Page 11 of Perfect Cowboy

Her skin is still as silky smooth and fair as I remember.

“Catch up with you in a minute,” I say to Cameron, who nods and carries on his way.

I close the distance between me and Ashley before wrapping a hand around the batteries she’s after, the vanilla cream scent of her skin filling me with painful nostalgia.

She takes the box from me and her fingertips brush my palm, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity straight to my cock.

Great.

I guess he didn’t get the memo that she’s a horrible person.

Sexy as fuck, but horrible nonetheless.

“I could have done it myself,” she says, with a defiant jut of her chin.

“You’re welcome.”

“Whatever,” she mutters.

Ashley is my exact physical opposite with her long, honey-colored hair, brown eyes, and petite frame. But despite being five foot nothing, her attitude is seven feet tall. She’s also got curves for days with breasts that are at least two handfuls – and I’ve got big hands.

She was shockingly pretty when we were teenagers, and she’s become an absolutely stunning woman who makes my chest – among other things – ache in earnest.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate her.

I do.

“Are you okay?” I ask, before cursing myself because I really shouldn’t give a shit.

And I don’t.

I’m just being polite and neighborly because that’s how my mama raised me. But I think even she would give me a pass when it comes to Ashley.

She frowns and puts her hands on her hips, staring me down as though I’m public enemy number one. But I’m the only person in this town who will even speak to her without cursing.

“What do you care?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Just wasn’t sure you could handle storm preparations, especially if there wasn’t an opportunity to steal the supplies.”

Her golden eyes blaze with anger, so I guess she doesn’t like being called out on her shit. But a thief is exactly what she is and she comes by it rightly with a father like hers.

No one was sorry to learn that he was dead.

“I have everything covered and don’t need to be berated by a dumb cowboy,” she snaps.

My degree from the College of Agriculture & Life Sciences at Cornell University says otherwise, but I have no desire to prove myself to her.

She wouldn’t be the first person to assume I’m stupid, but I stopped letting stereotypes get to me a long time ago.

“You should just stick with books and reading about life instead of experiencing it,” I tell her, referencing another sore spot in her nerdy girl history. “Thisdumb cowboyknows how to survive a storm. Based on what’s in your cart, you don’t have a goddamn clue.”

There’s no way her dad’s cabin is equipped after sitting abandoned all these years. It’s been a long time since I’ve had reason to venture out to the remote area it’s located in, but I can imagine it’s become rundown without regular maintenance.

“I’m surprised you can recognize any items other than footballs,” she returns, with a sweet smile. “I know it’s hard for you when things have different shapes. Books were always a challenge, as I recall. They’re rectangles, remember? And that’s why you needed my help.”

The jock and the nerd.

A classic tale.

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