Wild Ride Cowboy. Maisey Yates
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that fine blond hair catching in the breeze.
As if sensing his perusal, she looked over at him. The breeze kicked up just then, and he caught her scent. Irish Spring and skin, nothing extraordinarily feminine. Just her.
His stomach tightened, and he found himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch her face, to see if her skin was as soft as he thought it might be.
Instead, he lifted his beer bottle to his lips and took a long, slow drag on it.
Clara looked away sharply, and he wondered if she had somehow sensed his thoughts again.
“We better get back to work,” she said, hopping down off the truck.
He nodded, setting the bottle down. “All right, boss, whatever you say.” And he smiled that easy smile because it was better than honesty at that moment.
As far as he was concerned, it was better than honesty almost always.
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