Page 11 of Sexting the Cowboy
“You made a lot of noise. Does that count?”
I chuckle and step closer. “Noise is half the job. Charm’s the other.”
“I’m guessing humility didn’t make the list.”
I tap my chest. “Right here, hiding under all the macho façade.”
That makes her secret smirk go sharper.
The man at the counter asks what we want, but Annie steps aside like she’d rather dehydrate than order next to me. I slide a twenty across the counter. “Two lemonades. One pink, one regular. Keep the change.”
“I didn’t ask for that,” she says, crossing her arms.
“Didn’t hear you complain either.”
She shakes her head, but I can see the corner of her mouth twitch. “You know, you flirt like it’s a sport.”
“It’s rodeo-adjacent,” I say. “We’re all about competition and form.”
The kid hands over two cups, dripping condensation. I take them both, offer her the pink one.
She hesitates, then takes it. “Thanks.”
I lift my own cup and clink it lightly against hers. “To surviving another day without getting trampled.”
She eyes the cup suspiciously. “Do you know how pink lemonade was first invented?”
“I assumed they put some strawberries in it.”
“No one knows if it’s true, but it’s said that a carnie was hanging out with a trapeze artist who wore red tights. After her performance, she wrung out her tights over a bucket of water, turning it dark red.” Dr. Annie shudders. “The carnie saw an opportunity, took the red water, and made pink lemonade from it to differentiate his product from everyone else’s, and it sold like gangbusters.”
“That’s a tall tale if I ever heard one.”
She laughs before she can stop herself, then takes a sip. Her eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the cold drink’s saving her life.
“See? Worth it. Even if it’s made with some lady’s stocking dye.”
She opens one eye. “Don’t make me doubt the quality of what I’m already drinking. It tastes too good for me to stop now.”
“I knew you were a pink lemonade lady.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. Everything goes to my head. It’s why I wear a hat—to keep the ego contained.”
That earns me a real smile, quick and reluctant, but it’s there. It changes her face. Makes her look younger, freer. She looks good when she’s not scowling. “You always this much?”
“Define ‘much.’”
“Loud. Persistent. Full of yourself.”
“Only when I’m standing near someone who looks like you.”
She lets out a small sigh, but there’s a spark in her eyes now. “You’re impossible.”
“Possible enough to make you smile.”
That one hits. She hides it behind another sip of lemonade. The line moves, people brush past us, the air fills with the clink of spurs and the whine of kids begging for candy.
