She's Far From Hollywood. Jo McNally

her wrist, sliding off one of his leather gloves to examine her palm. A dark half-inch sliver was visible just under the tender skin at the base of her thumb.

      “I tried to warn you...” he muttered, half to himself. He held her hand firmly and fished his jackknife out of his pocket. With one swift move, he opened the knife, set it under the tip of the sliver and pulled it out. When a dot of blood appeared, he was surprised how much it affected him. He brushed the blood away with his thumb, still holding her hand in his.

      “Go inside and have Nell put something on that so it doesn’t get infected.” He saw the angry red bites on her forearm and rubbed his fingers across them. “Fire ants?”

      “One of my many lessons in farm life this week. Look before you sit down in the yard to rest, because there might be an ant hill there.” She slowly pulled her hand out of his, and he felt a surprising pang of loss. “And today’s lesson is...wear gloves. And apparently naps are for sissies.”

      The corner of his mouth twitched toward a smile. “Nah. Naps are okay. For old people and womenfolk, anyway.”

      She grinned, and his body warmed. “And which category are you putting me in?”

      His eyes slid down her body. The gauzy top and snug leggings didn’t leave much to the imagination. Before he knew it, he was saying his thoughts out loud. “You’re all woman, Brianna. All woman.”

      “I won’t be for long if I keep this up. Look at my hands. And my skin. I haven’t had this many freckles since I was a kid. The sun is doing a number on me...” Her eyes met his and she stopped talking, as if she just now realized what he’d said. “Wait...did you just say something nice to me?”

      This conversation was heading in a dangerous direction. He forced the growl back into his voice.

      “What? By calling you a woman? Isn’t that how you make your living?” She stepped back and paled. But wasn’t it the truth? Pageant queen? Hollywood trophy wife? He wasn’t going to feel guilty for stating the obvious.

      Her voice settled to a steely level. “Right. I knew I must be mistaken about that ‘nice’ business. Are we done here?” She nodded to the fence.

      He barely managed to stop himself from apologizing yet again. Instead, he bent to pick up his tools and walked away without saying another word. He was pretty sure he heard her call him a jackass under her breath. So be it. She wasn’t wrong.

      When Cole got home, he paced the floors in agitation.

      That woman. That woman. That woman.

      Just being in her presence was enough to send his pulse jumping. She challenged him and pushed him and ticked him off. And that was the problem in a nutshell. She made him feel things. And Cole Caldwell didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to let his emotions out of the cage he’d stuffed them into. They were safe and controllable when they were confined. Bree Mathews was anything but safe and controllable. She was too big a risk. Too dangerous for a man who used to face danger as part of everyday life.

      When he’d reached for her hand and held it...well, something happened. Something that felt profound, which was ridiculous. Her hand in his felt soft and smooth and perfect. And those freckles she complained about? He thought they looked like gold dust scattered across her ivory skin. In the bar on Monday afternoon, he thought her complexion was artificial, a product of cosmetics and Hollywood magic. But tonight she was scrubbed clean and glowing from a week in the sun. Tonight her skin, unencumbered with artificial enhancement, was perfect. He wondered what the parts of her body that he hadn’t seen looked like. Did she have freckles in hidden places? Did she have porcelain skin everywhere?

      He kicked an ottoman and sent it sliding across the hardwood floor. She was making him crazy. Thank God she was only here temporarily. Once that stalker was arrested, she’d be back home in Hollywood.

      Maggie settled onto her bed by the front door with a heavy sigh and stared at him with large, dark eyes. Most of the time she spent her nights outside on the porch, reminiscent of their days in Afghanistan when she’d stand watch outside the tents. Old habits died hard, even for dogs. But tonight she knew he needed her close.