She started at an unexpected, masculine voice and swung her gaze to the dining room doorway. Her mouth went dry as a summer drought, and her pulse hiccupped before it began to race. The man who stood there with a hot smile and a confident demeanor owned a pair of the sharpest hazel eyes she’d ever seen, sandy-gold hair the color of a palomino stallion, and a jaw and cheekbones strong enough to have been chiseled out of Wyoming granite. Most unsettling of all was a smile that likely could have charmed Sunday school teachers out of their knickers—in any era past or present.
After she’d stared for an impolite number of seconds, Joely lowered her eyes and cupped her chin so her thumb rode up the left side of her in order to hide the scar. She’d convinced herself it made her look thoughtful and masked the self-consciousness she’d never suffered before the accident.
“I might be lost,” she said. “But I’m probably not.”
“You’re Joellen.”
“Not unless you’re angry at me.”
He raised one amused brow. “I’m not.”
“Then it’s Joely.”
“I admit it; I knew that. What I don’t know is how a pretty little thing like you could possibly be sitting all alone like this in a house full of women.”
She stared, not sure whether she was annoyed at the “pretty little thing” epithet or surprised at his mind-reading ability, since she’d been wondering the same thing.
“My whole family is in the kitchen through that door. I could ask you the same thing. What’s a patronizing cowboy like you doing in my mother’s dining room knowing my name when I don’t know yours?”
The grin widened, and he strode into the room, dark denim jeans fitted nicely on his hips, a subtle plaid shirt tucked at the waist, and a casual brown sport coat giving him a touch of western class. He reached her in three strides, his cowboy boot heels beating a soft, pleasant cadence on the oak floor. “Alec Morrissey,” he said, holding out his hand. “Alexander if you’re mad at me.”
The name left her stunned again. She knew it. Anyone who followed rodeo knew it. But he couldn’t be the Alec Morrissey—the one who’d won three PRCA titles and then dropped out of sight half a dozen years ago . . . She shook her head to clear it before she could blurt a question that would sound stupid. She kept her hand over her scar by pretending to scratch her temple and took his hand to shake it. His firm, dry masculine grip sent a small warning shiver through her stomach.
“I’m not,” she said.
“Not what?”
“Not mad at you.”
“Ah. Even if I’m patronizing? Or if I admit I’m not a real cowboy? Which I’m not, by the way. I wear the boots because they’re comfortable.”
She wanted to tell him she’d only forgive him if he promised never to call her a pretty little thing again. Her father had called her that, but not in a proud papa kind of way. It had been more a “you’re my delicate little flower, don’t worry your pretty little head over such things” kind of way. But based on the confidence this man exuded, Joely doubted she could tell him to do or not do anything.
“Well, I can’t lie. I’m disappointed about the cowboy part. But if you swear to quit being patronizing, I won’t be mad.”
He pulled out a chair beside her and sat backward on it, comfortable and easy, looking as if he’d lied about not being a cowboy and straddled seats and saddles every day.
“Ma’am, if calling you pretty is patronizing, I can’t swear because any promise I made I would break every time I saw you.”1