regretting what she was about to say before it even left her mouth. “Then, assuming your references check out, you’ve got a deal, Mr. McCall.”
His grin, boldly triumphant and male, sent tiny shivers up her arms. “When do I get to see my room?”
Sawyer braved his landlady’s glare, her blue eyes like the center of a flame. Fiery was a good description for her—hot, but projecting the aura that a man should stay back for his own safety. At the restaurant earlier, he’d seen her sitting down. She was a lot taller than he’d expected, trim and shapely in her polo shirt and shorts. When he first drove up, her kid had been wearing a numbered practice jersey; Becca wore a whistle on the cord around her neck. Team coach, maybe? She seemed like the kind of person who wanted to be in charge.
And not at all like a woman who changed her mind easily. Despite his claims at lunch that he was charming and likable, Sawyer was almost surprised she’d agreed to rent him the room. Her expression when she’d first seen him in the driveway had suggested she was more likely to back over him than take him in as a guest.
“Come on,” she said irritably. “We might have enough time before the pizza comes for you to see the room.” She opened the door, but stood there, barring his entrance as she studied his boots. “You can leave those on the porch.”
Her tone rankled. He wasn’t her damn kid. “Yes, ma’am. I promise to wash my hands before eating, too.”
She gave him another narrow-eyed glare. Probably deserved that one. Instead of halfheartedly apologizing for his sarcasm, he gave her a winning smile. She pressed a finger to her forehead as if physically pained.
Maybe he should stay at a hotel, after all. Brody was right about him—Sawyer had a habit of provoking bossy people. Wouldn’t sharing a house with a woman who already disliked him needlessly complicate life?
Nah. In only a matter of minutes, he’d convinced her to change her mind about renting to him. In a matter of weeks, he could win her over entirely. Sawyer liked a challenge. Besides, in the unlikely event that he failed, it was just a few weeks out of his life. After that, he’d be putting Cupid’s Bow behind him.
He placed the boots neatly by the front door. “After you.”
Brody hadn’t exaggerated when he predicted the place would be spotless. The hardwood floors gleamed; the creamy walls looked freshly painted. There were no toys scattered about or fingerprint smudges. If he hadn’t seen Marc with his own eyes, Sawyer never would have believed a little boy lived here.
The narrow hallway opened up into a living room and Sawyer winced. “Is my room this...pink?” The low-backed sofa and two armchairs were all the same shade, coordinating with a striped circular rug that took up most of the floor.
“Mauve,” she corrected, studying the furniture with him. “With cranberry accents.”
Cranberry? An Aggies football fan, he would have called the dark throw pillows and decorative candles “maroon.” At least then it would be showing team support for Texas A&M.
Her tone was defensive. “I think it looks nice, but to answer your question, no, this isn’t the color scheme I used in the attic.” She suddenly brightened. “Still, I completely understand if the accommodations here aren’t to your liking. I can still give you directions to either of those hotels.”
He should probably be insulted that she was so eager to get rid of him. “I’m sure the room will be just fine. Even if the bed’s lumpy, with mismatched sheets, it’ll be better than all the times I’ve slept on the ground during a trail ride or stayed in a crappy motel room.” He’d been to rodeos in luxury Vegas settings and tourist-destination stockyards, but those weren’t the norm.
“Mr. McCall, I do not make up beds with mismatched sheets.”
He couldn’t help grinning at her affronted tone; the woman took her linens seriously. “I’ve always cared more about what happens between the sheets than about whether they match.”
She sucked in a breath, but the doorbell rang, saving him from a potentially blistering retort. Redirecting her anger, she glared toward the front of the house. “That better not be the pizza already!”
Was she that set on having events unfold according to her timeline? “Most people are happy when they don’t have to wait long for delivery.”
“There are three regular drivers,” she said, as she dug through her purse. “But Keesha only works weekends. Which leaves D. B. Janak, who I happen to know has the flu, because I ran into his girlfriend at the store, and Callum Breelan, who is proving to be just as bad as his disreputable uncles.” Money in hand, she strode toward the door, rattling off the rest of her explanation over her shoulder. “Only seventeen and he already has one speeding ticket and two warnings—Deputy Thomas went easy on him. I don’t need lead-foot Callum using my dinner as an excuse to mow down pedestrians and small animals.”
Sawyer 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
