My Cowboy Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #7)

Chapter 1

Vanessa

The third potential renter reeked of marijuana and asked if he could install a hot tub in the living room. Vanessa Baldwin closed the door behind him and leaned against it, fighting the urge to scream.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her sister: How's the renter search going? Any cute guys?

Vanessa deleted the message without responding. She didn't need cute. She needed responsible, employed, and capable of paying first month's rent plus deposit. Preferably someone who wouldn't ask about hot tubs or try to negotiate the price down because they had "good vibes to offer."

The doorbell rang again. She glanced at the clock—four-thirty, right on time. At least this one could follow simple instructions. She smoothed her black pencil skirt and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear before opening the door.

The man standing on her front porch stole every rational thought from her head.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it and the kind of stubble that suggested he either hadn't shaved in two days or spent serious money to look like he hadn't.

His eyes were brown, deep and focused, and when they met hers, her pulse kicked into overdrive.

She forgot about the electric bill. Forgot about the mortgage payment.

Forgot her own name for half a second while her brain scrambled to process why looking at a complete stranger felt like the ground had just shifted under her feet.

Then she noticed the crutches.

"Ms. Baldwin?" His voice had that slight rasp that came from too many late nights or too much whiskey, and it slid down her spine. "I'm Dustin Fleming. We spoke on the phone about the rental."

"Yes, of course." She stepped back, hyperaware of how the afternoon light was hitting her kitchen behind her, how her blouse clung to her curves, how long she'd been staring at him.

Even on crutches, he moved with the kind of confidence that came from a body used to physical demands. "How's the ankle?"

"Healing." He leaned the crutches against the wall and tested his weight on the injured foot. "Should be good as new in a few weeks."

She led him toward the living room, trying to get her pulse under control.

The space felt smaller with him in it. He wore faded jeans that fit him in ways that should be illegal and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that spoke of actual physical work rather than gym memberships.

Get it together, Vanessa. He's here about a room, not a marriage proposal.

Except her traitorous brain was already imagining what those forearms would look like first thing in the morning, reaching across her kitchen counter for coffee. What his voice would sound like saying her name when it was just the two of them and he didn't have to be polite.

"So this is the main living area," she said, falling back on the script she'd used with the other candidates.

"You'd have full access to this and the kitchen.

There's a half bath down the hall, and the bedroom is through there.

" She gestured toward the converted den that had once been her home office.

Dustin looked around, taking in her furniture, the framed prints on the walls, the stack of job search books she'd forgotten to hide. His gaze lingered on the bookshelf where her business degree sat in its frame next to a small collection of smutty romance novels she hoped he wouldn't notice.

"It's nice," he said, and she got the impression he meant it. "Clean. Organized. I like that in a place."

The simple compliment made her ridiculously pleased. She barely knew him. But there was conviction in the way he looked at her house—at her—like what he saw mattered more than it should after five minutes of acquaintance.

"The bedroom has its own entrance to the back patio," she continued, trying to focus on practicalities instead of the way his jaw looked in profile. "So you wouldn't have to go through the main house if you wanted privacy. And there's space for parking behind the house if you have a truck."

"I do." He turned back to her, and she caught a hint of amusement in his expression. "And a horse trailer. That going to be a problem?"

A horse trailer. Of course. She should have expected that from someone who'd mentioned needing to be close to boarding facilities. "As long as it fits and you're not blocking anyone else in, it should be fine."

"The horse is boarded about a mile from here. Figured I'd mention the trailer since some folks get nervous about that kind of thing."

Some folks. Like the kind of people who wore business suits to interviews and had never owned anything larger than a compact car. The kind of people like her.

"The rent is eight hundred a month," she said, "plus half the utilities. First month and security deposit up front."

He nodded like the money wasn't an issue, which was more than she could say for the previous three candidates.

One had tried to pay her in cryptocurrency, another had offered to do "handyman work" in lieu of rent, and the marijuana enthusiast had suggested they work out a "trade situation" that made her skin crawl.

"Mind if I ask what you do?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. She'd learned the hard way that people who seemed too good to be true usually were.

"Rodeo." He said it simply, like it was the most normal job in the world. "Bulls, broncs, whatever's paying. Been doing it about ten years now."

Rodeo. Of course he did rodeo. She tried to picture him on the back of a bucking horse and instead got distracted by imagining those thighs gripping—

Stop it. Stop it right now.

"That's..." She searched for something polite to say. "Interesting."

His mouth quirked up at one corner, and she realized he was fighting not to smile. "That's one way to put it. Most folks either think it's the coolest thing they've ever heard or the stupidest. You strike me as the latter."

The blush crept up her neck before she could stop it. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." This time he did smile, and it transformed his entire face. The guarded look disappeared, replaced by boyish charm that made her stomach flip. "Look, I know it's not exactly a traditional career path. But I'm good at it, and it pays the bills. Most of the time."

Most of the time. Red flag territory. That should have sent her straight to her stack of backup applications and the insurance adjuster who'd called that morning.

Instead, she sat down across from him, close enough that she could smell soap and leather. Close enough that she had to fight the urge to lean closer.

"How did you get hurt?"

"Ride that didn't go as planned." He stretched his injured leg out, wincing slightly. "Horse had other ideas. Stepped on my ankle on the way down, and here we are."

