One Rodeo Season. Sarah M. Anderson
to start his prerodeo warm-up. If she wouldn’t let him take her to dinner, then he’d go get some food and bring it back to her. She was too thin, the circles under her eyes too dark.
She was entirely too stubborn. He got the feeling that if he tried to tell her to breathe, she might hold her breath to show him that he wasn’t the boss of her.
The way she’d held her breath last night, when he’d leaned into the cab of her truck. He hadn’t intended it to be an erotic thing. He hadn’t even touched her.
But she’d sucked in that little gasp and hadn’t let it back out. Instead, her eyes had gone wide and her pupils had dilated as a sweet blush heated her cheeks—and his blood. The spark that he felt when he was around her had threatened to catch and ignite a hell of a fire.
He’d almost kissed her. It would have been easy. He’d only had to lean forward another few inches and take her mouth.
And he hadn’t. He hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t touched her. Instead—and he still didn’t quite believe this—he’d gone back to the cheap hotel room he shared with Black Jack and ordered a pizza and watched some cheesy movie from the ’80s.
It didn’t make a damn bit of sense to him. Lacy wasn’t his type. She was as tough as nails and twice as sharp. But underneath that—there was a vulnerability that had him at the arena hours early to make sure she ate dinner.
He parked and headed toward her truck. Something told him that, even if she had gone back to her hotel, she’d be here early.
He was not disappointed. She was sitting exactly where he’d left her. The only difference was she had on a different shirt, a pale green shot through with pink.
She still had her hat on. He was more disappointed than he cared to admit.
“Hey,” she said when she saw him.
“Hiya,” he replied. Her brows furrowed. Now what had he done wrong? “What?”
She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him. There was something about her face today that was softer. He took back everything he’d ever thought about her being not traditionally beautiful. She was gorgeous.
“Your accent.”
“What about it?”
“Now it’s gone. It was stronger.” She shrugged.
He allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah, it comes and it goes, depending on who I’m talking to.” It was always strongest when he went home and everyone spoke the same way. But sometimes, when he was hanging out with someone he was sure wouldn’t hold his accent against him, it slipped out.
“It was pretty,” she said without looking at him. Then her face scrunched up as it had last night when she’d sleepily told him she liked the wet T-shirt. It was a look that said pretty loud and clear I can’t believe I said that.
“You eaten today? Something more than doughnuts?”
“I remembered to have lunch.”
There was something about the way she said it that struck him as weird. “You remembered? Is that something you usually forget?”
“I eat when I’m hungry.” But she didn’t meet his eyes when she said it.
He tapped the hood again. “Come on. Let’s go grab something before the show.”
She shook her head. “I’ll stay here, thanks. I want to keep an eye on my bulls.”
“Did you sleep in the truck last night?”
The color on her cheeks deepened. “No.”
That admission made him want to smile. She’d done as he’d asked. He got the feeling that didn’t happen too often. “And yet, the bulls were fine?”
That got him a sharp look. Her whole face was transformed from one of surprisingly feminine beauty to a tough, tomboy scowl. “Yes.”
“Then they’ll be fine for another hour.” Again, he wondered who Dale was to her. He couldn’t tell how old she was—he’d guess Lacy was in her twenties, although whether that was twenty-two or twenty-nine was up for debate.
She could have been married. Or not, he thought, checking out her ring finger. No tan lines. But she was certainly old enough that she could have been in a long-term relationship. Of course, it was also possible that Dale had been someone else entirely—not a lover, but a friend, a brother...family.
She opened her mouth, to argue no doubt. Ian shot her a hard look. “I’m betting you’re going to load up those bulls and head straight for home, wherever home is. I’m betting you won’t stop until you get there. I’m betting that you’ll ‘forget’ to eat then. So dinner now.”
Her eyes narrowed, but then, unexpectedly, she gave in. “Fine,” she said, cranking on the engine. “But I’m driving.”
He snorted. “Yeah, I’m not surprised.” He crossed around the front of the truck and climbed in. “You know where you want to go?”
* * *
THEY WOUND UP at Denny’s. If Ian had any reservations about her choice, he didn’t voice them.
For some reason, her dad had loved Denny’s. And every single time they ate at one—which was frequently—he cracked the same “Moons Over My Hammy” joke. And Lacy laughed. Always.
Part of her felt as though bringing Ian to Denny’s was wrong, somehow. She hadn’t been able to face eating here alone. Somehow, with Ian, it felt as if...
As if she could do this.
“What are you going to get?” he asked when they slid into a booth that looked out onto the street.
“I’m not that hungry,” she said. When he looked up at her sharply, she said, “I ate today. Really.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to scold her like a child—much as he’d all but scolded her bull last night. But then his mouth twisted off to one side and he said, “Easy, Evans. We’re just friends here.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t sound like you believe me,” he said from behind his menu.
“I’m not very good at having friends,” she admitted. It’d always felt like such a failure, that she wasn’t any good at maintaining friendships. Her mother had once said that Lacy was an out-of-sight, out-of-mind kind of person, and it was true.
He tried not to laugh but didn’t quite make it. “You don’t say.”
She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’re friends with everyone?”
“Most everyone. I’m either friends with them or they deserve to be flattened by a bull.”
“Or by you?”
“If need be,” he told her. “Did you have a history with Jerome before this rodeo?”
She physically flinched at the mention of that jerk. “No. Didn’t even know his name. I don’t normally pal around with the riders.”
He let that set for a moment. The waitress came over, poured the coffee and took their orders. Lacy ordered a salad but Ian ordered three appetizers and a steak dinner with sides. The waitress gave his physique a once-over before she left the table.
Lacy looked with her. Today, Ian had on a gray shirt. It was still cuffed at the elbows and he still had that leather strap around his wrist. He’d taken his hat off and set it on the windowsill. The hat was brown felt, but the band wasn’t horsehair or leather. Quills? That would make sense, she guessed. He was an Indian.
Ian cleared his throat. “Or the fighters?”
She didn’t want to answer that question because admitting that she’d never hung out with a bullfighter before felt as if she was admitting something.