The Cowboy Upstairs. Tanya Michaels

blinked at the unexpected blast of information. She’d been talking too fast about people he’d never met for him to process all of it. The upshot seemed to be Becca knew a lot about her neighbors. And had strong opinions.

      While she stood at the door haranguing the delivery boy about his driving habits, Sawyer found his way down the hall to a huge kitchen, the kind that was big enough to include a full-size dining room table and china cabinet. Marc stood on his tiptoes at a marble-topped island, trying to pour lemonade into a red plastic superhero cup. Sawyer lunged forward, taking the pitcher from the boy’s hands just as it started to wobble.

      “Here, better let me get that for you. I’m guessin’ your mama doesn’t like spills.”

      The boy shook his head, eyes wide. They were the same color as Becca’s. “She hates messes. And snakes, even though they’re cool.”

      “Not all of them,” Sawyer said. He’d had a few close encounters with rattlesnakes and copperheads he’d rather not think about. He eyed the pitcher on the counter, noting the slices of fresh lemon bobbing inside it; obviously, Becca did not serve lemonade that came from powder. “Where can I find a glass?”

      Marc directed him to a cabinet next to the stainless steel refrigerator—not that it was easy to see the silver steel beneath the clutter. The kitchen was pristine—no dirty dishes in the sink, no mail sitting on the counter—but the fridge was practically wallpapered in Marc’s schoolwork, crayon drawings and photos. As he looked closer, Sawyer realized there were also a number of newspaper clippings that all seemed to be about Cupid’s Bow events. One mentioned a Watermelon Festival, while another—

      “Can I help you find something in particular?” Becca asked from behind him, her voice icy.

      Busted. He straightened, making light of his snooping. “Guess I was just curious about the family I’ll be staying with, trying to reassure myself that you and Marc here aren’t—” he’d been about to say ax murderers, but murder jokes weren’t appropriate in front of the little boy “—aliens from outer space.” That made the kid giggle, and Sawyer winked at him. “Or dangerous robots. Or spies for the CIA!”

      “That’s ridiculous,” Becca said, exasperated. “Our CIA handler is the one who gave us all that fake documentation to support our covers in the first place.”

      Sawyer rocked back on his heels. So she did have a sense of humor? Good to know. The next few weeks were looking up already. He grinned at her, but she turned away to set the pizza on the table, almost as if she were hiding her smile.

      “Marc was kind enough to show me where the glasses are,” he said, pulling one from the cabinet. “The lemonade looks delicious. Want me to pour you some, too?”

      She cocked her head, seeming confused by the question.

      “Becca?”

      “Sorry, I’m not used to someone else serving me in my own kitchen. Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.”

      Sawyer remembered Brody mentioning an ex-husband who’d bailed on her and the boy. How long had she been alone, that something as simple as someone else pouring her a drink was jarring?

      “Wait, Marc, slow down!” Becca batted her son’s hand away from the open box as Sawyer joined them at the table. “The pizza’s still pretty hot.”

      “Guess what, Mama? I’ve decided not to get a pet snake when I grow up.”

      “Oh, good.” She dropped her arm around his shoulders in a brief hug. “I was going to talk you out of it, anyway, but this saves me the trouble.”

      The oval table was big enough to seat eight. Marc and Becca sat next to each other, toward the center, and Sawyer went around to the other side, taking the chair opposite Marc.

      “It’s so cool Mr. Sawyer could have dinner with us!” Marc grinned so broadly that Sawyer noticed for the first time that the kid was missing one of his bottom teeth.

      Becca hesitated. “Actually, he might be staying a few days. Or longer.”

      “In the new upstairs room?” Marc shot out of his seat with a whoop of excitement.

      “Marc Paul Johnston, what kind of table manners are those?”

      “Sorry.” He slid back into his chair, his tone sheepish. But he was still smiling.

      Sawyer locked his gaze on his plate, not wanting to make eye contact with the kid. If he returned Marc’s grin, Becca might think he was encouraging the boy’s rambunctious behavior. Besides, it was discomfiting to be the source of so much joy. He’d signed autographs for kids at rodeos and assisted tourists with children, but he’d never had prolonged exposure to one. You’ll be an uncle soon. Would he be close to his future niece or nephew? Doubtful. He sure as hell wasn’t close to his brother.

      Charlie hadn’t even been the one to share the news that he and his wife were expecting; Sawyer’s mom had told him the last time he talked to her on the phone. The next day, Charlie had sent a terse email and Sawyer had replied with dutiful congratulations. That had been a couple weeks ago, and he could still hear his mother’s chiding tone in his head.

      Gwen’s due at the end of October. Surely you’ll want to arrange your schedule so that you can be here?

      He’d told her he really couldn’t say what his schedule would be in the fall, but that he’d be in touch. Then he’d quickly found an excuse to get off the phone. The truth was, even if he could make it, what would be the point? His sister-in-law was a nice lady, but her own family lived close to the ranch, so she had plenty of support. And as for Charlie... Ever since his older brother had returned to the ranch from college, the two of them could barely be in the same room without an argument erupting. Their father always sided with Charlie. Their mother just wanted everyone to get along. In her mind, that meant Sawyer—the outnumbered younger son—should cave.

      “Something wrong with your pizza?” Becca asked tentatively.

      Sawyer realized he was scowling. “Uh...you were right about it being hot. I burned the roof of my mouth,” he lied.

      “Kenny Whittmeyer’s dad burned his hand when he took Kenny and me camping,” Marc volunteered. “We were roasting marshmallows and he said a whole bunch of bad words. I—”

      A trumpet sound came from beneath the table, and Becca shifted in her seat, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. She glanced at her son. “You know I’m only checking this because of the race, right?”

      He nodded, informing Sawyer, “Mama has a no-phone rule at the table. But we make ex-sections ’cause of the race.”

      “Exceptions,” Becca corrected absently, reading a text. She frowned, but put the phone away rather than responding. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”

      Sawyer shook his head, letting the growing boy snag it, and reached for his glass. “What’s this race you mentioned? Are you a runner?” He could easily imagine her in a marathon. She seemed disciplined enough, and judging from her toned figure, she did something to keep in shape.

      “Not literally. I’m running for mayor.”

      Sawyer choked on his lemonade.

      “You find that funny, Mr. McCall?”

      Hell, yes. Weren’t politicians supposed to kiss babies and suck up to people? Becca was far too imperious for that. She hadn’t even been able to pay for a pizza without lecturing the hapless delivery boy.

      She misinterpreted the smile he was fighting. “I’ll have you know that women are every bit as capable as—”

      “Whoa. No argument here. I’ve known plenty of badass women.”

      “So what’s the big joke?” She challenged, those eyes sparking again.

      He doubted there was any answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Might as well go with the truth. “The idea of