Grumpy Cowboy (Single Dad Collection)

Rhett Jameson’s…older brother? His uncle?

Some kind of familial male figure?

He clears his throat, and that’s when I realize just how long I’ve been standing here staring at this slightly irritated, but also handsome-looking, cowboy like a moron.

Uh…hello? Earth to Leah? Now would be a really great time to remember how to speak…

Rhett

With the length of time it takes the fancy-shoe-wearing stranger to string some words together, her mouth gaping like a fish the whole time, I consider going back in the house and calling an ambulance to come deal with her stroke.

And when she does get some words together, it’s not like she clears everything up in a blink.

“I-I’m sorry?” she stutters, shoving on the tops of her knees to stand up straight again. She’s tall, attractive, dangerously curvaceous, but she looks entirely out of place on my ranch.

I doubt she spends much of her time climbing through fence rails or the like.

This woman has citified written all over her expensive attire and done-up face.

That’s not to say we don’t have city folk come out here all the time for the “Dude Ranch” experience, but this chick takes all that to a whole new level. Guests usually at least go to the trouble of buying a brand-new set of boots and digging a pair of jeans out of the back of their closet.

Dressed in fucking high heels and a bright-as-hell dress that looks like a rainbow puked on it, she has made zero effort to conform to country living. It looks like someone plucked a celebrity out of fucking Hollywood and dropped her right on my front porch.

Honestly, there’s a part of me wondering if Chase managed to send her here as some sort of sick fucking joke…

“What’re you doin’ here?” I repeat slower. Joey giggles and waves, obviously taken with the magic of swanky clothes and makeup she’s never seen before, and I grab her shoulder and pull her body back into my legs, further covering the full brace I have on my bad leg.

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry!” the city girl says with a laugh of her own. “I’m here as a favor to Mr. Jameson.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, technically, it’s a favor for my boss, Frank Kaminsky, and a job for Mr. Jameson, but—” She waves a hand in front of her face. “Never mind. I’m talking nonsense, I’m sorry. Those details don’t matter. I’m looking for Rhett Jameson.”

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. My spine tenses at her words, and when Joey turns to look up at me over her shoulder, I give it a squeeze to suggest she stay quiet.

“Well, you’ve found him,” I say simply, pointedly choosing not to elaborate further.

“Oh thank God!” she cheers with a clasp of her hands, peering around me curiously. “Is he inside? I’d love to introduce myself.”

My eyebrows draw together, and Joey, once again, damn near jumps out of her skin to set the record straight. I gently squeeze her tiny shoulder again and order, “Why don’t you go on into the kitchen and clean up your lunch mess, Joe.”

“But, Daddy!” she protests loudly, stomping a tiny, defiant foot. “I want to keep talking with Leah!”

“Joey,” I warn. “Go clean up. Now.”

She huffs and spins on her heels, bumping into my leg just slightly as she makes her angry exit. I cringe and strain the muscles in my neck against yelling out in pain, and then when she slams the door at the end of the hall, I shake my head. Goddamn, it’s like she’s got the sass of a full-grown woman already. I don’t know how I’m going to handle her when she’s a teenager.

And she’s smart too. She knows that, on a normal basis, that door slam would have landed her a talkin’-to, but she’s used the circumstances of a stranger on our doorstep against me.

When I look up to meet Leah’s eyes again, hers are fixated directly on the giant brace over my left leg.

I move that leg just enough to break her concentration and smirk as her wide-eyed gaze jumps to mine. She looks downright scared and confused.

“You…you can’t be Rhett Jameson,” she finally breathes, shaking her head slightly as though she’s trying to jiggle some kind of nonsense out of it.

I shrug. “Well, darlin’, I am. Now…who the hell are you?”

Her head bobbles again, shaking back and forth mindlessly. “But you’re not fourteen years old.” Her eyes jerk up to mine again, and her chin tucks into her chest. “Right? I mean, I’m sure the rate of maturation is a little different out here with all the manual labor and… But you can’t be fourteen.” She scans my body up and down again, pausing on my bare chest and licking her lips almost imperceptibly. “Definitely not possible.”

“No,” I agree. “I’m definitely not fourteen. Haven’t been in more than two decades. Question is, why do you think I should be?”