Tyler
Iwant to lean down two more inches—close the distance between our lips—but I know it’s a bad idea. I see her throat tighten as she swallows, and the tip of her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“It’s not a good idea.” My voice sounds thick with desire . . . no use trying to hide it.
“What’s not a good idea?” She’s teasing me again.
“You and me.”
I do nothing to put more distance between us. Instead, I dip my head just a little lower, my hair falling down. Her eyes shift upward at the movement. I take a second to admire those eyes—the vibrant green with little flecks of gold.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” she whispers. “I’d never recommend getting involved with your boss.”
I chuckle—somehow Brooklyn referencing me as her boss has the opposite effect. Now it sounds sexier and even more exciting, like it’s forbidden.
“Especially since I’m a woman in a male-dominated industry. If people knew I already kissed my employee once bef—”
I jerk back. “Your employee?”
“Yes, I’m your boss.” She says it like I’m an idiot for getting it wrong.
“Ha! Last time I checked, little lady, it’s my name on your employee contract and my name on the family business.”
She steps around me and straightens her back. “Yes, but this is my campaign, my department. You’re the talent and I’m the boss.”
She is not backing down from this.
“What do you mean you’ve already kissed me? I kissed you that night.”
Her mouth falls open with a laugh that comes out in the form of a huff. “No, you didn’t. You were trying to run away and I found you at your truck.” She points her finger at my chest as she takes a step toward me. “I kissed you!” She shoves the tip of her finger against my chest and I don’t know why, but I reach out and grab it, pulling her until she crashes against me.
“That wasn’t a kiss. It was a peck, so it doesn’t count.”
“Man, you really cannot ever be wrong, can you?”
We’re chest-to-chest, neither of us conceding.
“What’s your size?”
“Hmm?”
“I need to go shopping for your looks before the photo shoot on Tuesday. Shirt, pants, shoes . . . I need it all.”
The moment is ruined, and I’m reminded that I’ve signed up for this ridiculous circus. I step back and run my hands over my face a few times.
“Look, the only way I’m doing this is if I get to wear my own clothes.”
She tosses her hands in the air and lets out a frustrating grunt. “Can’t you ever just be agreeable? Forget it! I’m going with Trent.”
“Hey, don’t you want this to be authentic?” She tilts her head as if she’s going to hear me out. “If you want me—a rancher or ‘homesteader’ or whatever the trendy term is right now—to be out there, showing everyone how it looks to work the land, it should be authentic. And that includes my clothes, my cowboy hat, and my boots that have a fucking history of walking this land, of breaking horses, of building this home you’re standing in.”
She lifts her eyebrows as she motions with her finger. “You built this?”
“Yeah. My dad and brothers helped, plus a couple cousins, but yeah, we Slade men have built all of our homes. This ain’t some Hollywood cowboy show where we spend a million bucks to hire some fancy crew. We take a lot of pride in everything we do. We chose every damn tree we took down on this property for this home.” I run my hand along one of the exposed beams that runs down to the floor. “Nothing went to waste.”
“Okay, let’s see what you’re working with then. Show me your closet.” She smiles at me as she puts down her bag by the front door and points toward the staircase, taking a few steps. “Bedroom’s upstairs?”
I jump in front of her, holding up my hands to stop her. The thought of Brooklyn Dyer in my bedroom has my brain thinking all sorts of things it has no business thinking.