. Morgan, just the man we’ve been waiting for. Shirt off, hat on. We’ll start simple.”
I point at myself, confused. “Me?”
“Yes,” he affirms.
