Lone Star Daddy (McCabe Multiples) (7 page)

He tugged playfully on a lock of her hair. “I kind of like the sound of that.”

The color in her cheeks deepened. She sucked in a breath and scrambled to her feet. “Clint...”

Forcing himself to be the gentleman he had been raised to be, he got up, too. “I know.” He stood, looking down at her, hands braced on his waist. “Time for me to go.” Even if he didn’t want to leave.

She escorted him to the door.

He lingered in the doorway, glad she didn’t know that much about guys. ’Cause if she had, she would have known he had lovemaking on his mind.

Having given up on trying to figure out what was in her thoughts, though—at least for tonight—he did what a guy always did when he was interested in a woman. Made sure he had the next outing planned before exiting the current one.

“So what time are you and the triplets coming to the Double Creek for dinner tomorrow night?” he asked casually.

Her delicate brow knit in surprise. “You still want to try and get them to eat their vegetables?” she asked. “Even given how your charm offensive failed?”

He watched her run back to the kitchen for the cobbler she’d intended to send home with him earlier. Their fingers brushed as she handed it over.

“I’m not sure my effort did crash and burn—entirely,” he countered. After all, he’d stayed for dinner, dishes, the kids’ bedtime and conversation afterward. That was definitely something.

He’d also managed to make a wager with her that would guarantee a lot more time with her over the coming days.

“Five o’clock sound okay to you?” he continued affably, determined to be as patient as it took.

She was definitely a woman worth waiting for.

Rose smiled, her pretty eyes dancing with delight. “Sounds good.”

* * *

“D
ON
’
T
BE
SO
DISCOURAGED
,” Rose said early Sunday evening as she watched the kids have their last hurrah post dinner on the big front porch of Clint’s home. He’d brought out a Matchbox car set he’d purchased for the occasion, similar to one he’d enjoyed in his childhood, and the triplets were having a great time running the small cars over the wooden planks. “Cutting out the raw veggies in animal shapes was a great idea.”

He cast a fond look at her kids. “I just wasn’t the first to try it.”

“It was one of my parents’ old tricks.”

Clint sat next to her on the chain-hung swing on one end of the porch. Intimacy simmered between them as he draped his arm along the back of it and gazed down at her. “Did it work on you?”

He looked so handsome in the fading evening light, it was all Rose could do not to snuggle into the curve of his arm. “Yes, but I never had an aversion.”

“Point taken.” He leaned in closer. “Well, just so you know, I’m not giving up.”

He wasn’t giving up on their bet—or his pursuit of her? Even though he hadn’t put the moves on her, she could feel him wanting to do so. It was in every lingering look and smile.

“I can see you aren’t,” she said, aware they were flirting without actually flirting.

He looked deep into her eyes, promising, “And I will persevere.”

Rose swallowed around the sudden parched feeling in her throat. “I hope you do,” she returned huskily.

Not just because she wanted her kids eating healthier. But because she enjoyed spending time with him. And this would accomplish that.

She cleared her throat. “In the meantime, since we have a minute, did you get the email last night from the Farmtech advertising team?”

Clint nodded, some of the joy fading from his eyes.

Feeling a little guilty about pushing him into something he clearly did not want to do, Rose continued, “They invited me to be here tomorrow morning, too.”

The tension left Clint’s broad shoulders. “Can you be?”

She nodded. “If you want me here, sure.” Anything to make the contracted work go more smoothly.

He reached over and briefly squeezed her hand. “I do.”

Although she realized she was being ridiculous, she felt a little bereft when he let her fingers go. “Any particular reason why?”

Clint exhaled. The brooding look was back on his face. “Let’s just say I have a gut feeling the whole experience is going to be one Texas-size pain,” he said gruffly.

* * *

A
S
IT
TURNED
OUT
, Clint was right.

When Rose arrived, shortly after 9:00 a.m., at least forty cars clogged the lane leading to the Double Creek ranch house. Some belonged to curious co-op members and ranch equipment dealership employees who’d heard filming was about to commence and hoped—if not to end up as an extra in the commercial—at least to enjoy the excitement of watching it happen. The rest were part of the ad-agency team and photography crew.

