pad of his thumb gently stroked her arm.
“Not bad.” He met her eyes and something unidentifiable and kind of scary passed between them.
She cleared her throat and pulled away.
“The chili cook-off starts shortly after noon,” he said, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “I’m gonna go check on the stoves in the contestants’ booths. I’ll be back to make sure someone relieves you.”
“Don’t worry about me.” She picked up the metal box, sat down and set it on her lap, feeling somewhat shaky. Clint’s dark green eyes and gentle touches were tipping her off balance. It was crazy, and she didn’t know how to react to him. “Go.”
He started to leave, and then turned back to her. “You’re a good sport, Dory. Thanks.”
“Sure.” She shrugged, feeling a bit low suddenly. Pretending to acquaint herself with the money box and tickets, she kept her head bowed until he was gone.
Dory, the good sport. Dory, one of the guys. Dory, the dependable. None of those tags had ever bothered her before, and she hated that they did now. It wasn’t as if a man like Clint would ever be interested in her as a woman, but for just a few minutes, she’d felt a connection with him. Weird, because she was never foolish like this about men. She not only understood her feminine limitations, but in general, she truly lacked interest. What was it about Clint’s indifference that depressed her?
She blew out a frustrated breath and then was relieved to be distracted by her first customer, a cute little freckled girl of about seven. After making the child’s change and passing over her tickets, Dory’s gaze automatically scanned the growing crowd in search of Clint. He was clear across the field, but she spotted him right away because he was taller than most of the other men.
He was talking and laughing with someone, and Dory strained so hard to see who it was, she nearly fell off her chair. But she caught a glimpse of the tall, leggy blonde around whose shoulders he’d casually slipped an arm.
Checking on the chili cook-off booths. Right. She adjusted the metal box on her lap, and muttered when she accidentally ripped off a fingernail.
“Excuse me, miss.” It was the ranch foreman, whom she’d met yesterday.
“Hi, Silas. Need some tickets?”
“No, ma’am. Seems we’re in a pickle and Pete thinks I should talk to you.”
“Yes?”
“We need help in one of the booths.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Sure, but what about selling tickets?”
“I can do that for the time being,” he said, abruptly removing his hat and grinning. “But we need a pretty gal like yourself for the booth. The kissing booth.”
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