Fight For Her (More Than A Cowboy 1)

Paul gave this guy his seal of approval, but everyone who heard their neighbor was an axe murderer swore they had no idea. I didn’t see an axe, although there was no question by his solid, hard, amazing body he could hurt someone without one. I felt wary and nervous, now in a completely different way. I didn’t want him to be a creep.

He leaned back in his chair and held up his hands in front of him. “Oh, hey, I don’t want to see that pretty smile go away. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up.”

My spine stiffened and I felt my cheeks heat. “Of course not.”

Why would he waste his time picking me up when there was the bevy of easy women inside? Surely, he just needed to crook a finger and they’d come to him panting. He was… really, really attractive. Intense. Bob/Bill was pretty handsome and he was a creep. This guy was more. He had presence. Confidence. He dripped testosterone from his pores and the way I was practically panting over him, pheromones as well. He wasn’t working it here—he didn’t have to. He just…was.

He grinned, and that changed his entire demeanor. Relaxed by my sarcasm, he leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests. I, on the other hand, sat ramrod straight and ready to bolt.

“Shit, that was really bad, wasn’t it?” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he winced. “Insulting. I have to admit, you make me a little nervous.”

My brain stalled. “Me?” Both my eyebrows went up then. “I make you nervous? You’re so far out of my league,” I admitted with a frown. Now, he’d leave.

He looked down at his feet, then back at me. “Yeah, I know.” His voice was quiet, almost resigned.

“Wait.” I shook my head. “You think I’m…no way. Have you seen some of the women here tonight? They’re so…young.”

His dark eyes raked over me, from my wayward hair to the tips of my polished toes and back. “And you're old?” He didn't give me time to respond. “Trust me, I’m right where I want to be.”

Oh. I couldn’t help the little internal sigh at his words.

He leaned forward once again, rasped a hand over his chiseled jaw. He'd probably shaved this morning, but he needed it again. Not that I minded. I wanted to run my fingers over his whiskers and see if they were soft or prickly. “Let me start over. Okay?”

I cocked my head and noticed his chagrined expression. So I nodded, curious.

“I’m Gray, Paul’s trainer.”

Of course, he was a trainer. He looked it. Fit. But fit like he lived that way, not just by pumping iron. His forearms were corded with muscle, his hands rugged, fingers long. With the scar and tattoos, he looked downright dangerous, more like a fighter than a simple trainer. Perhaps he’d competed in the past. Boxer? What did I know about that stuff? I just knew what I could see. With the combination of brooding danger and a wicked smile, he was lethal to my senses and made my heart skip a beat.

He held out his hand and I reached for it, shook it, but he didn't release me right away. Instead, he kept our fingers touching, held the connection.

“I’m Emory. Christy’s friend.”

“Emory,” he repeated, as if trying out my name, letting my hand go. “There we go. I didn’t screw that up.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled—I couldn’t help it—as I tucked my hand back in my lap. Every time he set me on edge, he put me at ease. “I guess I should thank you for rescuing me.” I angled my head toward the restaurant.

He nodded. “Paul asked if I’d step in with his cousin. Told me he was a slimeball.”

My eyes widened. “Paul said slimeball?”

Gray grinned. “He had a more… choice word, but I don't swear in front of a lady.”

The man was hot and a gentleman. What was wrong with him? Nothing that I could see.

“Both of us could tell you weren’t enjoying yourself and when he put his hand on your arm and you flinched…”

He didn't finish the sentence, but I saw the way his jaw clenched.

I looked down at my fingers. I offered a noncommittal sound because there wasn’t much to say about Bob/Bill. “I should have ditched him before I needed rescuing.”

“But you’re too nice, aren’t you, Emory?” he commented, as he watched me smooth my dress over my thighs. “He didn’t do anything, did he? Say anything to hurt you?”

“Are you going to go beat him up if he did?”

He shrugged. “Depends on what it was. At least teach

him some manners.”