The late May day was already hot and humid, with temperatures predicted to climb into the mid-nineties. Everyone was beginning to sweat. And already there was tension.

Clint resisted the ad director’s attempt to steer him into a makeup chair. “I don’t need anything on my face to sit in the air-conditioned cab of a berry picker,” he said, scowling.

The set designer fumed. “You certainly need a shirt that doesn’t have stains on the front of it!”

Clint looked down at his broad chest, as did Rose.

His blue-and-white plaid shirt had been washed but not ironed. Worse, faint blotches of mustard and ketchup, the remnants of the triplets’ culinary disaster, could still be seen. But only if you looked up close, Rose noted. From behind the glass of the berry picker cab, it would not be noticeable.

“So I’ll get another,” he growled.

“Actually, maybe Clint should just take it off,” the ad director suggested.

Clint looked right back at him. “You first,” he drawled, deadpan.

No one on the ad team laughed.

But everyone else within earshot did.

Jeff, the owner of the dealership providing the farm equipment for the shoot, began to look alarmed.

It was time, Rose knew, for her to intervene.

“How about we all take five and regroup?” she suggested pleasantly. “I’ll go in the house with Clint and help him pick out a new shirt.”

“Make it several,” the ad director snapped before turning to one of his assistants. “Call that Western-wear store we passed in town and see what they can get out here in his size, pronto!”

While everyone leaped into action, Rose steered Clint up the path to the ranch house, then inside. “I know this is hard,” she said as they walked through the beautifully appointed home, which had been completely redone by the previous owners, then sold to him complete with furnishings.

A muscle worked in Clint’s jaw. “You’re not the one already being treated like a piece of meat.”

“Actually, I think it’s
really hot male model
,” she corrected him dryly.

Nothing. He didn’t even crack a smile.

“It’s okay to have a little fun with this, you know.”

He’d never looked sexier...or grumpier. “Not in the mood.”

Okay, she thought, turning her gaze away from the tense set of his impossibly broad shoulders. Maybe she couldn’t blame him for that, since none of this had been his idea. And neither of them had been at all prepared for just how much of a circus it had already turned out to be.

She turned away from him, ignoring the low, insistent quiver in her belly. Telling herself it was the fact she’d been too rushed that morning to eat much breakfast, she said calmly, “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got in the way of shirts.”

He muttered something ungentlemanly under his breath.

She swung back to face him with a lift of her brows. It was a good thing they had dozens of people waiting on them just outside. Otherwise, no telling what would happen with the two of them closed up together. Both of them edgy and looking for an outlet for all the excess emotion...

Telling herself to forget the foolish notion of making love with Clint, Rose cleared her throat. “Unless you want the ad director up here, going through your closet and helping you?”

There was a long beat of silence.

She stared at him. He stared right back. His gaze was heated. “Save me,” he blurted out.

Figuring that was as much consent as she was likely to get, Rose pivoted away from him to thumb through the selection. Along with roughly two dozen Western shirts, some old, some new, there were several business suits, plus a really nice black tuxedo with pleated white shirt, dressy black hat and boots. A lot of jeans. Another dozen or so pairs of custom boots, again in varying degrees of usage.

Looking a little James Bond–ish, he lounged against the closet frame. “Maybe I should just stroll out in a tuxedo.”

Rose laughed. “Don’t give them any ideas.” Happy to find him in a slightly more cooperative mood, she held out a dark blue shirt for him to put on. He stripped off the old one, which gave her a nice view of his mouthwateringly good physique. Shoulders wide enough to lean on. Ripped abs and a sexy navel. Lower still, it was easy to see how well he filled out a pair of jeans.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She really had to stop this before she ended up kissing him again.

She watched as he pushed his brawny arms through the sleeves. “Why did you wear that stained shirt, anyway?” She set the offending garment aside, intending to take it home and launder out the stains her children had wrought.

