Page 26 of Backup Cowboy

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Want to read Zane's and Capri's grumpy-sunshine love story? Find out what happens in Influencing the Rancher, or keep reading for a Chapter 1 preview!

xoxo,

Aubrey

Chapter 1

Capri

“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”

A truck door slams somewhere behind the ranch’s barbed-wire fence, but I ignore the rugged voice. It’s the golden hour in the influencer world, the time of day right before sunset when the sun’s rays cast a warm, natural glow that’s ideal for photos. Ten minutes remain of this perfect Hill Country light before my shot is ruined, and I’m not about to waste them explaining myself to a man who has no say in how I run my business.

“Hey. Princess.” The cowboy raises one hand and snaps twice. “I’m talking to you.”

Did he really just snap his fingers at me? Even my four-year-old knows better.

I whip around to give the jerk a piece of my mind but am momentarily stunned into silence. The hottest man in the south stands at the ranch’s fencing, a tight white t-shirt showing off histanned, sculpted muscles. Ink swirls down both of the stranger’s arms, the intricate designs eclectic and intriguing.You’ve seen a male before, Capri. Stop staring like he’s a dessert bar.

Unfortunately, my brain does not listen to reason. The guy’s faded jeans grip his physique in the yummiest of ways, and to top it off, he’s wearing a backward ball cap—my personal kryptonite—with blond wisps of hair peeking out from underneath. A short beard dusts his square jaw, and I am going to melt into a puddle right now.

Hot Guy’s eyes slowly rake over my body. Sure, my dark hair falls in waves past my shoulders, and okay, my skin has been called flawless, and fine, my curves have been known to make men forget their own names. Do I mind the attention? Not usually. Teenage me didn’t know there were members of the opposite sex who appreciate a voluptuous woman, and she’s still inside me somewhere celebrating.

As if clearing out rocks, Hot Guy shakes his head, then taps a worn cowboy boot on the bottom fence rail. “I’m waiting, Princess.”

Seriously?! Screw him and that deep, throaty voice. Flicking my hair over my shoulder, I throw up a hand and start counting with my fingers. “One, I’m not a dog, so snapping won’t work on me.” A hawk soars overhead and settles on a nearby post as if watching our exchange. “Two, thank you for recognizing a royal pedigree when you see one. My Tudor ancestors would be proud.” The bird of prey cocks its head, its beady eyes locked on us like it’s judging who’ll back down first. “Three, this side of the fence is county property. There are no laws prohibiting me from taking photos here.” It’s true. I always verify that no area bylaws will prohibit me from posting certain pictures to my socials.

Arms crossed over his chest, Hot Guy quirks an eyebrow at me, so I quirk an eyebrow right back. A movement catches my eye, so I turn.

The hawk shifts on the fence post, one leg tucked under its body, its eyes sharp and judgy.Let’s go, bird. My mascara’s waterproof, and my patience is petty. I’m not backing down.

But why are this guy’s biceps so big and bulgy? And why am I even noticing them? I swore off all men eight months ago, particularly grumpy, gorgeous types who think the world should bend to their will just because they exist.

The hawk lets out a sharp cry and propels from its roost into the sky, drawing my gaze toward the setting sun. With zero time to waste on these games, I turn to face my tripod, the ruffled skirt of my dress twirling several inches above my knees. I walk backward to the spot lined up on my camera’s screen, the picturesque hills framing the countryside behind the ranch fencing.

My client, Clover & Lark, is a woman-owned business that’s quickly becoming a sought-after online boutique known for its sustainable fabrics. The spring colors of the dress are complemented by the swaying grass, the special edition cowboy boots matching the earth tones of the hill country landscape. Both are confirmation that this winding county road is the optimal place to capture my social media images.

Adjusting my brown waves to fall in front of my shoulders, I decide the shot looks perfect. In the area for a family reunion, I arrived in Indigo Hills a few days early to scout locations for the clothing campaign—and to tour the local elementary schools. My cousin, who has lived here about a year, won’t stop bragging about how great this small town is. I have to admit there’s something about the Texas Hill Country that feels like I was meant to land here.

My supportive parents insisted on bringing my daughter to Indigo Hills with them so I could have time to tour the area alone. Although they don’t mind me living in their garageapartment, my mom and stepdad know it’s not what I want for Maddie’s future.

Hot Guy places a boot on the bottom rung of barbed wire, his fit body about seven feet behind mine, still in the shot. I huff in frustration. “Look, mister, if you don’t move out of the frame, I’ll take my pictures with you in the background.”

He remains motionless, so I press the small remote in my hand and snap a few selfies. When the man doesn’t bother to move, I heave a sigh. I have got to get these shots. “Why are you still here?”

“Why the hell are you taking pictures of me?” His gritty voice is laced with warning.

Incredulous, I toss an aggravated glance over my shoulder and practically shout at the guy. “I’m not taking pictures of you, you arrogant meanie! I’m snapping perfectly legal business photos.”

Ignoring my words, Hot Guy jumps over the barbed wire with ease and steps in close. His scent, a spicy mix of cedar and smoked bourbon, invades my senses, and the ink on his arms calls to me like a bad decision. “Are there, or are there not, pictures of me on your phone?” The man’s voice is a low, deep grumble that I feel in the pit of my belly.

Determined, I turn toward Hot Guy and send him my sweetest, camera-ready smile despite his testiness. “The photos are only on my phone because you chose not to move out of the way. There was fair warning.” I fiddle with the small charm hanging from one of the delicate gold chains around my neck.

He takes another step toward me, that deliciously spicy scent toying with my libido. “I need you to delete those pictures, Princess.” His throaty words ominous, the guy anchors his hands at his waist and taps his foot again.

“No.” I cross my arms over my ample chest and tap my designer cowboy boot right back at him.