Page 29 of Backup Cowboy
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.
He steps into my personal space like he owns it. “My image is not for sale.”
Intimidation tactics don’t work on me. Of course, I’ll delete the pictures. I won’t risk my brand by posting a photo without someone’s permission. Besides, everyone I feature on my business socials signs a waiver first. I just won’t be told what to do by a stubborn cowboy who thinks a scowl and crossed arms translate to legal authority.
Out of nowhere, Hot Guy reaches out to grab my cell, so I sling my right arm behind my back to hide it and take a giant step backward. His reflexes are quick, though, his left arm scooting around my waist. Somehow we end up smashed together, chest, hips, and knees touching, his hand clasped over mine as I grip the phone. A spark unlike any other zings through me from head to toe, and I inhale sharply, dropping my device.
We stare at each other for the longest time, neither of us moving.
“You need to remove your hand from around my waist, rancher guy. You do not have my permission to touch me.”
He immediately drops his arm but doesn’t take a step back or pick up my phone. His eyes drop to my lips, and I get the weird sense that he wants to kiss me. Instead, he grumbles, “I need to see you delete those damn photos.”
“Why? Are you some sort of undercover CIA operative pretending to be a cowboy?” I know I should just delete the images, but there’s something about a demanding grumpus that rubs me the wrong way, even if he is hot as sin.
“Darlin’, if I were a spy, do you think I’d admit it?” He fights a smirk with little success, his minty breath brushing my mouth, the air between us thick with tension.
He finally steps back, scoops up my phone, and hands it over. A shiver runs through me, and I lick my lips on instinct, aware that I wouldn’t mind him rubbing me therightway. No, Capri. This grumpy rancher is not worth your time.
A slight movement catches my attention from above. The hawk from the fence is now soaring above us, its large wingspan impressive. Streaks of purple are now woven into the golden-pink sky.
“Are you happy now? I lost my light.” Teeth gritting, I unlock my cell and remove the man’s stupid pictures one by one. “Delete. Delete. Delete.” My words grow more shrill with each swipe, and I know I should remain professional, but this stubborn cowboy is riding my last nerve.
I shove my phone in his face so he can see the last shot for himself. “What’s wrong with you? Do you have something against women–owned businesses? Are you one of those guys who thinks being an influencer isn’t a real job?! I worked for two days straight trying to find the perfect location to showcase my clients’ new clothing line.” I motion to my dress and boots, then swipe to one of my test shots from yesterday. “This is the light I was attempting to capture. Thanks for being such a gentleman.”
I spin, grab my tripod, and march toward my Bronco without bothering to pack up my things.
“Hey, Princess.” The jerk’s voice is almost a growl, but I don’t acknowledge him because this rodeo reject is not worth a second more of my time.
“If you come back before sunrise, I’ll grant you free rein on the ranch to shoot pictures of whatever you want.” A smug smile stretches across his yummy face. “Except for me.”
The nerve of this guy. “In your dreams, cowboy.”
I toss the tripod into the backseat of my Bronco and climb into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind me. As I start the engine, I glance in the rearview mirror and see HotGuy standing where I left him, his posture rigid. I try to ignore the yearning to turn my vehicle around as he watches me drive away.