Victoria Dahl - Close Enough to Touch

She was glad he’d given up the questions, because she wanted to grab her plate and run back to her place so she could shovel the food in the way she wanted to. If he pushed her anymore, that’s exactly what she’d do. But he dropped the subject, so she slathered too much butter on the toast and managed to get nearly a fourth of it into her mouth in one bite.

God, she’d been really hungry. Now she wanted to groan in pleasure. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. As a matter of fact, at this moment, Cole Rawlins was pretty awesome.

She didn’t register how many eggs were on her plate until she dug into the third one. “How many eggs did you make?” she asked.

“Four for you, four for me.”

She laughed. “Do I look like I eat as much as you do?”

“You look like you’re doing okay, actually.”

Grace laughed so hard she almost had to stop eating for a moment. “Didn’t I tell you I was a lumberjack back in L.A.?”

“Ah. Of course. You’ve got that look about you.”

Jesus, he was funny. A funny cowboy. Who’d have thunk it. She’d thought they were all silent and brooding. Hell, they’d all definitely been silent and brooding in Brokeback Mountain. But she tried not to think about that when she looked at Cole.

“So, you’re from L.A.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Nothing right now.”

“Did—”

“I think I’m getting full,” she interrupted with an apologetic wince. “Want my last egg?”

“No, I’m full myself.” He reached for the plate, but Grace couldn’t quite bear to let it go, so she snatched the last piece of bacon before he could whisk it away. He put the plate back down. Full or not, her mouth still watered when she bit into the bacon. She tried not to think about how long it had been since her last hot meal. It didn’t matter. She’d get a job today. Or the next day. She’d have a check within a week. She’d start paying back the money she owed so she’d never have to think about her ex again.

“You want help moving in?” Cole asked.

“No, I’m fine.” Now that she was full, Grace really needed to escape. He kept asking the wrong kinds of questions. Not that there were any right questions. Not about her.

“Come on.”

“I don’t have much.” Or anything. “Anyway, you’re injured.”

“I think I can handle moving a futon.” He gestured as he said that, and Grace could see he was right. His hands were wide, and scars stood out white against the tan. And she was pretty sure she’d never seen such nice forearms. Assuming one thought thick and muscled and masculine was nice. She had a brief temptation to touch his arm, to see if the hair was crisp or soft.

“So you’ll let me help?” he pressed.

Shit. She hopped off the stool and edged toward the door, away from him and his questions. “I’m good. But thank you for the breakfast. And coffee.” She forced herself not to ask for another cup, but it was hard. She’d already taken too much from this man. “I’ll see you around.”

“Hey.”

She stopped halfway out the door, but only because he’d fed her. Anybody else and she would’ve kept walking. When he didn’t say anything, she stuck her head back in to see him writing something down.

“Here’s my phone number,” he said when he crossed the room.

She didn’t reach for it, feeling immediately wary. “You live across the hall. I think I can find you if I need you.”

“You know anybody here except Rayleen?”

She met his pale eyes and didn’t answer. Yes, I’m alone and vulnerable. Good for you to know.

“This isn’t L.A.” he said. “If you get stuck somewhere at night or your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you might not see another car for an hour. So, take my number, all right?”

No, this definitely wasn’t L.A. And if he thought she was afraid of something like being alone for an hour, then he didn’t know what real fear was.

But he took one step closer and pressed the paper into her hand. When her fingers closed over it, he winked. “In case you need me,” he said again, this time with a hint of amusement.

Grace nodded. “All right. I’ll call you if I have any cows that need branding, stud.”

“Stud? My God, you L.A. women are forward. I think I’m blushing.”

She closed the door in his face, and scowled at his laughter as she crossed the hall.

Did he think she’d been flirting with him? He probably did think that. He was undeniably handsome, though totally not her type. Too clean-cut. Too chiseled and… Okay, he was pretty fantastic-looking, but too confident for his own good. He probably thought she’d add a little exotic city-girl spice to his bed. And he probably thought he’d have no trouble getting her there. But Grace wasn’t interested in being his little curiosity. Even if she had any interest in getting laid right now—and she didn’t—she wasn’t going to be his experiment in edginess. His walk on the wild side. He could just sit over there and wonder.

Wanting to get the coffee taste out of her mouth, Grace headed toward the bathroom, where she’d already unloaded her few supplies and one giant box of cosmetics. But when she flipped on the light and got a look at herself, she froze. She’d forgotten to take off her makeup last night, and it had smeared into a crooked mask around her eyes. She suddenly had to consider that Cole’s laughter hadn’t been flirtation at all. Maybe it had just been pure amusement.

Damn.

CHAPTER FOUR

GRACE WAS NERVOUS. She didn’t like being nervous. It made her grumpy and defensive, which wasn’t the best attitude for a job interview.

Not that this was exactly a job interview. She’d caught the bus to the other side of town and was now sitting in Eve Hill’s photography studio, waiting for her to finish reviewing proofs with someone. Or she assumed that was what was going on behind the closed door at the far side of the room. That’s what the sign on the front door had said. The low murmur of voices was a soothing sound, at least.

So far, so good. There were the obligatory bride portraits on a side wall, but for the most part, the pictures were a mix of landscape shots, publicity stills for businesses and some truly amazing fashion shoots that had been done with the mountains in the background and frost covering everything except the models.

This woman was good. Really good.

Grace smoothed down her tight black pants, wishing she’d had an iron. She’d hung her nicest clothes up in the bathroom and turned the shower to hot, but now she felt self-conscious about the slate-blue sweater. Maybe it was the wrong choice. It had been knitted to look ancient and torn apart and shot through with muted grays as if it had faded in the sun. Slightly risky for a job interview, but Grace was counting on the complex beauty of the wool to catch the photographer’s eye. The sweaters normally sold for three hundred dollars a pop at the upscale farmer’s market in La Jolla, but the knitter was a friend who’d given Grace one as a present. It was her favorite piece of clothing. Ever. But maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe in Wyoming a raggedy sweater was just a raggedy sweater that no one would pay two dollars for. Maybe it looked like something she’d pulled from the trash can behind an L.A. soup kitchen.

God. She should go home and change.

Grace stood up, but then froze without moving toward the door.

Change into what, exactly? The signed Dead Kennedys T-shirt she’d bought at a garage sale last year? The silk tunic with the hand-screened Vargas pinup girl that curved up the hip in vivid colors?

Actually, maybe. Maybe a photographer would appreciate Vargas. Or maybe she’d consider it no better than soft porn.