Page 83 of The Mountain Echoes

“So, that’s not what you were just talkin’ to Aria about?” He’s not even trying to be vague. He’s spoiling for some ranch justice by embarrassing these girls.

“We were talking fashion,” Delaney preens. “And…well…there’s no nice way of saying it, is there?” She gives me a look of disdain as if I’m a fashion disaster.

“Yeah?” His tone is easy as molasses, his gaze raking over my body with slow, deliberate heat. There’s no mistaking his intent.

Behind me, a woman whispers, “You see the way he’s lookin’ at her? I think I got knocked up just watchin’ that, Mary Anne.”

I don’t turn around. I’m too mortified to move.

Maverick is having no such problem. He licks his lips and winks at me.

I resist sighing and keep my lips pursed so theycanbe perceived as a smile—a tight one.

“Well, we do things a little different out here than in Aspen or, say, Rodeo Drive,” Maverick continues as if he’s ontheirside.

Spoiler alert: he isn’t, which Sloane misses because she laughs. “Obviously. I mean, the fashion alone?—”

Maverick holds up a hand to cut her off. “Don’t get me wrong. Y’all do look the part. If the part is ‘drunk at the stock photo shoot for a failed Western fashion startup.’”

Well, shit in a saddlebag! He’s gone and stepped into it, ain’t he?

There’s a beat of silence. Then a bark of laughter from someone nearby. And then another.

Sloane’s face appears pinched. “Excuse me?”

Maverick smirks, all charm. “It’s just that around here, we don’t much care what your boots cost. We care what kind of work you do in them.”

Delaney makes a choking sound, like she’s not sure whether to storm off or cry.

“I suppose that’s a foreign concept for y’all,” he goes on, his voice deceptively polite. “Because if I had to guess, the closest you’ve been to livestock is your Louis Vuitton handbag.” He eyes the bag with considerable displeasure.

There’s more laughter.

Sloane and Delaney can’t believe that Maverick Kincaid, who is slick as a coyote slippin’ through a fence, has gone and unsheathed his claws.

A few ranch hands nearby nod approvingly, one even claps slowly, like it’s a damn comedy set.

Sloane’s face flames red. “You don’t have to be rude, Mav.”

“I’m not,” he counters, voice light. “I’m being honest. You been stirrin’ shit up. But see, we here don’t bend for sequins and lip gloss. We don’t impress easy. Especially not with attitudes wrapped in privilege.”

Delaney steps back like she’s been slapped.

“Come on,” she mutters, grabbing Sloane’s arm. “This place smells like cow shit anyway.”

Maverick tips his hat again. “That’s the smell of hard work. Y’all have a nice rest of your evening, ladies.”

They leave, clicking away on heels that sink into the gravel like they’re trying to walk across a plowed field in stilettos.

There’s a smattering of chuckling and laughter, and then everyone gets back to their business.

I’m equal parts chagrinedand…turned on.

No one has ever defended me quite so brutally as Maverick just did. I didn’t need to be defended. I can handle a few mean girls in my sleep with my left hand—but it was nice to have him tell them, God, and everyone in the county that he’s not sleeping with Celine and ismaybesleeping with me.

Fucking hell!

When Celine finds out we’re gonna have a damn rodeo on our hands.