Cowgirls Don't Cry

“Dinner at a nice place then a sports bar to watch the Cards.”

She looked so cocky he couldn’t help but grin back. For a brief moment, he toyed with the idea of calling up the corporate jet and flying her to St. Louis for the game. As a minority owner, Barron Entertainment had box seats, though he seldom got the chance to park his butt in them. Doing so would blow his cover, so he nodded in agreement. “Dinner out then a sports bar to watch the game. I’ll pick you up around five? Game starts at 7:30.” He stood up, and she looked startled.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I got what I came for.” Her expression changed, and he would have missed the flicker of sadness if he hadn’t been studying her reactions.

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” She didn’t move to stand. Instead, her hand gripped the arm of the chair as if to keep her in it. She wore an expression of studied casualness.

“Can you make coffee?” he suddenly asked. She stared at him like he was crazy. “We’ve established you can’t cook. Does that mean you’re a Starbucks baby, or can you perk a real pot of coffee?”

“I make excellent coffee, thank you very much. Even Uncle Boots doesn’t complain.”

Uncle Boots? This was a story he wanted to hear. “Then go make a pot, woman. Prove it to me.”

“Ha! I made one just before you got here. So there.” She darted up and through the door before he could react.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tray loaded with a clean mug, sugar bowl, creamer and a thermal carafe. “I figure you take your coffee black, but I admit to a sweet tooth and a need for cream.”

Coffee steamed in his mug, and he inhaled the rich aroma. After a hesitant sip, he nodded. “This is good, but how do I know you made it?” She flushed, her anger rising quickly. He loved eliciting that reaction from her and couldn’t wait to see what she was like when he had her in his arms.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Sparring with her was fun. He couldn’t deny it. Most women were dazzled by his last name. Cass had no clue, luckily. If she ever found out that his father wanted to take the ranch, she’d hate him. She could hate him later—after he’d given her a tumble, after he got her out of his system.

He finished off the coffee in his mug and reached for the carafe. His hand collided with hers, and instinct had him wrapping his fingers around hers. “Nice,” he murmured.

“Mmm,” she agreed.

As they chatted the afternoon away, clouds gathered on the western horizon. The rising temperature played with the white, puffy cumulous clouds until thunderheads billowed and thrust angry fists into the humid spring sky. A few formed the classic anvil shape associated with violent storms. Whatever breeze there’d been died, and the humidity thickened to the point it was almost hard to breathe.

“I don’t remember a chance of t-storms mentioned on the weather last night.” Cass stood and walked to the end of the porch, scanning the sky. “I’ll be right back. You can come in if you want.” She slipped into the house, and he followed.