Page 2 of Risking it for the Cowboy

“You.” He pointed right at her.

Those sparkly eyes went wide, her brows shooting up. Called out. She looked left and right, as if to make sure.

Yup, sweetheart, I chose you.

He crooked his fingers at her and kicked up his grin. “Help me sing this next song.”

She pointed to herself.

His laugh resonated through the speakers. “Yeah, you, Flower Girl.”

Damnation he’d never had to ask a girl before, and definitely not more than once. Except she hesitated, unease creeping onto her brow. His smile faltered again. She was different. Maybe he wouldn’t end up with his boots under her bed tonight … but it might still be worth the sacrifice for a closer look at her, to know what she smelled like, know what her fingers felt like for a brief, few minutes. He might like to play but his women were always willing, he made sure, and he suddenly … wanted to put her at ease.

“Just a song,” he said gently. “Ain’t no other expectations.”

Her brow furrowed all the same.

Why? she mouthed.

The girls around her, annoyed, leaned in front of her. “Pick me! I’ll do it!”

“Y’all are beautiful, you are. But I wanna hear what this one’s got to say. You shy? Can’t sing good?”

The gauntlet. Thrown down.

The bombshell laughed at his attempts, and Jesus, that smile. He was whittling her down. I bet she kisses like a rose. Gentle and full of sweet perfume.

God, he was itching for just one touch, one inhale. He palmed his heart like he was desperate. “Put me outta my misery and sing with me, Flower Girl.”

Wait … a nickname? Where the hell was this coming from? He saw her breath hitch at his nickname. He kept audience participation generic, which made it easy to send them off stage afterward in good fun without leading them on in case he changed his mind—

“Say it with me, y’all! Flow-er Girl! Flow-er Girl!”

So much for generic. And although disappointed, the crowd rebounded and began chanting Flower Girl, encouraging her to step forward.

Reluctantly, and with a … bashful smile now? Aw, sweet as hell. She capitulated. She wedged through the bodies to the stage and holy hell, reached a slender hand up to him so he could see all of her.

Damn … those legs. For days. Slender legs that could work a catwalk. He bet they could wrap all nice and pretty around his hips, too, and that short, denim skirt, those heeled shitkickers, dull and worn over the years, he’d love to see kicked off and decorating the carpet.

Up close, she hesitated. Her hand began to lower and embarrassment splotched her cheeks—

He was being an idiot, staring starstruck. He snagged her hand. Fought every juvenile urge in his foolish body to retain a shred of decorum and resisted peeking at the flash of panties when she propped a boot up so he could haul her on stage.

She stumbled forward. He caught her. Held her for a beat too long, her palms were bracing his chest, and it felt so good, and it wasn’t roses, but lilacs, fragrant and fresh like she’d been sprung from his grandma’s garden.

He froze. Remembered the old woman’s gnarled hands encasing his little ones, helping him transplant seedlings into the ground, scooping earth to fill the holes, singing or guiding his fingering on ukelele strings…

It was one of his favorite smells.

“Sorry,” she breathed, stepping back and easing herself out of his hold.

His arm fell.

So, she wasn’t going to fawn on him, either? And why the hell was his pulse racing like a middle school brat who’d just gotten his first kiss?

What the hell time warp had he just walked into?

But she was still blushing. Because he was still staring. Up close, he could see the contours of her face, the creamy nuances of her skin, and those eyes, bright jade gems and, fuck, those lips, and God, this body, all slim and graceful—