Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Once I’ve paid, I turn around and walk straight into a hard chest. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I—” I blink up and into Reese’s eyes, that spicy scent of him now becoming familiar. “How are you here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says.
“You were behind me again, remember? I was trying to escape the crowd.” And suddenly I’m aware that my hand is on his chest. I pull back.
He catches my hip, his hands settling just under the hem of my jacket. “Seems we were both trying to escape the crowd.”
“Right. Of course.” I hold up my bag. “Nuts?”
“No, but I really want to kiss you right now,” he says, his voice a low intense rasp, his eyes a simmering hot invitation.
“That would be a bad idea,” I say, when I really want him to just do it. Kiss me right now.
“Make your case, counselor.”
“For the same reason your hand shouldn’t be on my hip. We are most likely being watched, and you’re feeding your Mr. Hotness reputation.”
His entire expression sharpens. “I hate that damn name,” he says, his hand sliding from my hip. “I need a hotdog. You want a hotdog?”
“No, but thank you,” I say, making a point of showing off my manners.
His lips curve. “You’re welcome, Cat. How was that for manners?”
“You’re learning.”
“Maybe I won’t end up single and alone after all,” he teases, before motioning to a truck a half block down. “Walk with me.”
I nod, and we fall into step together. “You’re really getting a hotdog?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with hotdogs?”
“I once worked for a concert venue, as a teen, of course, and the hotdogs we were putting out were green before they were heated.”
“I love concert hotdogs,” he says.
“I don’t even know what to do with that statement.”
“Cover those dogs with mustard and relish, you won’t know anything but how good they taste.” We stop at the truck and he glances at me. “You want something else?”
“A bottle of water, please,” I say.
Five minutes later, we’re on the opposite side of the truck, on a bench just inside the park, and out of easy view. “You don’t seem like a hotdog kind of guy,” I comment, tossing some nuts in my mouth and watching him devouring his lunch.
“I’m a Texas cowboy, sweetheart,” he says. “Hotdogs around the campfire at the ranch used to be gourmet.”
“My brother lives in Texas, but he doesn’t like hotdogs.”
“Is he an attorney?”
“No. He hates the legal profession. He’s an engineer and went to school in Austin and just stayed. I thought your parents were law professors, not ranchers? And yes, I read up on you.”
“For the record, I looked you up as well, and yes. My parents are professors. My grandparents owned the ranch. They passed and my younger brother took it over a few years ago.”
“How old is your brother?”
“Twenty-eight. And to be clear, this conversation is not an interview.”
“I’m not a tabloid or even a scoop reporter,” I say. “I write opinion pieces and I’ve written a true crime novel, and have a second coming out in a few months. I don’t do this for money.”
“Because your father is Mike Maxwell.”
I arch a brow. “How do you know that?”
“I told you I checked you out.” His lips curve. “I called Lauren.”
“You called Lauren,” I repeat. “That wouldn’t surprise me if she would have actually told me.”
“It was right before court.”
He was thinking about me right before court instead of his work. “And what did she tell you?”
“Good luck.”
My brow furrows. “Good luck?”
“She said I’d need it to get anywhere with you.”
“She’s right,” I say, and quickly turn the topic back to him. “Why didn’t you run the ranch with your brother? That has to be a big job.”
“I need more than horses and hay. He didn’t, and I didn’t miss how you just deflected from you back to me.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-five.”
“Ever been married?”
“Never,” he says. “Must be my bad manners, right?”
“Exactly,” I say. “They say you can tell a lot about a man based on his manners and his mother.”
“So says my mother when she calls me three times a week, usually to bitch about my father. They’ve been married forty years and hate each other. I’m not inspired to fall in love. What about you? What’s your story?”
“Thirty next month. Never married. If my mother was still alive, your parents and mine could be best friends, based on what you just told me about yours. And as for the interview, I don’t want it anymore.”
He crumples up his paper and tosses it into the trash before turning his big body and the full force of his blue-eyed stare on me. “Why?”
“Okay, I do want it but I don’t want it because you—we—whatever this is that we’re doing.”
“Whatever this is wouldn’t be happening if I thought that’s why you wanted the interview. You still have a job to do, and this case will be over soon.”