Sharp Shootin' Cowboy (Hot Cowboy Nights, #3)(3)

His answering smile morphed into a crooked grin revealing even, white teeth. The night was starting to look up. Her gaze tracked to his blue eyes again. Way up. She’d never gone for that type before, but when he gazed down at her with a heart-skipping grin stretching his mouth… Holy cow…boy.

“That’s a bit of a relief actually,” he said. “I manage a passable two-step, but that’s about the limit of my repertoire.” He nodded to the gap that had broadened between them and the door. “Wanna go inside now?”

Haley tensed under the sudden contact of his big, warm palm on her lower back. It was a light touch that still set every nerve ending on alert. Discomposed by her own response, she fought the instinct to pull away. Forcing a breath, she willed herself to relax, and let him guide her toward the door.

Once inside, he offered his hand. “I’m Reid.”

She eyeballed him anew. A handshake? Was he for real? “You’re not from around here are you?”

“No, ma’am.” His annoyingly disarming grin lingered. She didn’t trust how easily she responded to it, to him. “Born and raised in Wyoming.”

“Wyoming? So you’re the genuine article and not one of those jokers?” She inclined her head to the throng gathered around the mechanical bull.

He shook his head with a scoffing sound. “I earned my spurs on the real thing.”

She glanced down at his boots, expecting to see them.

He chuckled. “I don’t wear ’em unless I’m ridin’.”

“So are you going to show them how it’s done?”

“I got nothing to prove. Besides, there’s no comparison. A mechanical bull can’t stomp you into the dirt or plant a horn in your ass.”

“Are you working on one of the ranches out here?”

“Nope. I’ve hung it all up for the U.S. Marine Corps.”

“You’re a marine?” she repeated in dismay.

“Yup. Corporal Reid Everett of the Third Battalion First Marines.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. Why did the only guy she’d taken any interest in since God knows when have to be a marine? The revelation instantly snuffed out any flicker of interest. A potential fling with a hot cowboy was one thing, but a jarhead was completely out of consideration.

“Nice meeting you, Reid.” She turned away.

He laid a hand on her arm, his brows meeting in a subtle frown. “Not quite the reaction I’d expected…”

“My father was a marine,” she explained.

“Was?”

“So I’m told,” she responded, tight-lipped. “I never knew him. I’m going to find my friend now.”

“Wait a minute. Wha’d I say?” He looked confused and maybe even a bit hurt, like she’d locked his wheels up and sent him skidding.

“It’s not what you said. It’s what you are.”

Just another whore-mongering marine. They were all just a bunch of horny dogs. Her own father had been one of them—impregnating her mother, never to be heard from again.

The grunts from Camp Pendleton had an especially long and well-earned history. She’d even done a research study on it for one of her college classes. Since the USMC established their base in 1942, the number of illegitimate births within a one-hundred-mile radius of the base had skyrocketed nine months after every major troop deployment. The data was undeniable. Semper fidelis certainly didn’t apply to the women they left behind.

“I’m not into marines, Reid. But don’t worry, there are plenty of women here who would be more than eager to give you a memorable pre-deployment send-off.”

Not daring to look back, Haley made a brisk retreat.

*

Reid stared after the petite blonde in consternation. Although he’d arrived without the slightest interest in getting laid, that was before he’d eyed her. She seemed so different from all the rest. Reserved. Almost aloof. Dressed in a pale yellow sundress with a long, loose braid down her back, she’d stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the others in their belly shirts, miniskirts, and booty shorts.

He’d wondered what all that gold silk would look like loose and kissing the dimples of her ass. He shook his head in mild disappointment. Guess he’d never find out.

“Ay! Cabrón!” Garcia appeared at Reid’s side with two bottles of Dos Equis and a shit-eating grin. He offered one of the long necks. “Who was that hot little rubia?”

“Dunno.” Reid accepted the beer with a grimace. “Never got her name.” He still couldn’t figure her abrupt about-face. She’d begun to soften toward him, only to turn frigid as ice in the blink of an eye. “I gathered she’s not partial to jarheads.”

“Then best cut your losses, cause you sure as shit aren’t going to score there. Maybe you should try a Chicana? Just pick one and ask her to slow dance. There’re plenty of hot little mamacitas on that floor who’d go for that six-three frame and pretty-boy face.”

Reid took a swig of beer. The dance lessons had finished with a manic performance of “Cotton-Eye Joe.” The lines broke up with dancers dispersing toward the various bars.

“Here’s your chance, bro. All you gotta do is offer her a drink. I’ll even teach you to say it in Spanish: Quiero comer tu co?o.”