Chapter 12 #2
“Caspian—don’t stop,” she pants, and I couldn’t if I tried.
I drive into her until we’re both shaking, until her body clenches tight around me, pulling me over the edge with her. The world explodes in light and heat and the kind of release that feels like salvation.
When the tremors ease, I stay buried inside her, sweat cooling on my skin, her heartbeat hammering against my chest as I lay us both on our sides. I brush the damp hair from her face and press a kiss to her temple.
She looks back at me with eyes still hazy from pleasure. “Don’t ever stop doing that.”
“Not a chance, Boots. This cowboy’s yours. Plain and simple.” I chuckle, breathless, pulling her closer. “We’ve just got to find a way to tell Leo.”
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Want to read Zane's and Capri's grumpy-sunshine love story? Find out what happens in Influencing the Rancher, or keep reading for a Chapter 1 preview!
xoxo,
Aubrey
Chapter 1
Capri
“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
A truck door slams somewhere behind the ranch’s barbed-wire fence, but I ignore the rugged voice.
It’s the golden hour in the influencer world, the time of day right before sunset when the sun’s rays cast a warm, natural glow that’s ideal for photos.
Ten minutes remain of this perfect Hill Country light before my shot is ruined, and I’m not about to waste them explaining myself to a man who has no say in how I run my business.
“Hey. Princess.” The cowboy raises one hand and snaps twice. “I’m talking to you.”
Did he really just snap his fingers at me? Even my four-year-old knows better.
I whip around to give the jerk a piece of my mind but am momentarily stunned into silence.
The hottest man in the south stands at the ranch’s fencing, a tight white t-shirt showing off his tanned, sculpted muscles.
Ink swirls down both of the stranger’s arms, the intricate designs eclectic and intriguing.
You’ve seen a male before, Capri. Stop staring like he’s a dessert bar.
Unfortunately, my brain does not listen to reason.
The guy’s faded jeans grip his physique in the yummiest of ways, and to top it off, he’s wearing a backward ball cap—my personal kryptonite—with blond wisps of hair peeking out from underneath.
A short beard dusts his square jaw, and I am going to melt into a puddle right now.
Hot Guy’s eyes slowly rake over my body.
Sure, my dark hair falls in waves past my shoulders, and okay, my skin has been called flawless, and fine, my curves have been known to make men forget their own names.
Do I mind the attention? Not usually. Teenage me didn’t know there were members of the opposite sex who appreciate a voluptuous woman, and she’s still inside me somewhere celebrating.
As if clearing out rocks, Hot Guy shakes his head, then taps a worn cowboy boot on the bottom fence rail. “I’m waiting, Princess.”
Seriously?! Screw him and that deep, throaty voice.
Flicking my hair over my shoulder, I throw up a hand and start counting with my fingers.
“One, I’m not a dog, so snapping won’t work on me.
” A hawk soars overhead and settles on a nearby post as if watching our exchange.
“Two, thank you for recognizing a royal pedigree when you see one. My Tudor ancestors would be proud.” The bird of prey cocks its head, its beady eyes locked on us like it’s judging who’ll back down first. “Three, this side of the fence is county property. There are no laws prohibiting me from taking photos here.” It’s true.
I always verify that no area bylaws will prohibit me from posting certain pictures to my socials.
Arms crossed over his chest, Hot Guy quirks an eyebrow at me, so I quirk an eyebrow right back. A movement catches my eye, so I turn.
The hawk shifts on the fence post, one leg tucked under its body, its eyes sharp and judgy. Let’s go, bird. My mascara’s waterproof, and my patience is petty. I’m not backing down.
But why are this guy’s biceps so big and bulgy? And why am I even noticing them? I swore off all men eight months ago, particularly grumpy, gorgeous types who think the world should bend to their will just because they exist.
The hawk lets out a sharp cry and propels from its roost into the sky, drawing my gaze toward the setting sun.
With zero time to waste on these games, I turn to face my tripod, the ruffled skirt of my dress twirling several inches above my knees.
I walk backward to the spot lined up on my camera’s screen, the picturesque hills framing the countryside behind the ranch fencing.
My client, Clover & Lark, is a woman-owned business that’s quickly becoming a sought-after online boutique known for its sustainable fabrics.
The spring colors of the dress are complemented by the swaying grass, the special edition cowboy boots matching the earth tones of the hill country landscape.
Both are confirmation that this winding county road is the optimal place to capture my social media images.
Adjusting my brown waves to fall in front of my shoulders, I decide the shot looks perfect.
In the area for a family reunion, I arrived in Indigo Hills a few days early to scout locations for the clothing campaign—and to tour the local elementary schools.
My cousin, who has lived here about a year, won’t stop bragging about how great this small town is.
I have to admit there’s something about the Texas Hill Country that feels like I was meant to land here.
