The Cowboy's Wife For One Night

She was the same. Exactly the same, and part of him rejoiced. In a world gone crazy, Mia Alatore was the same.

Her voice was like a shot of whiskey right to his gut. He’d been to a lot of places, seen sex acts and rituals that would make a monk give up his robes. But nothing in the world was as sexy as Mia’s voice.

“I’ll keep you out of the ocean, Mia,” he said with a smile. Her head jerked up and he got a good look at her wide amber eyes.

There she had changed. Over the last five years, he’d seen her three times, not counting right now, and each time he saw her, her eyes had faded. The fire and glitter worn soft over the years.

He could see the years in those eyes, the darkness where there had only been light.

“Did you have trouble?” he asked, leaning in to carefully kiss her warm, smooth cheek. She smelled like sunshine. And horses.

Oddly enough, one of his favorite smells. He could have stood there, sniffing her cheek, all day.

“No,” she murmured, ducking away and clearing her throat. “But they wouldn’t valet my truck. Some punk kid in a uniform made me park in the employee lot.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t make you park it in the ocean.”

“Watch it, Jack,” she said with a smile, and his chest swelled with fondness. “She’ll hear you and she doesn’t like water any more than I do.”

“It’s good to see you,” he said, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well,” she muttered, “like I said, I figure I owe you.” She stepped inside their room. Suite, actually—he’d made sure she had her own room off the living room. He didn’t want there to be any more awkwardness than was necessary.

“Nice place,” she said, looking around the suite. “Better than the last dump. Being Indiana Jones must pay better than it did a year ago.”

A year ago Christmas, he’d asked her to come to Los Angeles to sign some legal paperwork before he took his sabbatical. He’d paid little attention to the motel where they’d stayed, not realizing how crappy it was until she let him know.

“The university is paying for this. It’s part of the...thing.”

“The thing?” Her smile was brief but breathtaking, a lightning strike over the Sahara Desert. “You live some kind of life Jack McKibbon, if people throwing millions of dollars at you is considered just a thing.” Her eyes were warm. Fond. He wondered for a minute if she was...proud of him?

How novel.

“It’s not at me, per se, it’s the university. I mean, it’s our research. Our pump. But the money is going to the university. For more research.” He was babbling, awkward talking about his work, which did not bode well for the night ahead. Another reason he hated these events.

If people wanted to talk science, he could do that all day. But explaining the complex nature of water tables and the ever-changing political nature of Sudan in laymen’s terms was impossible for him.

Oliver did better at that stuff.

“Either way. It’s a good thing you do.” Her smile reached her eyes, crinkling the corners. “Water for the thirsty. Like you always dreamed.”

He felt her measuring him, testing him through the years and choices that separated them. Seeing, perhaps, if she still knew the practical stranger who stood here, found in him the boy she’d known better than anyone else.

He saw the girl he’d known. She was right there in that stubborn line of her chin. The nose that had led her into more trouble than one half-sized female should ever see.

“I missed you. It’s been a long time, Mia,” he breathed, the words squeezed through a tight throat.

She blinked, as if jerking herself out of a daze.

“Where do you want me to put my stuff?” she asked, and the moment was shattered. She dropped her duffle on the floor, plumes of dust erupting into the air at the impact.

“There works,” he muttered. Whatever was in that bag couldn’t be in good shape. “You know, maybe I should have made it clear, but this is a formal thing...”

Her eyes sliced through him. “You worried I’ll show up to your fancy shindig with dirt under my nails?”

“No, well, maybe. And I don’t care.” He reached out his hands, showing her the red dirt that stained the skin around his own fingernails. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. There’s going to be a lot of scrutiny—”

“Because you’re Indiana Jones and making Cal Poly a whole bunch of money?” She said it as a joke and guilt clobbered him.

You’re an ass, he told himself, bringing her here to be scrutinized and gossiped about.

“No,” he said and took a deep breath. No other woman in his life owed him enough to stand beside him and face down the firestorm of academia gone wild. “I should have told you this in my email.”