Page 35 of Resisting Isaac
I pretend to be offended. “Must be a language barrier between us. That’s not how we pronounce dashing and debonair.”
She laughs despite her irritation. “Have you been using your thesaurus app?”
“Look up any of those words in the dictionary, darlin. You’ll see a photo of me.”
Her lips twitch. “The only photo I’ve seen of you was on a stall in the ladies’ room at the bar. Right under the words ‘for a lame time call’.”
Lame, my ass. I made this woman come half a dozen times. I open my mouth to remind her then freeze because we both know I can’t.
She winks and slows her pace, waiting for her actual leading man to catch up.
Oh, this woman.
She gives as good as she gets.
And it turns me way the hell on. As does watching her walk away because damn that perfect ass.
This is not good.
Not good at all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
elena
Isaac Logan is troublesome.
Or rather, my inability to ignore him is.
I told him to treat me like everyone else, to pretend our night together never happened. He’s so good at it, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he should be an actor.
It made sense at the time but it’s driving me insane.
We circle up in the stables, and unfortunately, Mikayla joins us. Why, I’m uncertain. Why I care, another mystery I don’t have the mental energy to solve.
I’m still brushing hay from my jeans when he climbs up on the fence post like he owns the damn ranch.
Which, I guess he does.
So irritating that his arrogance is actually earned.
He lifts two fingers in a lazy wave and flashes that same easy, maddeningly irresistible grin that got me in trouble the first night I met him.
“All right, rookies. Round up.”
Kyle eyes him from beside me. “He’s like a real-life Marlboro Man.”
“I am right here,” Isaac says, smirking. “And I’m more of a Copenhagen guy anyway.”
Nora raises her hand like we’re schoolchildren. “Can we get a breakdown of what this is? Like, actual objectives? I need to schedule my chiropractor accordingly.”
Isaac’s eyes find mine, and there’s a flicker of something behind them. Amusement. Mischief, maybe. Something softer.
He clears his throat and hops down from the fence in one fluid motion, all coiled muscle and grace, and suddenly I forget how to breathe like a normal person.
“For the first two weeks of cowboy training camp,” he says, like it’s a totally normal sentence, “we’re sticking to the basics. Don’t try to impress anyone. Don’t try to be fancy. Your only job is to listen, learn, and not break your neck.”
Kyle salutes. “Very motivating, Coach.”
