Chapter 13
Savannah
By the time we pull out of the motel parking lot, the sun’s already turning the sky to melted gold. Cash whistles low under his breath, tapping the steering wheel. “We’ve got about two hours before the next sponsor event. You hungry?”
“Coffee’s fine,” I say, staring straight ahead.
He chuckles. “You always this easy to please?”
“No,” I answer. “But I’m learning silence is safer.”
He laughs harder at that, and something about the sound slides right under my guard. We stop at a roadside diner for coffee to-go, and when we step back outside, he nods across the street. “Hey, that’s one of my sponsor’s stores.”
Sure enough, there it is — Wilder’s Western Wear, bold red letters on weathered wood, a window display of boots, belts, and embroidered shirts.
Before I can object, he’s already halfway across the street. “C’mon, Brooks. Time for wardrobe upgrades.”
“I have clothes,” I insist, following despite myself.
“You’ve got blazers and slacks,” he says, holding the door open with a grin. “You look like you’re headed to a board meeting, not a rodeo.”
“That’s because I’m not competing.”
“You’re with me,” he counters. “Which means you’re part of the show. Gotta look the part.”
The store smells like leather and cedar oil. Every surface gleams with cowboy polish — racks of pearl-snap shirts, jeans, tooled boots. The manager, a tall man with a handlebar mustache, lights up when he sees Cash.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in! Cash Dalton in my store again! And this must be the lady we’ve seen in the photos?”
I freeze. “Oh … the photos.”
Cash slides an arm around my waist before I can finish. “Yep, that’s her.” His hand is warm, steady, dangerously convincing.
The owner grins. “Well then, my friend, you and your girl need to sport our clothing and accessories all the time. Pick her out some pretty things – and you too, Cash. On the house. Miss Brooks, what size shoe do you wear?”
“Oh, no,” I protest immediately. “That’s not necessary.”
But Cash is already leading me toward a rack of blouses. “See, Brooks? Told you the universe agrees with me.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
He picks up a sleeveless ivory blouse with tiny pearl buttons and holds it up against me. “This one’s perfect. Shows off those shoulders.”
“I don’t know if that’s me.”
He ignores me, moving on to a denim skirt. “And this. I bet your legs would do this justice.”
I snatch it from him, shoving it back on the rack. “You’re insufferable.”
“Trust me, now.”
The owner reappears, carrying a stack of boxes. “Two pairs of boots for the lady, two western hats, and shirts. All of these are available in other sizes should she need them. Consider it part of the Dalton charm package.”
I try again. “This really isn’t necessary.”
Cash tips his hat. “Sponsor insists. Can’t argue with free marketing.”
I sigh, defeated. “Fine. But I’m paying for lunch.”
He grins. “Deal.”
An hour later, we step back into the sunshine. I’m wearing one of the new blouses — white with delicate turquoise stitching — tucked into my jeans. My old shoes are gone, replaced by brand-new boots that fit like they were made for me.
Cash whistles low. “Told you so.”
“Don’t start.”
He leans in close enough that his breath stirs a lock of my hair. “You look good, Brooks. Real good.”
I swallow hard, pretending to check my phone. “We should get going.”
We cross the street toward a small artisan shop, drawn in by the flash of jewelry in the window. Cash heads straight for a display of belt buckles while I linger near a glass case filled with hand-tooled bracelets.
One in particular catches my eye — silver with turquoise inlay, shaped like flowing vines. I can already imagine how cool it would feel against my skin.
Cash comes up beside me. “You like that one?”
“It’s beautiful,” I admit. “But completely impractical.”
He waves the shopkeeper over. “We’ll take it.”
I whirl on him. “No, you won’t. You already let that sponsor shower me with half the store.”
“Didn’t cost me a dime,” he says. “This one does, and that’s fine by me.”
“Cash …”
“Savvy,” he interrupts, his voice soft but steady. “Please, let me do this.”
Something in the way he says it — low, certain, gentle — stills the argument on my tongue.
The shopkeeper boxes the bracelet carefully, handing it to me with a smile. Cash pays, pocketing the receipt like it’s nothing.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing at the box.
“Sure, you paid for it,” I say, handing it to him.
Cash opens the box, removing the bracelet and slips it around my wrist. “Now that’s exactly what you needed to top everything off. Don’t you think?” he asks, looking me straight in the eyes.
I can feel myself blushing, the heat rising in me from his touch. He’s waiting for a response and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out for a second. Finally, I simply say, “Thank you. I love it.”
And he smiles — not his sarcasm look, but a real big, genuine smile.
Outside, the sun flares hot, the air thick. I glance down at the bracelet glittering on my wrist and shake my head.
“You’re impossible,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning as he opens the door for me. “But admit it — you’re starting to like impossible.”
I slide into the seat, trying not to smile. “Not a chance.”
But when he shuts my door and rounds the hood, I can’t stop looking at the bracelet, or wondering what it means that he saw me looking at it — and felt compelled to buy it for me.