Spurs 'n Surrender (Operation Cowboy Book 2)(9)

“Wydell. What are you doing here?”

He looked at the flowers she held and then dragged his attention up to her face. So slow. Her breasts tingled and her nipples puckered under his intense stare. She forgot what she was holding. One stem slipped from her grasp.

Before she could retrieve it, he bent and scooped it up. “I have some alternate plans.” When he offered her the flower, she snatched it from his broad, callused palm.

“Good. Let me just put these into a vase and I’ll take a look.”

So he did draw the plans himself. After looking at the level of detail in that last plan, she’d wondered. He was multi-faceted, it seemed. Not just a god of a man who could do underwear modeling or a brute doing manual labor.

As she arranged the flowers in the vase and went to the sink for a cup of water, she felt him track her every move. It unnerved her. She didn’t know him, and they were alone. Yet somehow she knew he wasn’t dangerous. Except maybe to her senses. They were going haywire. He smelled as fresh and good as the air outside. His tanned face made his blue-green eyes stand out. And his muscles…

She suppressed a shudder and turned, cup still in hand.

Their gazes locked, and for an eternal heartbeat, she was trapped.

At once, they both moved, un-fusing their stares and drifting to the table. They slid into the booth and once again faced each other.

She set the cup aside. “Where’s the plan?”

“Right here.” He reached under the table as if digging in his pocket. When he rested his hand on the tabletop and unfolded his fingers, she blinked at what he’d left on it. A tiny scrap of paper with a child’s drawing of a house on it. Square box, triangular roof and microscopic measurements. There was even a puffy cloud and a sun with a smiley face in the sky.

The guttural noise that filled her trailer came from her. She shot to her feet and pointed to the door. “Get out.”

He stood too, more slowly because he had to do some shifting to get out of the booth. An amused smile tipped his hard lips and for a split second, her body reacted and she almost smiled back.

She clamped down on her gesture and poked a finger at him. “You’re making fun of me, but I assure you I don’t think it’s funny.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are your views on poverty?”

She opened her mouth, the question halting her thought pattern. “What?”

“How about global warming?”

“Huh?”

“World peace?”

Suddenly, his jests fitted into a lock that opened the door of her rage. “I am not some beauty queen!”

He cocked a brow in a way that interested her far more than it should have. “No?”

“No!” Just because he was right didn’t mean he was right. Besides, that had been her momma’s doing. She hadn’t asked to be primped and prodded into a gown, put on stage and made to sing America to the judges.

Dammit.

“If you don’t leave my trailer this minute, I’ll remove you myself.”

“Then what, sweetheart?” His drawl reached into her depths and made her clench her thighs. If she didn’t hate him, she might actually enjoy the responses he drew from her.

“I’ll find a well to throw you down!”

He burst out laughing. Insufferable man. She shoved him toward the door.

“What about your plans?” he asked. “Your teeny tiny plans?”

“Redo them in a normal size. If you aren’t capable, I’ll hire someone who is.”

At that, he sobered. Braced in her doorway—actually, he might be wedged—he stared down at her with the first stirrings of regret on his handsome face. When he scuffed his knuckles over his jaw, the noise raised the hairs all over her body.

“I’ll start on them after my ranch work.”

That got her. “Ranch work?”

He stood far too close. “Yeah, I do some work on my buddy’s ranch in exchange for room and board.”

Wydell Jackson was a man of many faces, and she hadn’t seen this one yet. He stared at her—through her—as if he didn’t see her at all but was someplace else. She searched his face, noting the strain around his eyes and mouth. Five heartbeats stretched into six.

He shook himself, and his eyes cleared.

“You worked all day. You’re going to work all night too?”

“Work soothes me, Anya.” Her name falling from his lips was a ripe cherry she longed to taste. Why did he have to be so damn confusing? She needed a good worker, though, and he was that much.

She extended her hand. “I’ll look at your real plans as soon as they’re ready.”

He took her hand briefly. Then he snatched his hat off his head, revealing warm brown whorls plastered to his head. Curly strands that would have broken girls’ hearts in high school.

He raked his fingers through his hair before placing his hat back on, low over his eyes. “Sounds good. In a town of twenty-eight, it’s not hard to find you. I’ll just look for the silver Twinkie.” His lips tilted in a dangerous and infuriating smile as he left.

She leaned out the door. “Are you calling my trailer a Twinkie?” she called after him.

When he turned, she saw nothing of his former strain. He was pure, rugged male beauty with a crooked, toe-curling smile. “Hope you sleep well, sweetheart.”