Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(44)

No. Bad, bad man.


“This is pure artistry, Miz Velma. Mmm. Mmm.”


“You would know.” Velma cocked her head at Macie. “Carter here is an artist.”


“So he says.”


The spoon stopped halfway to Carter’s mouth. His blue eyes went as cold as the ice cream in his float. “What’s that supposed to mean?”


Macie addressed her comments to Velma. “He tells me he’s an artist, and says he’s


‘working’ but the truth is, I’ve never seen a damn thing he’s supposedly created.” She shrugged. “So I’m just wondering if his whole ‘I’m an artist line’ is just that.” Macie locked her gaze to Carter’s. “A line. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have onions to chop.”


She half-expected Carter to sneak in after her offering all sorts of sweet-talkingexcuses, or for Velma to butt in, but no one bothered her. The knife thwacked into the acrylic cutting board, cleaving the onion in two. Her tears fell unchecked until she swiped them away with her shirtsleeve. Stupid onions always made her cry.


What she’d said to Carter was true and it bugged the crap out of her that he hadn’t shown her a single thing he’d drawn or molded or carved. Him calling her his beautiful muse in that sexy, low voice of his while he f*cked her unconscious didn’t count. It didn’t count when he whispered promises about immortalizing her likeness in clay either.


She wanted to see actual, physical proof. Of something.


Macie frowned. Was that why he’d freaked out when he caught her in his studio?


Because he didn’t want her to find out he wasn’t working? Maybe he was blocked. She’d heard artists got blocked just like writers. Maybe that’s why he claimed he needed a muse. She’d be even more skeptical of his motives if she hadn’t seen the stunning portrait Carter created of Gemma’s husband.


But he’d drawn that one years ago. What had he been doing recently?


Irritating the hell out of her damn hormones.


She put the situation out of her mind as she cleaned up and changed clothes. When she returned up front, she wasn’t surprised Carter wasn’t waiting for her, but his absence did cause her a tiny pang of disappointment.


Velma said, “You ready to go?”


“Yeah.”


Before Velma hit the lights, she said, “He left something for you on the counter.”


“What?”


“Take a look.”


Macie spied a cheap placemat on the spot where Carter had eaten. She picked it up and stared in disbelief.


It was a pencil drawing of her. A close-up. Specifically of her brooding, in the diner’s kitchen, her face half hidden in shadow as she gazed longingly at something beyond the white edge of the paper.


Her eyes met Velma’s. “Do I really look like this?”


“Like what, sweetheart?”


Lost.


Velma shuffled over and peered at the drawing. “Well, you do look sad in this picture. But you’ve been kinda mopin’ around the last week, so I think it’s a pretty accurate depiction of your mood. No denyin’ the man has talent. That’s for damn sure.”


She looked at Macie and smiled. “No denyin’ the man also has it bad for you.”


“But—”


“No buts. Swallow your pride, squirt. He might’ve hurt your feelin’s over something this week, but remember: He came lookin’ for you tonight.” Velma patted her cheek.



“Make sure the door is locked when you leave, eh?”


Macie rolled up the picture and carefully inserted it in a cardboard paper towel tube so it wouldn’t get crushed in her backpack. She slammed the back door and rounded the side of the brick building, her guilty footsteps loud in the gravel and the muted night air.


She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice him until she’d reached her vehicle.


Carter lounged against the passenger door, his cowboy hat pushed back off his forehead. His arms were folded over his broad chest; his legs were crossed at his ankles.


If she hadn’t focused on his eyes, she’d bristle at his defensive posture. But there wasn’t a defensive, macho, self-righteous glint there—just wariness.


Or was it hope?


What if was she projecting what was in her eyes into his?


Did it matter?


No.


“He came lookin’ for you tonight.”


She set her backpack on the ground and launched herself at him before she ruined the moment with what-ifs.


Chapter Eighteen


Carter caught her with a grunt that morphed into a laugh after she squeezed him tight and knocked his hat off.


“Hey, hey. What’s all this?”


She scattered kisses on his face. “My way of saying I missed you, dumbass.”


“Ah. By all means, darlin’, keep up with the sweet-talkin’. I’m hopin’ it’ll lead to dirty talk.”


“Thanks for drawing me that picture. Sorry I was a jerk.”