Candis Terry - [Sweet, Texas 01]

by Anything But Sweet

  No. Way.

  Charli stood in the shadows of twilight, mouth agape, heart pounding.

  Reno Wilder wasn’t just a shop owner. He wasn’t just a man’s man whose gruff exterior sent out warning signals a mile wide. He wasn’t just a former Marine.

  Reno Wilder was a genuine freaking cowboy.

  Good. God.

  Her sharp intake of air gave her away, and he slowly turned—mouthwatering sexy dripping from every single masculine pore. Charli’s heart took off in a race. She couldn’t even think straight enough to grab hold before it completely went off the radar.

  A groan rumbled from that wide, tight chest. “You need something, Fancy Pants?”

  “You’re a cowboy.”

  “I’m a rancher.”

  “You ride a horse,” she said, stating the obvious. But for the life of her, sensible words were out of reach.

  “Hard to be a rancher unless you can.”

  She folded her arms, leaned a shoulder against the barn door, and watched him move the stirrup aside to unhook the cinch. His movements were sure and steady. He lifted the saddle and pad from the animal and walked a few steps to place it on a stand. Even while trying to reengage her man-ban mission, Charli couldn’t help but notice the way those well-worn jeans cupped his spectacular backside.

  “What about trucks or ATVs?” she asked.

  The horse gave his arm a nudge when he reached to remove the headstall. With his large hand, he gave the animal an affectionate stroke on the neck that gave Charli a tug way down deep in her lemon yellow panties.

  “Cows see trucks they think they’re getting fed or going to the slaughterhouse,” he said. “ATVs scare the crap out of them.”

  “Literally?”

  “There you go asking questions again.”

  “If I don’t ask, how am I ever going to learn?”

  He turned to look at her like she’d lost a screw. “You want to learn about cow crap?”

  She walked into the barn. “Not really.”

  He hung the leather piece on a hook, opened the stall door, and the horse wandered inside. He pulled a flake of hay from a cube outside the door and dropped it into a feeder attached to the inside of the stall. Then he grabbed a soft-bristled brush, and, while the horse happily munched away, he ran that brush methodically down the horse’s sweaty back.

  “Do you do that after every ride?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He exhaled. “It’s his reward. Makes him feel good after a long ride.”

  Well, didn’t that just put a different kind of thought into her head. “So you’re all about feeling good?”

  He braced his arms on the horse’s back and dropped his head between them. Then he shook it ever so slowly, the motion catching shadows on the straw brim of his hat in the low overhead light.

  Finally, he looked up at her. Exasperation darkened his face.

  Could be just the play of shadows again.

  She tilted her head to look closer.

  Nope.

  Clearly exasperated.

  “If you’d like a lesson in horsemanship, I suggest you call Chester Banks,” he said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s an old cowboy who loves pretty ladies. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you a thing or two.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  With something that could be roughly considered a growl, he tossed the grooming brush back on the shelf, closed the stall door, and walked out of the barn.

  She followed.

  “Don’t you think it’s rude to ignore someone when they’ve asked you a direct question?”

  He stopped halfway across the gravel drive and turned so fast she almost ran into the back of him. He smelled of hardworking man. And horse. And she was surprised at the jumping beans that began to leap around in her stomach and start a march toward her lower abdomen.

  “Pardon my rude behavior.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “My mother did raise me to have better manners and to be honest. So yes. That was a compliment. And now I’ll bid you a good night.”

  He disappeared into the house, and Charli watched until a light came on in the back. She watched as his shadow passed by the window shade. She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

  Her heart sprang up into her throat.

  Watching that shadow play was like paying a quarter for a peep show. Only she got it for free.

  He thinks I’m pretty.

  Butterflies did a dance around her heart before she could swat them away.

  Behind the shade, his shadow unbuttoned those soft, worn, butt-hugging jeans and slid them down his lean hips. Charli sucked in a big gulp of air, then headed back to the veranda and her glass of wine.

  With all the estrogen doing a conga line through her blood, she needed a drink.

  Well, she really needed something else.

  But she’d settle for the drink.

  Reno turned on the shower and stepped beneath the hot stream. He braced his palms on the tiled wall and let the water cascade over his head and down his back while he waited for the tension to leave his body. A long time passed before he finally got the message that it wasn’t going to happen, and he grabbed the bar of soap. Minutes later, he toweled off and pulled on his most comfortable jeans and a clean white T-shirt.

  Ignoring thoughts of the woman who’d invaded his property, his life, and his sanity, he went downstairs to feed Bear and enjoy a cold beer on his back veranda. Nothing soothed his soul like watching the stars and moon float in the velvet sky. Or the scent of the dew on the grass. Or a warm breeze on his face. Or the quiet calm of a summer night.

  As he passed through the kitchen, he flipped on the radio and smiled at the George Strait song. “The Man in Love with You” had always been one of his favorites. He’d heard his father sing it to his mother countless times. Once, he’d even caught them dancing on the back patio while a summer storm beat down on the roof and his father hummed the tune. It didn’t play on the radio all that often anymore, but the lyrics still warmed a place in his heart.

