To Kiss A Cowgirl. Jeannie Watt

      “I could appreciate his attractiveness but it’s difficult to classify someone who is ordering you around and generally pissing you off as hot.”

      Dani shrugged. “Hot is hot.”

      Jolie rolled her eyes and went for the wineglasses. Pasta cried out for wine. So did her rather trying day.

      Dani waited until they were seated with the bowl of pasta between them before she said, “I assume you’ll be able to work together?”

      “I have little choice. I like my job and once Finn gets back it’ll be back to normal. All I have to do is hang on until then.”

      “You’ll play nice with Dylan?”

      Jolie smiled with mock sweetness. “Of course, Dani. He’s my employer.”

CHAPTER TWO

      DYLAN CLOSED HIS laptop and pushed it aside. Finn wasn’t answering his emails. It was probable that he wasn’t available to answer, given his circumstances, or he might not be opening the mail from his cousin, knowing full well that said cousin had a few choice things to say about the help Finn had hired.

      Dylan reached for the bottle on the sideboard next to Mike’s kitchen table—his makeshift desk—and poured a shot of bourbon. The deed was done and now he had to live with it.

      He lifted his glass in a salute to his absent cousin. “Up yours, Finn.”

      He sipped and leaned back in his chair. Hell, this might all be for the best. Having Jolie around could distract him from the other issues in his life. The box of lingerie had definitely distracted him. Steamy images of Jolie in a garter belt didn’t mesh well with him trying to keep her on task in the store.

      Was she still as easily sidetracked as she’d been a decade ago? Did she still head off on those wild tangents when she was supposed to be focused on the matter at hand? Her flippant attitude indicated a possible yes to those questions.

      All he needed was to have to do two jobs instead of one. But again, maybe being that busy would keep him from fixating on getting the doctor’s release he needed to go back on patrol and stop riding the desk. Law enforcement might not have been the career he and his father had plotted for him, but he loved it.

      He didn’t know if he could handle a desk job for the rest of his career—not unless he was wearing a detective’s badge while doing so. He was scheduled to sit for the exam in a matter of weeks, but it was a crap shoot. He knew better guys than him that had failed it the first go, so he needed a contingency plan to ensure he didn’t end up in Logistics until he did pass the exam. And that plan involved getting a doctor’s release and going out on patrol.

      “Hey, Dylan?” His grandfather’s gravelly voice came from the back bedroom where he was sorting through belongings in preparation for his move to a smaller, more manageable house on the edge of town, closer to the store.

      “Yeah?” Dylan pushed his chair back and got to his feet, putting the bottle on the sideboard before heading down the hall.

      Mike was standing between two cardboard boxes with neatly folded tops. “Can you haul these out to the living room so I have room to maneuver?”

      “You bet.” Dylan knew it killed Mike to have to ask for help, but at least he was asking. His recovery from the hip replacement had taken longer than expected because he’d tried to do too much too soon. Apparently he’d learned a lesson.

      “Marjorie can’t take the goats.”

      Dylan stopped in the doorway. “That’s too bad.”

      “Yeah.” Mike shook his head. “I don’t want Maisy and Daisy to become cabrito dinner, but I have to be realistic here.”

      “I’ll find them homes,” Dylan promised before heading out to the living room with the first box. By the time he got back, Mike had the second box on the bed.

      “This one goes to donation.”

      “Got it.”

      Mike nodded and turned back to the closet. He pulled out a garment bag; the one that Dylan knew held his father’s wool WWII uniform. “Can’t let that go,” Dylan said.

      “Don’t have a lot of room in the smaller place.” Mike had been all for moving. Taking care of his menagerie had become too much for him when his hips had started to go, and a house with two stories had been difficult to navigate. Unfortunately, moving to a one-story house meant parting with some of the stuff he’d hung on to for most of his life.

      “We’ll find room.” Mike had been close to his own dad, just as Dylan had been close to his. He couldn’t imagine letting go of the few keepsakes he had and didn’t want Mike to have to do that, either.

      “You know,” Mike said, “I’ve had about enough of packing. Damned depressing business.”

      Dylan wasn’t going to argue. He’d packed everything he’d owned almost exactly a year ago and moved out of his house. His marriage was over, but he still owned half a house he didn’t live in—or he would until it sold. Every month he sent his payment to the bank and every month he contacted the real-estate agent to make certain she was doing her best to move the place. Not that he didn’t trust Lindsey...but he didn’t trust Lindsey. Not since she’d cheated on him, anyway.

      “I just poured a shot,” he said to his grandfather. “You want one?”

      “In the worst way.” Mike jerked his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll beat you in a game of cribbage.”

      * * *

      ON HIS SECOND day of work Dylan arrived at the store just after 7:00 a.m., hoping he could figure out what the problem was with the forklift. He stopped inside the doorway and snapped on the lights.

      A bulb popped and went out, leaving the place even dimmer than before.

      He hated to admit it, but Jolie had a point about the store being dark and depressing.

      He traced a finger over the nearest surface, very much as she had done the day before. It was dusty, too. Mike had hired a cheap fly-by-night janitorial service that came in once a week according to Finn. He’d have a talk with the owner the next time he had a few minutes, which, given the volume of customers they’d had the day before, would probably be right after he got the forklift running.

      In the meantime...the light.

      He set down his lunch pail and went into the supply closet. There were plenty of replacement lightbulbs but no ladder. He could go out to the warehouse and grab the big ladder there, which was covered with grain dust, or he could stand on top of the sturdy wooden shelves his grandfather had built. An elephant could dance on those shelves and they wouldn’t budge, so that option seemed reasonable—and a lot easier than dragging the ladder in through the rain.

      Lightbulb in hand, he pulled a chair to the shelves and stood on it to push aside the boxes of horseshoe nails, raising a cloud of dust. Yes, he’d talk to the janitors. Today.

      He stepped from the chair onto the shelving, searching for a handhold on the top shelf. He took hold of the narrow metal electrical conduit running up the wall and eased himself up, getting a knee onto the second-to-the-top shelf. He could just reach the light fixture from—

      His knee slipped and he barely missed clipping his chin as his feet once again hit the chair, which toppled sideways. Wildly, he clutched for something, anything, and then hit the ground next to the chair as horseshoe nails rained down on him.

      Shit.

      For a moment Dylan sat staring up at the light fixture, the base of the broken bulb held in one hand. At least Jolie hadn’t been there to share the moment, although he wouldn’t have tried something that stupid if she’d been there to witness it. No, he’d have made the trip to the warehouse and hauled in the dirty ladder.