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when I think about how much money I'm losing sitting on the sidelines." He studied her for a moment, head tilted slightly. "What about you? What do you do when you're not interviewing potentially dangerous tenants?"

The question landed harder than it should have. "I'm between jobs right now. I was a retail buyer for Hartwell's, but they had to make some cuts."

"Hartwell's. That's the department store chain, right?" When she nodded, he leaned forward slightly. "That's got to be tough. Economy's been rough on a lot of folks lately."

There was genuine sympathy in his voice. No judgment about her unemployment or pity about her situation. Just acknowledgment that sometimes life handed you things you didn't see coming.

"It's temporary," she said, the words automatic after three weeks of practice. "I'll find something else soon."

"I'm sure you will." He glanced around the room again, taking in the details she'd tried to make look effortlessly put together. "This your place?"

"I bought it two years ago." Pride crept into her voice. "It was a foreclosure that needed work, but the bones were good."

"You did a nice job with it." He wasn't just being polite—she could tell he actually meant it. "Takes vision to see past the surface problems to what it could be."

The compliment settled into her chest and stayed there. Most of the men she'd dated had seen her house as either too small or too much work. They'd suggested she sell it and rent something newer, more convenient, less complicated.

But Dustin looked at her house the way she'd always wanted someone to look at it. The way she'd always wanted someone to look at her.

"So," she said, trying to get back to business before she did something stupid like ask him to stay for dinner. "When would you want to move in?"

"Tomorrow, if that works for you. I've been staying in a motel since I got out of the hospital, and it's getting expensive. Plus, the stairs are murder on this ankle."

Tomorrow. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with possibility.

She thought about her dwindling bank account, the bills stacked on the counter, the job interviews that kept leading nowhere.

Then she thought about the other candidates—the cryptocurrency guy, the handyman, Mr. Hot Tub—and realized none of them had made her feel like this.

Maybe her luck was finally changing.

She didn't believe in love at first sight or fate or any of that romantic nonsense she secretly devoured in paperback novels. She believed in financial planning and realistic expectations and protecting yourself from inevitable disappointment.

But her hands were shaking slightly as she said, "Do you have references?"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded paper. "Previous landlord, my sponsor from the rodeo circuit, and the vet who takes care of my horse. All their numbers are on there."

She unfolded the paper, noting that his handwriting was surprisingly neat for someone who made his living getting trampled by livestock. The references looked legitimate, and the fact that he'd thought to bring them said something about his character.

"I'll need to call these tonight and let you know tomorrow morning."

"Fair enough." He grabbed his crutches and stood, moving more slowly than he had when he'd arrived. The injury was bothering him more than he wanted to let on. "Anything else you need to know about me?"

About a hundred things, starting with why a rodeo cowboy had chosen her quiet suburban rental over something closer to his world. But what came out was, "Are you planning to have parties? Loud music? Women over?"

The question sounded more personal than professional, and she felt her cheeks burn as soon as the words left her mouth.

His smile returned, slower this time and with a hint of heat that made her pulse skip. "I'm not much of a party guy these days. As for women..." He paused, and his eyes met hers. "I'll be sure to keep the noise down if the situation arises."

The situation. As if he was already thinking about bringing women back to the bedroom that would be just down the hall from where she slept. The jealousy that shot through her was so sharp and unexpected it nearly made her gasp out loud.

She had no right to care about that. No reason to feel the sharp twist in her stomach at the thought. She'd known him for less than an hour, and she was already acting territorial.

"Good," she managed. "I mean, that's considerate. The noise thing."

"I aim to be a considerate neighbor, Ms. Baldwin."

The way he said her name made it sound like more than a simple courtesy. She walked him to the door, trying not to notice how he moved, trying not to imagine what he'd look like without the crutches, moving with the full range of motion that his job required.

Trying not to imagine what it would be like to wake up next to someone who looked at her the way he'd been looking at her.

"I'll call you tomorrow morning," she said as he stepped onto the porch.

"Looking forward to it." He turned back to face her, balanced on the crutches. "And Vanessa? Thanks for giving me a fair shot. Not everyone would rent to a cowboy with a broken ankle and no permanent address."

He knew. Somehow, he'd picked up on her reservations, her prejudices about his lifestyle, and he thanked her anyway for treating him like a decent human being. The realization made her feel small and ashamed and oddly drawn to his generosity all at the same time.

She watched him make his way down the front path to a truck that had definitely seen better days but looked well-maintained.

A horse trailer was hitched to the back, exactly as advertised.

He loaded the crutches into the cab and climbed in, favoring the injured ankle but managing the process with a competence that suggested he'd been taking care of himself for a long time.

As he drove away, she closed the door and leaned against it, the same position she'd been in after the marijuana enthusiast had left.

But this time, instead of wanting to scream, she wanted to call him back and ask him to stay for coffee.

For dinner. For the rest of the evening, just so she could figure out what the hell had just happened to her rational, organized brain.

Instead, she walked back to the kitchen table and stared at the seventeen resumes she no longer had any interest in reading.

Tomorrow morning, she'd make her phone calls and offer him the room, and then she'd spend the next few weeks sharing her space with a man who'd managed to turn her entire world sideways in the span of a single conversation.

The smart thing would be to choose someone safer. Someone boring. Someone who wouldn't make her wonder what it would feel like to run her fingers through that hair or what he looked like when he wasn't being polite and charming.