  After grabbing Bear’s bowl and filling it with dog crunchies, he swiped a cold longneck from the refrigerator, popped the cap, and went out the back door. The veranda was dark, and he was greeted by the sound of crickets from the nearby bushes.

  “Bear,” he called. “Dinner.” After a few moments of the dog being a no-show, he called again. It wasn’t unusual for his dog to be out running the meadow. Looking after the cattle was his canine job. But after another few moments, a streak of worry sped up Reno’s spine. He whistled.

  “I think he’s asleep.”

  The soft, feminine voice startled him. Across the veranda, Charli Brooks lounged in one of his Adirondacks. With her feet tucked up beneath a yellow cotton sundress and a glass of white wine in her hand, she looked far too relaxed and, oddly, right at home.

  “What are you doing here?” It seemed like he asked that question of her a lot.

  “Your mother came by to pick some zucchini.”

  With, he was sure, a mess of Southern hospitality burning on her lips. “That hardly answers my question.”

  “She told me I could make myself at home.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Earlier, I stopped by the store,” she said. “Bought some groceries and a nice bottle of zinfandel. There appeared to be no place nicer to enjoy a glass of wine than on your veranda.” She lifted her glass. “So here I am.”

  “Yep. Here you are.” The snark in his tone didn’t stop her luscious lips from tilting into a smile.

  “Sit down and drink your beer, Mr. Wilder. It’s been a long day.” Her chin lifted slightly. “And I promise not to bite.”

  It wasn’t her teeth he was worried about.

  “Just for the record,” she said in a soft, slightly humored voice. “I’m not easily intimidated. So save the scowls for someone else.”

  In total exhaustion and defeat, he dropped down to the vacant Adirondack.

&n
bsp; “Who’s this singing on the radio?” she asked.

  The beer halted halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

  “I work all the time and don’t get to listen to the radio that much. In fact, I’m not even sure Los Angeles has a country station. But I really like this. So if you don’t mind?”

  “George Strait.”

  “Pretty music.”

  “Mmmhmmm.”

  She pursed those full lips, sipped her wine, then closed her eyes and listened to the end of the song. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her mouth. Or her face. She looked so damned . . . relaxed. How the hell can she look so damned relaxed when I’m wound tighter than a coil of barbed wire?

  When Dierks Bentley came on the radio going “Sideways,” everything in Reno’s brain scrambled.

  She opened her eyes and blinked. When she leaned forward, a whiff of sweet perfume tickled his nose.

  “I should probably warn you that I was brought up by a military father,” she said. “And I have a brother following in his footsteps. So unless you have a military assault rifle tucked in your pocket, how about we call a truce for the five and a half weeks I’m here.”

  “In our family we fight until someone cries uncle.”

  “I’m not much of a fighter.”

  Yeah. He got that. Soft eyes. Soft skin. Rhinestones on her sandals. Fancy Pants was a total girly girl. Probably more the kiss-and-make-up type.

  He exhaled a long hard breath.

  And the problem with that?

  Nothing.

  Kissing and making up had always been one of his favorite pastimes.

  “Tell you what. I’ll keep my weapon in my pocket”—he gave her low-cut sundress a long once-over—“if you put away your tools.”

  She laughed. “Mr. Wilder, you do have the funniest way of turning a phrase.”

  Funny?

  Him?

  Now there was something he’d never been called.

  She stood, reached down, and lifted Bear’s food bowl with a little shake. Reno wondered if she knew he could see straight down the top of her little sundress.

  Not that he minded.

  He’d already seen the woman in a tight skirt and blouse, and tight shorts and T-shirt. He knew how she was built. And as much as she irritated the hell out of him, she was damn fine to look at.

  “Here, Bear,” she sang out. “Dinnertime.”

  Reno watched in surprise as his dog came trotting up onto the veranda, with the poodle in tow. “So that’s where he’s been. Your dog is a bad influence.”

  She laughed and gave both dogs a pat on the head while they both ate from the bowl. “Isn’t that nice that he’s sharing with her?”

  “She’s pushy,” Reno grumbled. “And he’s too polite to push aside those silly pom-poms.”

  “Pumpkin’s not pushy. She’s a free spirit.”

  Reno took a pull of beer—licked a lingering drop from his lip. Her eyes tracked his every move. “Like you?”

  That got him a laugh. “Hardly. The general would never have allowed something so . . . frivolous.”

  “The general?” He lifted the beer for another drink. “Literally? Or is that a nickname?”

  “Literally.”

  “What branch?”

  From the table between them, she picked up a matchbook and lit the candle in the center. The flame flickered behind the red glass, and shadows danced. “Marines.”

  “Jesus.” His bottle banged on the arm of the chair. “Don’t tell me your father is Lieutenant General Thomas Brooks.”

  “The one and only.”

  “No shit?” He leaned forward. “How’d you survive that growing up?”

  She shrugged a slender shoulder. “He wasn’t home much. The military is his life.”

  “And that left you out in the cold?”

  “My brother and I. Maybe you know him too. Lt. Nicholas Brooks? Second Battalion, Alpha Company?”

