CHAPTER 23
Special K
Boots stands with her arms wrapped around her middle, hugging herself tight.
The cat leash is attached to her wrist, and Pussy is looking up at her, questioningly.
It’s hard to see Boot’s expression. The fire is at her back, lighting up her blond hair like an angel’s halo.
The light outlines her body like she’s some kind of ethereal goddess of fire.
I can’t believe that this incredible woman has appeared out of nowhere in the wilds of my ranch. She’s the picture of femininity with the backbone of a warrior. I don’t want to be anywhere else than right here with her. Or with her, no matter where she might be.
I step to the side to see her better. To read her face. There’s confusion there. And sadness. Her shoulders are more stooped than they were the other day, and her mouth is pulled down at the corners. The spark I saw in her eyes is gone.
“I apologize that I couldn’t return when I said I would.” I feel like a heel. “I was… it was not my intention to go back on my word. I try very hard never to do that.”
She has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I could get so lost in them that no spec ops rescue operation would ever locate me. Her face is delicate. And I’ve already tasted her pretty mouth—she’s fucking delicious.
But at the moment, she’s fucking pissed.
I sigh, knowing I deserve it.
There’s so much I want to say to her, but I have a hunch she doesn’t care that I think she’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. I wonder how many hundreds of men have told her that.
She probably doesn’t believe me when I say I want to get to know her, which she’s also heard hundreds of times, no doubt.
More than anything, I want to tell her that I don’t understand the pull she has on me, and that I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life. How every fiber of my being is telling me that I can’t ignore it, can’t just walk away and pretend I never met her.
Because that would be a tragedy.
I want to kiss Boots again. And that’s not all I want. I want so much more. I want it all. Everything she is.
But she’s not sitting and she’s not eating. She’s still trying to decide what my game is.
I don’t have a game. But if I was to say that, it would sound like I was playing a game. And like everything else, she’s probably heard that line a thousand times, too.
I glance at the insulated tote sitting on the stump.
Inside is the serving platter with lid that Aunt Phyllis made up for me, along with utensils and napkins, salt and pepper packets, and even a moist towelette.
I was shocked when she offered the use of one of her treasured casserole carriers with handles.
She didn’t even ask who the meal was for. Then, she kissed my cheek and said, “You’ve got a good heart, Special K. Your mama would be so proud of the man you’ve become.”
I point to the carrier. “The sampler’s got meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread…”
“I do not want comfort food, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for…
” She gestures at me and then the food, the chair, and the trailer before she groans in exasperation.
“I never asked for some overgrown Eagle Scout to take care of me! I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself.
I’ve done it a long time now, and I’m damn good at it. Now get lost, would you?”
A black blur shoots up into the air, coming right for me. Instinctively, I reach out to catch it, pulling it close before it crashes into the fire. Pussy runs his mouth along the edge of my jaw and purrs.
The Pussy is a she. A her! Why can’t I remember that? Pussy equals female—how hard can this be?
“What the hell is going on with her?” Boots points at her cat, clearly baffled. “She hates men.”
“I’ve never been a huge fan of cats, either. But here we are.”
Boots takes a deep breath, crooks up a hip, and straightens the opposite leg to her side. She considers me and the cat. I can almost hear the gears in her brain turning, weighing how to proceed.
“I’m no Eagle Scout,” I say out of nowhere. “In fact, I got kicked out of the Cub Scouts when I was seven. The Scouts never let me back in.”
That seems to reassure her, which is interesting, to say the least. Her shoulders relax and her arms drop to her sides.
“Fine. Whatever.” She turns, plops down into the camp chair, and unzips the insulated carrier before she meets my gaze. “I’m Frances. But nobody calls me that.”
She says this like it’s an afterthought and not the most miraculous thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.
She just told me her name.
“Nobody calls you Frances, so they call you Fawn?”
“No. Fawn’s my professional name.” She lifts the lid off the platter and inhales the scent.
“Oh, wow,” she mumbles before she unrolls the utensils and stabs the fork into the meatloaf.
“In real life, my friends call me Frankie. You can call me Frankie because it looks like you’re hell-bent on being my friend, whether I want it or not. ”
She pops the meatloaf into her mouth and moans with pleasure. It’s the standard reaction to Aunt Phyllis’s meatloaf, but seeing her close her eyes—and hearing the long and low moan escape from her lips—has to be the most carnal display I’ve ever witnessed.
I look down at the cat in my arms, suppressing the huge smile that’s about to erupt on my face. I gather the leash and walk over to retrieve the other camp chair from the trailer. Then I set it up for myself and Pussy. We sit down. Not too close to Frankie. But not too far away.
I watch her eat, relieved. I was right. She was starving.
And I wonder… what did it? What changed her mind enough that she let her guard down and told me her name?
“Mrrrp,” Pussy says to me.
I glance down at those freaky green eyes. Pussy’s right. This cat’s seal of approval was all it took for me to be granted access to her owner’s friend zone.
Most men hate to have their name jotted down in a woman’s friend column. Not me. And not with this woman in particular. I’m thrilled out of my damn mind because friend is way better than foe.
Pussy curls up into a donut on my lap and I pet her fur. I have to admit that cats aren’t all that bad when you get to know them. At least this one is nice.
I watch Frankie slather butter on a hunk of cornbread and think about the other thing she said. That Fawn is her “professional name.” I gotta know what that means, of course, but I figure I can hold onto the curiosity for a little longer.
Besides, a picture is forming in my mind about what she might do for a living. I won’t say anything, but I know I’m right.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frankie.” I say. “My friends call me Special K.”