My supportive parents insisted on bringing my daughter to Indigo Hills with them so I could have time to tour the area alone. Although they don’t mind me living in their garage apartment, my mom and stepdad know it’s not what I want for Maddie’s future.
Hot Guy places a boot on the bottom rung of barbed wire, his fit body about seven feet behind mine, still in the shot. I huff in frustration. “Look, mister, if you don’t move out of the frame, I’ll take my pictures with you in the background.”
He remains motionless, so I press the small remote in my hand and snap a few selfies. When the man doesn’t bother to move, I heave a sigh. I have got to get these shots. “Why are you still here?”
“Why the hell are you taking pictures of me?” His gritty voice is laced with warning.
Incredulous, I toss an aggravated glance over my shoulder and practically shout at the guy. “I’m not taking pictures of you, you arrogant meanie! I’m snapping perfectly legal business photos.”
Ignoring my words, Hot Guy jumps over the barbed wire with ease and steps in close.
His scent, a spicy mix of cedar and smoked bourbon, invades my senses, and the ink on his arms calls to me like a bad decision.
“Are there, or are there not, pictures of me on your phone?” The man’s voice is a low, deep grumble that I feel in the pit of my belly.
Determined, I turn toward Hot Guy and send him my sweetest, camera-ready smile despite his testiness. “The photos are only on my phone because you chose not to move out of the way. There was fair warning.” I fiddle with the small charm hanging from one of the delicate gold chains around my neck.
He takes another step toward me, that deliciously spicy scent toying with my libido. “I need you to delete those pictures, Princess.” His throaty words ominous, the guy anchors his hands at his waist and taps his foot again.
“No.” I cross my arms over my ample chest and tap my designer cowboy boot right back at him.
He steps into my personal space like he owns it. “My image is not for sale.”
Intimidation tactics don’t work on me. Of course, I’ll delete the pictures.
I won’t risk my brand by posting a photo without someone’s permission.
Besides, everyone I feature on my business socials signs a waiver first. I just won’t be told what to do by a stubborn cowboy who thinks a scowl and crossed arms translate to legal authority.
Out of nowhere, Hot Guy reaches out to grab my cell, so I sling my right arm behind my back to hide it and take a giant step backward.
His reflexes are quick, though, his left arm scooting around my waist. Somehow we end up smashed together, chest, hips, and knees touching, his hand clasped over mine as I grip the phone.
A spark unlike any other zings through me from head to toe, and I inhale sharply, dropping my device.
We stare at each other for the longest time, neither of us moving.
“You need to remove your hand from around my waist, rancher guy. You do not have my permission to touch me.”
He immediately drops his arm but doesn’t take a step back or pick up my phone. His eyes drop to my lips, and I get the weird sense that he wants to kiss me. Instead, he grumbles, “I need to see you delete those damn photos.”
“Why? Are you some sort of undercover CIA operative pretending to be a cowboy?” I know I should just delete the images, but there’s something about a demanding grumpus that rubs me the wrong way, even if he is hot as sin.
“Darlin’, if I were a spy, do you think I’d admit it?” He fights a smirk with little success, his minty breath brushing my mouth, the air between us thick with tension.
He finally steps back, scoops up my phone, and hands it over. A shiver runs through me, and I lick my lips on instinct, aware that I wouldn’t mind him rubbing me the right way. No, Capri. This grumpy rancher is not worth your time.
A slight movement catches my attention from above. The hawk from the fence is now soaring above us, its large wingspan impressive. Streaks of purple are now woven into the golden-pink sky.
“Are you happy now? I lost my light.” Teeth gritting, I unlock my cell and remove the man’s stupid pictures one by one. “Delete. Delete. Delete.” My words grow more shrill with each swipe, and I know I should remain professional, but this stubborn cowboy is riding my last nerve.
I shove my phone in his face so he can see the last shot for himself.
“What’s wrong with you? Do you have something against women–owned businesses?
Are you one of those guys who thinks being an influencer isn’t a real job?
! I worked for two days straight trying to find the perfect location to showcase my clients’ new clothing line.
” I motion to my dress and boots, then swipe to one of my test shots from yesterday.
“This is the light I was attempting to capture. Thanks for being such a gentleman.”
I spin, grab my tripod, and march toward my Bronco without bothering to pack up my things.
“Hey, Princess.” The jerk’s voice is almost a growl, but I don’t acknowledge him because this rodeo reject is not worth a second more of my time.
“If you come back before sunrise, I’ll grant you free rein on the ranch to shoot pictures of whatever you want.” A smug smile stretches across his yummy face. “Except for me.”
The nerve of this guy. “In your dreams, cowboy.”
I toss the tripod into the backseat of my Bronco and climb into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind me.
As I start the engine, I glance in the rearview mirror and see Hot Guy standing where I left him, his posture rigid.
I try to ignore the yearning to turn my vehicle around as he watches me drive away.
Find out what happens next in ==? Influencing the Rancher!
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