  “Quick Nick?” Reno chuckled. “I know him well. He’s a good man.”

  Charli smiled. “He’s a great brother.”

  “I take it he’s still in?”

  “Pretty sure he’s a lifer.” An expression of concern shrouded her pretty face. “I worry about him every day. I’m the big sister. It’s always been my job to look after him, especially after our mother died.”

  A pang of familiarity jabbed his heart. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She gave him a direct look. “As I am yours.”

  Ah, so his mother was talking to strangers again. He wondered if Charli meant the loss of his father, his brother, or the love of his life. Then again, it didn’t really matter. All three were devastating. And none were open for discussion. “Thank you.”

  He leaned back in the chair, drained the bottle of beer, and gave her comment and concern careful consideration. “Your brother will make it home,” he said, confident the statement was true.

  “Safe and in one piece, I hope.”

  “I’d count on that if I were you. I’ve seen him in action. He’s smart. He’s strong. And he’s fast. Not to mention he can tell a hell of a good story.”

  “I know. I always thought he’d go into journalism or write fiction. He had such an imagination when he was a kid.” Her face lit up, and she gave a little laugh. “Which kept him out of trouble more times than not. He could wrap our nannies around his little finger so fast, they wouldn’t even know what hit them.”

  She’d been raised by nannies. That must have sucked.

  As if she didn’t have a care in the world, she curled her hand around the wood post, leaned out toward the lawn, and glanced up at the stars. A dreamy look came over her face, and he wondered what put it there. But as soon as his own imagination began to wander, he reined it back in.

  What this woman thought, wanted, dreamed about, disliked . . . whatever . . . it wasn’t any of his business. He needed to remain on guard. Because the one thing that was his business was how hell-bent she seemed on changing everything.

  That she was so damned attractive made his resolve an even bigger challenge. Any other woman, any other night, and he’d take advantage of the warm evening, the candlelight, and the floral scent floating on the air.

  Charlotte Brooks was off-limits.

  With a sigh, she came back to the table, lifted her nearly empty glass, and finished off the wine. He noticed the soft curves to her arm, her long, feminine fingers—the complete womanly package that stood before him.

  Everything inside him responded.

  “Well, I guess I should let you get to whatever it is you were about to do,” she said with a tilt of the empty glass and a smile. “Thank you for not kicking me out.”

  Reno didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. But as she walked past him, he caught another whiff of her perfume. He closed his eyes against the images that leaped into his mind—of her naked on his cool white sheets. Of her arms reaching up to him. Of him following her down onto a big, soft bed.

  He pushed out a breath and opened his eyes.

  When she reached the end of the veranda, she stopped and turned.

  “Oh. I almost forgot.”

  God, the woman was like Columbo—almost out of his space, then she’s right back again, asking more questions and torturing the hell out of him.

  “The mural in the little girl’s room in the apartment is beautiful.”

  “That’s Izzy’s room.”

  She tilted her head, and a cascade of deep brown hair fell over her bare shoulder. “Izzy?”

  “Isabella. Jackson’s little girl. She’s two.”

  “Well, she’s a lucky little girl.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Who’s the artist? I’d love to have them paint a mural in the senior center.”

  “I don’t think he’d be interested.”

  She folded her arms. The movement pushed her breasts higher.

  Yeah. He noticed.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  Reno hadn’t felt like a fi
fteen-year-old boy since he’d been a fifteen-year-old boy. But all those adolescent hormones came rushing back to him now. Times a hundred. “You are the most inquisitive damned woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Thank you. So why wouldn’t the artist be interested?”

  “That wasn’t a compliment.” Because he didn’t consider himself an artist. “And he’s busy.”

  Realization dawned. Her arms dropped to her sides. “Oh my God. You painted that mural?”

  “No.”

  “You did too. I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

  “You hardly know me well enough to read my expression.”

  “You’re not that cagey, Mr. Wilder. You’re probably the most forthright person I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Honesty is a virtue. But too much isn’t necessarily polite.” She took a few steps closer. “You painted that mural, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe,” he modestly admitted.

  “Wow.” She looked at him in such a direct way he wanted to squirm. “I am speechless.”

  “Thank God.”

  For some reason, she took that as an invitation and returned to sit beside him. “Who knew you had a fairy-tale castle and a knight in shining armor inside you. How long did it take to paint?”

  He shrugged. “A few days.”

  “A few days?” One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Hmmm.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You’re stubborn.” She leaned toward him and studied his face.

  He leaned away. “What the hell are you looking at?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what other hidden talents you might have beneath that persistent scowl.”

  Her intensity made him uncomfortable. He stood and moved away. “Don’t look too deep, Fancy Pants. You’ll only be disappointed.”

  “I doubt that.” She followed him to the edge of the veranda. Came so close he could feel the heat radiating from her body. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wilder.”

  To his relief, she gave him a quick smile and walked toward the end of the veranda. But she stopped. Again.

  Damn.

  “Oh. And make sure you bring your paint and brushes.”

  “I’m not painting a mural.”