Kelli Ireland - Cowboy Strong

He strode back to the bed. Ignoring her unguarded surprise, he bent over her and kissed her, all tongue and teeth and heat. She responded, arching into the hand he placed on her breast and wrapping a hand around the arm parked next to her head.

The ever-simmering ember of desire that lay between them fanned to life, the flame licking at the base of his spine as his shaft thickened.

“Stay,” she whispered against his mouth, tracing his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

He tried to imagine waking up to her beautiful face, tried to imagine her hair spread over his pillow. Sure, he could see it, but he could also imagine it being the beginning of something much larger, something he hadn’t ever believed he would want. The longer he thought of the possible consequences, the more actively hesitation shoved at his willingness to try. It took only seconds for hesitation to win the battle, if not the war.

Ty stood. “I can’t, darlin’. You know I’ve got to be up early.” Without a word, she watched as he retied his robe with fumbling fingers. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Still, she said nothing.

He left as quickly as he’d arrived, anxiety driving him into the hall and all the way to his room. Whatever she’d wanted from him sexually, she’d definitely gotten. Beyond that? He refused to examine their exchange too closely.

Sleep dogged his heels when, several minutes later, he slipped into his room and quietly shut the door. He’d preset the alarm on his smartphone before knocking on Kenzie’s door, ensuring he’d be up early enough he wouldn’t have to rush to the barn. Shuffling through the dark room, he paused to set the desktop radio alarm as a backup, shed his robe and then collapsed onto his bed. The air conditioner’s sharp click preceded the smell of refrigerated air, slightly canned and stale, as it swept across the room. For all that he preferred the outdoors, the artificially cooled air was bliss on his overheated skin. Air-conditioning always helped him sleep.

The robe tangled around his legs and he kicked at it even as he tried to retrieve the covers. No luck. The cooler he grew, the more determined he was to simply stop fighting and give in to sleep. Without at least a few z’s, it would be pointless for him to show up in the arena in—he cracked one eye and peered at the clock—less than four hours. Gizmo deserved more than that from him. His eyes drifted shut.

Sometime later, he woke with a start and the absolute, sickening certainty he was late. A quick check of his watch proved his instincts right. Very. He glanced at the desktop clock and realized it was an hour slow. If he’d depended on that alarm alone, he’d have missed the competition altogether.

My phone. Where the hell’s my phone and why didn’t that alarm go off?

He’d last had his phone in his robe. He dug through the pockets. Not there.

Didn’t matter. There wasn’t time to hunt it down. The rules required him to be ready and warming up thirty minutes prior to his call time. He had less than an hour before he and Gizmo were due in the competition arena, less than twenty-five minutes before he had to be in the warm-up ring.

Yanking on jeans with one hand while he tried to pull on his shirt with the other proved fruitless and forced him to slow down. Man, he had not wanted to start nationals this way. He got himself together and sprinted from the room, rode the elevator to the lobby and raced through the crowds. He uttered apologies as he clipped folks left and right.

Another glance at his watch as he waited to cross the street to the temporary stalls said he had thirteen minutes to prep Gizmo and get him to the ring.

Damn it. Not enough time.

The light changed and he kicked into an all-out sprint through even heavier crowds. His stomach plummeted when—from twenty yards away—he saw the top of the Dutch door was already open. He slid to a stop in front of the stall...and gaped.

Kenzie stood there casually brushing the horse’s tail. Gizmo had been saddled up, his reins looped over the wall-mounted hitching ring. His splint boots rested in the tack bucket she’d hauled out with her.

“What are you doing?” The question whipped across the distance, sharp enough to cause Gizmo to bob his head and paw the ground in protest.

“Why, I’m putting pretty polka-dot bows in your manly horse’s tail before I paint his hooves ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ red by OPI, of course,” Kenzie answered, just as brittle. “That way you might fool the steers, mesmerizing them with his handsome appearance. Just a hint? Right here, a ‘thank you, Kenzie’ wouldn’t be inappropriate.”

Ty stared at her, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. “You’re such a smart-ass.” Grabbing the splints, he knelt in front of his horse and, moving quickly, yanked the Velcro straps in place.

“And you’re behaving like a real jackass.” She tossed the steel comb at him. “I came down to feed Indie and saw you hadn’t taken care of Gizmo. The longer you went without showing up, the more I began to think it might be helpful if I lent a hand. I actually just called your cell to make sure you were up. My bad, seeing as you clearly have this under complete control. I suppose I should tell you to ignore the voice mail where I yell at you to get your butt in gear.”

She moved past him and he instinctively stood and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you are,” she bit out. “Now let go.”

He tightened his hold. “No. Look, Kenzie. I’m truly sorry. You have to understand, I need this...”

Her brow furrowed when he trailed off. “Need what?”

He stopped himself just short of explaining the prize money was necessary for him to expand his breeding operation, and he was glad. As a Malone, she wouldn’t understand his desperation to claim the prize money. It fueled his drive every day. Instead of answering, he shifted his approach. “I appreciate that you stepped in and helped.” He shrugged, the skin across his shoulders tightening until it was too small to comfortably cover his large frame. “Thank you.”

She eyed him with open disbelief, as if she knew it hadn’t been what he’d started to say. In the end, though, she let it go with a “Sure. Whatever.”

Ty moved around her to tighten Gizmo’s cinch before he led the stud into the barn alley. “I hate to run, but I have to check in at the warm-up ring.”

“Go. I’ll be in the stands.”

“Taking notes on how it’s done?” he teased, mounting his horse.

“Nope. Watching arena conditions, checking out how worked up the steers get and gauging what the judges seem to be scoring on most heavily.” She tapped her chin and then met his eyes, grinning. “Oh, yeah. And just how hard I have to bother to beat you.”

Ty laughed. “One of the things I admire most about you, Malone, is your warped sense of entitlement.” The minute the words left his mouth, he knew he’d stepped in it. Her face went stony and her spine ramrod straight. He opened his mouth to say something lighthearted, but she cut him off.

“I had no idea you thought so little of my skill, Covington.” She crossed her arms under her chest and took a step away from Gizmo. “Normally I wouldn’t address such nonsense, but this is one thing I’m compelled to settle. You may consider me ‘entitled,’ but I work every bit as hard as you do, if not harder. I put in just as many hours in the saddle, in the barn and on the computer to perfect my breeding program. No one can claim that’s done with any sense of entitlement since I do it all myself. I’ll pit my work ethic against yours any day.”

She spun on her heel and stalked off, weaving through the crowd with a kind of fluid grace no one else had ever mimicked, let alone matched. For such a petite woman, she seemed taller, more sure of herself than ever. That she hadn’t apologized for her legacy but rather had bitch-slapped him with it raised his opinion of her mightily. And that she’d walked away without sparing him a glance? He shouldn’t find it sexy, but he did. Not many women were built of sterner stuff than that.