To me.
I blinked. Confused. Dry-mouthed.
Because now that I saw the guy’s face, he was a whole lot more than just hot abs. Streaked with sweat and a light coating of dust, he looked like a local laborer in his T-shirt and jeans. Although, knowing good clothes when I saw them, from years of shopping vintage, I realized he wore very good clothes. Those boots and jeans were both out of my price range.
“Lady, are you okay?” He was now just a few feet away.
Hazel eyes narrowed in concern, he stood a good six inches taller than me. His dark hair was close cropped and matched the dark stubble sprinkled along his jaw. Wicked cheekbones made him look a bit Native American. A prominent blade of a nose and full lips only added to his appeal.
I remembered the words I’d written to describe the hero of my book. An arresting face. Strong. Handsome.
“I’m fine,” I said, with a bit too much enthusiasm. What I meant to say, actually, was “You’re fine.” But he stared at me like I might have mental health issues, so I struggled to pull myself out of the sexy-man–induced delirium. He looked like the hero I’d dreamed up before I even laid eyes on this guy. “That is, I broke down a few miles back, but I don’t think I’m far from my destination.”
Belatedly, I realized I should have asked to borrow his cell phone. Or truck. Or his body.
“Right. Miranda Cortland?”
Holy crap. He really did know me. For a moment, I worried that he’d recognized me from Gutsy Girl. But he didn’t fit the show’s demographic. And now that I started to get a grip on the situation, I comprehended that he appeared very irritated. Highly annoyed.
Downright surly, even.
“Oh, God.” I put the pieces together and felt like an idiot. “Are you Damien Fraser? Did that last text message I sent actually go through?”
The screen had faded to black a second after I’d hit Send on my SOS message to him.
“I didn’t get it until a few minutes ago. I was working in one of the pastures.” He didn’t confirm his identity, but I guess he didn’t need to. His gaze roamed over me, assessing. As if I was the one who was sweaty and dirty from a day in the fields. Somehow, I’d assumed “Fraser Farm” was meant more as a picturesque description than an actual farm...with animals.
But Damien Fraser of Fraser Farm was technically listed as the seller of the property that I wanted so badly. I stood straighter, wishing we’d met when I looked more like a serious real estate buyer and less like a college student on spring break. Or a fugitive from Tinsel Town. I’d stripped off my neon-green lace shirt an hour ago to wrap around my head, turban-style. I’d warmed up in a hurry once I started my long walk with a heavy pack on my shoulders. Plus, wrapping the shirt around my hair helped prevent me from being recognized after my recent notoriety. But it left me wearing a pink floral tee that occasionally exposed my belly-button ring. A snake with a sapphire eye. It had been my gift to myself for meeting my weight loss goals a few months after moving to L.A. and away from my dysfunctional family.
“I’m just so glad it reached you,” I blurted, yanking the lace off my head, a trick that probably left my thick, ash-blond curls standing on end. “I mean, I’ve had a few hours to obsess over what might happen when I didn’t show up for our appointment. Like, that you’d sell to someone else. Or refuse to sell to me on principle, because I wasted your time....”
Midsentence, it occurred to me that I’d broken every rule for savvy real estate shopping. I’d let the seller know how much I wanted what he had.
“Would you like to see the property now?” He hadn’t interrupted me or anything, but I sensed he didn’t want to waste time chatting about my “might have” scenarios.
Which I respected. But between my outfit and my chattering, I just knew he thought I was some flighty Hollywood chick with more hair than brains.
“Sure. But can I ride with you?” I had checked him out online and he had big-time ties to the community as a Thoroughbred breeder developing an upscale business selling mega-expensive racehorses.
He didn’t strike me as the serial-killer type, even if he was a bit dirtier than I’d expected. Was I too swayed by his broad shoulders? Or by the fact that he was just what I’d pictured when I dreamed up the guy in my secret novel?
Now I’d never be able to see any other face but his when Shaelynn got back to her hot tub adventures. Lucky girl.
“Where’d you break down?” Frowning, he squinted against the glare from the late afternoon sun as he peered down the road behind me. “Is your car out of the way of traffic?”