The Cowboy Upstairs. Tanya Michaels
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an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a dog person.”
She wasn’t; training and grooming seemed like a lot of work when she was already stretched thin with limited hours in the day. But she resented being pigeonholed. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. McCall.”
“No, but from what Brody said...” He cleared his throat, looking sheepish.
Ah. So there’d been more to the rancher’s characterization of her than the promise of a clean house and good food. All Sierra’s teasing about being a control freak echoed in Becca’s head.
“Do you currently have any female tenants scheduled?” Sawyer asked.
“Well, not yet.”
“I can pay up front. Cash. And I can give you a list of references, including Brody and his aunt Marie, to assure you I’m not some whack-job.”
She’d known Marie Davenport, a now-retired 911 operator, for years. And there was no denying Becca could use the money; her salary running the community center and her stipend as a town-council member were barely a full-time income. That’s why she’d decided to invest in renovating her attic to an apartment in the first place, so she could rent it to a paying customer. Yes, but...him?
Becca had spent her life mastering the art of structure. During the happier moments of her marriage, she’d relaxed, grown complacent, and she’d paid for it with scandal and divorce. Now, she was more determined than ever to keep her life smooth and orderly. Sawyer McCall might be smooth, with his glib manner and roguish smile, but instinct screamed that life would be anything but orderly with this cowboy living upstairs.
“Mr. McCall, I really don’t think—”
The screen door banged open and a mini tornado gusted across the porch in the form of her son, his green dinosaur pajamas plastered to the wet chest and limbs he hadn’t bothered to dry. “You’re still here! Are you staying for pizza? Mama, can I show him my space cowboys and robot horses?”
Becca studied her son’s eager face and tried to recall the last time she’d seen him look so purely happy. “Mr. McCall and I aren’t finished talking yet, champ. Why don’t you go set the table for three?” She wasn’t convinced she would rent the room to Sawyer, but a slice of pizza was a small price to pay for her son’s beaming smile.
Marc disappeared back inside as quickly as he’d come.
She took a deep breath. “The attic apartment has its own back stair entrance and a private bathroom. No kitchen, although there’s a small refrigerator up there for beverages and snacks. Whoever I rent the room to is welcome to join Marc and me for meals—but in exchange, I was hoping to find someone with a bit of child-care experience. Occasional babysitting in trade for my cooking.” She’d only just now had that brainstorm, realizing how much it would mean to Marc to be around a man, but it sounded plausible. And if Sawyer said no, it would help justify turning him away.
He shrugged. “Sounds reasonable. I’m no child-care expert, but I’ve worked with kids at equestrian camps and on family trail rides.”
She sighed, regretting what she was about to say before it even left her mouth. “Then, assuming your references check out, you’ve got a deal, Mr. McCall.”
His grin, boldly triumphant and male, sent tiny shivers up her arms. “When do I get to see my room?”
Sawyer braved his landlady’s glare, her blue eyes like the center of a flame. Fiery was a good description for her—hot, but projecting the aura that a man should stay back for his own safety. At the restaurant earlier, he’d seen her sitting down. She was a lot taller than he’d expected, trim and shapely in her polo shirt and shorts. When he first drove up, her kid had been wearing a numbered practice jersey; Becca wore a whistle on the cord around her neck. Team coach, maybe? She seemed like the kind of person who wanted to be in charge.
And not at all like a woman who changed her mind easily. Despite his claims at lunch that he was charming and likable, Sawyer was almost surprised she’d agreed to rent him the room. Her expression when she’d first seen him in the driveway had suggested she was more likely to back over him than take him in as a guest.
“Come on,” she said irritably. “We might have enough time before the pizza comes for you to see the room.” She opened the door, but stood there, barring his entrance as she studied his boots. “You can leave those on the porch.”
Her tone rankled. He wasn’t her damn kid. “Yes, ma’am. I promise to wash my hands before eating, too.”
She gave him another narrow-eyed glare. Probably deserved that one. Instead of halfheartedly apologizing for his sarcasm, he gave her a winning smile. She pressed a finger to her forehead as if physically pained.
Maybe he should stay at a hotel, after all. Brody was right about him—Sawyer had a habit of provoking bossy people. Wouldn’t sharing a house with a woman who already disliked him needlessly complicate life?
Nah. In only a matter of minutes, he’d convinced her to change her mind about renting to him. In a matter of weeks, he could win her over entirely. Sawyer liked a challenge. Besides, in the unlikely event that he failed, it was just a few weeks out of his life. After that, he’d be putting Cupid’s Bow behind him.
He placed the boots neatly by the front door. “After you.”
Brody hadn’t exaggerated when he predicted the place would be spotless. The hardwood floors gleamed; the creamy walls looked freshly painted. There were no toys scattered about or fingerprint smudges. If he hadn’t seen Marc with his own eyes, Sawyer never would have believed a little boy lived here.
The narrow hallway opened up into a living room and Sawyer winced. “Is my room this...pink?” The low-backed sofa and two armchairs were all the same shade, coordinating with a striped circular rug that took up most of the floor.
“Mauve,” she corrected, studying the furniture with him. “With cranberry accents.”
Cranberry? An Aggies football fan, he would have called the dark throw pillows and decorative candles “maroon.” At least then it would be showing team support for Texas A&M.
Her tone was defensive. “I think it looks nice, but to answer your question, no, this isn’t the color scheme I used in the attic.” She suddenly brightened. “Still, I completely understand if the accommodations here aren’t to your liking. I can still give you directions to either of those hotels.”
He should probably be insulted that she was so eager to get rid of him. “I’m sure the room will be just fine. Even if the bed’s lumpy, with mismatched sheets, it’ll be better than all the times I’ve slept on the ground during a trail ride or stayed in a crappy motel room.” He’d been to rodeos in luxury Vegas settings and tourist-destination stockyards, but those weren’t the norm.
“Mr. McCall, I do not make up beds with mismatched sheets.”
He couldn’t help grinning at her affronted tone; the woman took her linens seriously. “I’ve always cared more about what happens between the sheets than about whether they match.”
She sucked in a breath, but the doorbell rang, saving him from a potentially blistering retort. Redirecting her anger, she glared toward the front of the house. “That better not be the pizza already!”
Was she that set on having events unfold according to her timeline? “Most people are happy when they don’t have to wait long for delivery.”
“There are three regular drivers,” she said, as she dug through her purse. “But Keesha only works weekends. Which leaves D. B. Janak, who I happen to know has the flu, because I ran into his girlfriend at the store, and Callum Breelan, who is proving to be just as bad as his disreputable uncles.” Money in hand, she strode toward the door, rattling off the rest of her explanation