Do Him Right Read Online Free PDF Page B

the opening parade of color guards? Do you still
do that here or over in the covered ring?”
    “Here. We do it early in the morning. Nine o’clock. Early by
most standards. But it works for us. For now. Until we need to find the money
to build a bigger covered main ring.”
    “Cost efficiency,” she agreed. “It’s what we’ll work on.”
    “Good. So now lunch?” he asked, his eyes lit with childish
glee.
    Breathless, she licked her lips. “I’m starving.”
    He almost stripped the gears getting the truck in reverse.
He chuckled all the way down the rock-strewn drive. “I’ve got to fire up the
coals. Want a salad too?”
    “Yes. I’m delighted to know one more man in the world can
cook.”
    “Oh?” He had his eyes on the road as they made a turn onto
the highway. “How many men have you known who can cook?”
    “My father. My uncle.”
    “That all?” he asked, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He
was tense. Not a happy sign.
    “That’s all,” she told him, but she knew he was fishing for
more information about men she’d known, men she’d dated, men she liked. She
wasn’t going to give it to him. Because this, coupled with the way he had reacted
to Troy Mallard’s interest in her, told her that kind of knowledge was not what
she needed to offer Chet. He could get jealous. Angry. That she would avoid at
all costs.
    “I have a lot of good recipes,” he told her, eyes on the
road, one hand taking hers into his lap.
    His playfulness had her sighing in relief as she caressed
the muscles of his thigh. “Tell me.”
    “Steak. Salad. Baked Potatoes. Chili that’ll roll your
mother’s stockings,” he told her with a grin as he took the exit ramp. “And
cereal.”
    She feigned a shiver. “Cold?”
    “You hate it, huh?”
    “I like something hot.”
    He shot her a sensual grin.
    She pinched his thigh. “Eggs. Or oatmeal, hot with brown
sugar and maple syrup. And if you can’t make it, I can,” she told him as he
pulled off the main road down a pebbled drive to a one-story, white-stone ranch
house.
    He pulled up the drive to the front door and turned off the
engine. “Is that an invitation to have breakfast with you?”
    She widened her eyes at him. “If you’d like.”
    He curled a long, strong arm around her, hauled her across
the shifter and, on her mouth, vowed, “Oh, Shana Carpenter, I do like.” His
kiss was searing and brief.
    He pulled away, hopped out of the cab then came around to
open her door and hold up his arms for her to fall into. Opportunist that she
was, she took advantage of his embrace to put her own mouth to his in a claim
that made them both moan.
    “Come inside before we do things out here others will
applaud.” He took her briefcase from the floor of the cab and put his arm
around her waist and led her to the porch.
    When he opened the front door, he stood to one side to let
her precede him. She stepped into the cool living room, done in rust-colored
leather and brown-and-red Navaho carpets. On the mantel was a large old clock
and a huge contemporary iron sculpture. But on the walls he’d mounted
memorabilia of his life. Certificates, awards, a few pictures of a family of
four from maybe twenty years ago.
    “I love it,” she told him as she saw him watching her
reaction to his taste.
    “I rent the house. Option to buy if I make enough money as
rodeo manager.”
    She inclined her head toward the large family picture of
mother, father and two teenagers, one of whom was clearly a younger Chet. “Your
family?”
    He nodded, put his keys down on a side table then glanced at
his wall. “Yes. All gone but me.”
    His grief was almost palpable. She swallowed hard. “I’m
sorry.”
    He winced. “I lost my parents five years ago. My brother the
next year.”
    She felt sick to her stomach with the coincidence of the
timing. My god and I ruined him at the same time.
    He gazed at her while some inner conflict contorted his
features in grief and anger.
    “Chet,” she