His brown eyes never left hers. “Superstition. It had good karma because of what happened when I wore it last. It was my first encounter with you and your kids at your home.”

Her heart skittered in her chest. “Our first kiss.”

He grinned. “That, too.”

Oh, my.

He shrugged and ambled closer. Threading a hand through her hair, he cupped her cheek and lifted her face to his. “It brought me good luck that day.” Ever so softly, he added, “I was hoping it would do the same today.”

Rose didn’t know why she was so surprised. Rodeo cowboys were athletes. Athletes were superstitious, with rituals and talismans they believed brought them good luck.

Were she and the kids now part of Clint’s?

And if so, how did she feel about that? As thrilled as her quickening pulse seemed to indicate?

There was no time to explore the issue, however, not with all those people waiting on them, probably wondering what the two of them were up to in here. Ignoring the inner heat the notion generated, she stepped back a pace. “You ready?”

“Just about.” He finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.

She looked at him again, refusing to get sucked in by the blatant sexiness of his gaze. “Try and cooperate?”

His grin widened. “No problem. As long as they don’t ask me to do anything stupid.”

But of course, Rose noted ruefully, the advertising team did ask him to do something foolish. Time and time and time again.

She did have to give Clint some credit for trying his best to be a good sport. He drove the berry picker up and down the rows for two solid hours without complaint as they filmed from angle after angle.

He even did his best to accommodate them when they had him repeatedly climbing into the cab. “We need you to look happier, McCulloch!” He swung around, Stetson low across his brow, his face bearing the expression of a warrior about to head into battle. “This
is
happy,” he said flatly.

Ted Trainer, the Farmtech exec on site, howled. “You’re frowning!”

The ad director shook his head. For him, that was the least of the problems. “I really think the navy-blue shirt is a mistake. We need him in a cowboy plaid.”

His assistant handed Clint a freshly steamed brand-new shirt from Monroe’s Western Wear in town. “We need you to put this on. Now.”

A half dozen other garments waited to be tried.

“And makeup! See what you can do about the sweat on his brow. Someone get the hair dryer and blow the edges of his hair dry!”

Looking like a caged lion, Clint suffered through that process over and over. He changed shirts repeatedly. Bored, the local residents drifted away.

And still the ad team worked to get just the right footage in the searing heat. Until finally even they’d had enough.

“We’re going to have to come back tomorrow,” Aaron, the ad director said. “We’ll bring more wardrobe with us and work on the actual interview then.”

Clint went still. “Interview?” He spoke as if he could not possibly have heard right.

“For the ads we’re going to put on YouTube,” the Farmtech exec interjected. “Figure on at least three or four hours of questions. Then we can splice from that.”

Clint’s scowl deepened. The uncooperative warrior was back. “On
berry picking
?”

The ad director stepped back in to say soothingly, “That, and the ease of using the machine. But not to worry. We’ll throw in some questions about your rodeo days, too. How the two ventures compare.”

“I don’t see how they do,” he said, his mouth quirking slightly.

Aaron waved off Clint’s concern. “Again, don’t sweat it. Our copywriting team is working on a script for you. All you have to do is memorize it or read it off cue cards.”

Clint exhaled slowly and folded his arms across his chest. “And then I’ll be done?”

“With the filming aspect, yeah,” the director said with a nod.

The Farmtech exec added, “But you’ll still have the trade shows to do.”

Trade shows?

Clint slid Rose a long, level look, then turned back to the marketing director. “Excuse me?”

“You have to make appearances,” Ted explained breezily. “But rest assured, we’ll rehearse you. And pay you the hourly rate we agreed upon in the contract, for any time spent.”

Clint turned back to Rose as soon as the group of men walked away. Accusation was blazing in his eyes, and with good reason, she thought in dismay. After all, she had been the one to instigate this whole publicity blitz!

“Did you know about this?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “Not to worry,” she assured him, putting her hand on his rock-hard biceps and giving it a squeeze. “I know just who to call.”