Grumpy Cowboy (Single Dad Collection)

I already know she doesn’t have a clue what any of those things is, but the fact that she’s trying to act like she does is pretty fucking amusing.

And call me evil, but I’m more than willing to sit back and watch her fail at her own game.

“Just a rag.” I nod toward the side of the house. “Garage should be open. Everything’ll be in there.”

She nods again and takes off in the direction of the garage, and my fucking eyes don’t ignore how good her hips look swaying back and forth as she moves on them ridiculous, don’t-fucking-belong-out-here shoes.

I wait until she rounds the corner and then let loose with a smile.

Well, for as frustrating as this day has been, at least this should be entertaining.

Leah

How in the heck have I gone from trying to introduce myself to my new patient to stomping toward a garage to find tools to fix a broken-down car?

I run a hand down my face as I continue to walk toward the back of the house.

To be honest, I don’t know why I care so much to go to these lengths, but there is just something about the stupid smug smile on Rhett Jameson’s face that makes me want to find every darn item he mentioned.

Sadly, I don’t even think this is about protecting his injured leg from unneeded activity.

Ha. Probably because it’s definitely not…

Fine. It’s not. The bastard triggered me. He wrote me off as some woman from the city who doesn’t know shit about cars or ranches or whatever the hell else he’s assumed I’m a moron in.

Well, you don’t know anything about cars or ranches…

Ugh. It doesn’t matter that he’s sort of correct; it’s the fact that he just presumed.

After stepping through the side door of the garage and pulling it shut behind me, I flip on the light switch next to the door and dig my phone out of my bra. It’s a strange place to keep a cell phone, I admit, but when I wear a dress without pockets, it’s the most convenient of all locations.

“Google, google, google,” I mutter to myself, willing the processing system on my iPhone to work faster. I click my bookmark in Safari with the hopes of getting there quickly, but the little blue line at the top of the screen barely makes it out of the gate.

Come on, you stupid phone! Get some freaking service!

“Please,” I whisper-yell, banging on the side of my hot-pink case. “Do not let me down in my time of need!”

Sure, I don’t have a clue what any of the things he said are, but I do have a good memory. I figured I’d be able to come in here, Google what they looked like by typing in their names, find them all, and shove his arrogant assumptions right back down his heavily corded throat.

I glance at the bars of service in the top right-hand corner of the screen, and the one fleeting bar I thought I had disappears like a puff of dust in the wind.

No Service, it says then, taunting me with a proverbial flatline.

What is it with this place and freaking cell service?

So far, everywhere I’ve been since I left the lodge—my cabin, the drive here, Rhett Jameson’s house—I’ve had exactly zero luck with reaching the outside world.

It’s like the land repels any form of digital contact.

“Dammit!” I huff with a stomp of my heel, tucking my lifeline back into the cup of my bra and scanning the walls of the garage. Statistically, there’s a pretty low chance I’m going to pick the right thing since there are tools everywhere, but I’m just stubborn enough to try anyway.

Going back there with my tail tucked between my legs isn’t an option. He quite obviously thinks I’m an incapable idiot. I may not be rural-savvy, but I was at the top of my class in medical school, and I’m not going to let a stubborn, self-righteous cowboy defeat me that easily.

I spot a shelving unit full of cans, bottles, and containers and decide to head there first. Of all the things on his list of items, starter fluid seems like it has the highest probability of being labeled.

I thumb through cans on the first two shelves quickly, and finally, when I get to the third, a can stating “Engine Starting Fluid” is right in the front of the mix.

“Aha!” I shout victoriously, tucking it into the crook of my arm and moving to another item he rattled off. A rag is pretty easy, and after looking long enough, I find out he has a stack of them on top of one of the cabinets, covered in old grease stains and dark marks. I grab one of those too, but I hold it away from my dress just in case some of these stains aren’t quite as old as I think they are.