of Lonely Hearts Station. Time was not on her side. That darn cowboy was reading her mind like a newspaper, and he knew full well she was attracted to him.
It wouldn’t hurt to take that bold confidence down a peg. Turning, she lifted her mask. “Mr. Jefferson.”
He grinned, obviously thinking his charm had won her over. “Call me Calhoun.”
She nodded. “Calhoun, did you beat the buzzer?”
“No, ma’am. I must admit I did not.”
“Ah.” She pretended great interest in her mask before looking back at him. Her voice sexy, she said, “How long did you last?”
He grinned. “Three seconds. Generally, I last as long as I need to, though.”
Her lips flattened out as she realized he was on to her wordplay, and his confidence wasn’t dented a bit.
“Yes,” he said expansively, “they call me Countin’ Calhoun. Three is usually my minimum. I’m disappointed cuz it’ll bring down my average of nine.”
“Nine seconds?” She blinked.
“Oh, no, ma’am. Nine…well, I’m sure you can figure it out.”
She felt the blush hit her cheeks like summer’s heat. Her hands snapped Gypsy’s reins of their own accord, and she rode stiffly away from his laughter.
Blast him. Now her mind was racing! Nine hours, nine orgasms, nine what? “I would love to know,” she grumbled to herself. “Braggart!”
She hadn’t enjoyed making love with her husband. Truthfully, she had been no proper wife, because if there had been a night she could avoid even kissing him, she did. Maybe she’d only gotten married to have children.
As much as she loved her father, his stranglehold on her younger self had been too much for her. In her heart, she’d made peace with the fact that most likely her teenage rebellion had blossomed into two children. It didn’t matter now, but she knew well enough from her marital experience that she was not a good wife.
So it really didn’t matter what Calhoun was counting—though she’d never before heard a man so proud of his numerals.
Chapter Three
Calhoun was impressed with Olivia’s act—the one where she pretended she wasn’t interested in him even more than the one with Gypsy, Grandpa and the barrels. He left the show, heading to his truck.
Olivia’s no-sizzle charade intrigued him. Never had he seen a lady with more sex appeal trying so hard to hide her light under a bushel basket, as the old-timers used to say. She wouldn’t even let loose with a smile for him—and that told him a lot.
It told him Olivia was chicken. He’d caught her checking him out, and she didn’t mind dueling with wordplay, so the passion was there. She’d simply turned her sex switch to the Off position.
A better man might find a way to flip that switch back on.
It would be a fun chase, and he had no doubt she’d give him the run of his life, which he would enjoy thoroughly. Yet it seemed to him that was probably how his brothers had ended up at the altar—thinking with their Sex Switch Fix-It Kits.
He had his nudes to keep him company, and he’d have to be satisfied with that.
“Calhoun?”
The voice stopped him before he took the tarp off the truck bed. He turned. “Olivia?”
She blushed. “Can I talk to you?”
She could talk to him. She could walk with him. She could— “Sure. What’s up?”
Glancing around, she said, “It’s a private matter.”
Oh, yeah. His favorite kind. “Well, we could sit in my truck, or we could walk to the tearoom, or—”
“Your truck is fine. Thanks.”
She hopped into the driver’s side and slid across the seat before he could open the door for her. Dang, he’d never had a woman so eager to spend time alone with him. He shut his door and waited expectantly.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” she began. “I must ask you to stay away from my children as much as possible. I know they’ve been seeking you out, and I’m going to talk to them about that, but in any case, I’d appreciate your help with this.”
Now that wasn’t the prelude he’d been hoping for. His spirit dimmed a bit. “Why? Have I upset you somehow?”
“No. It’s complicated, actually, and forgive me for not wanting to explain more, but it would just be best.”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “For you, for me or for them?”
“For everyone.”
Hmm. This lady was more afraid of her switch than he’d thought. Tapping the steering wheel, he said, “Of course I will do whatever you ask.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded, sensing her relief. “Can I ask one question?”
“Yes.”
“If we weren’t attracted to each other, would I be getting this No-Kids-Zone request?”
She looked at him. “Cowboy, I never said I was attracted to you.”
“You wouldn’t say it, even if it were the truth.”
Her lips formed a rosebud of disapproval. He made a mental note that this woman was darling even when she was annoyed, which was important. Some women were downright scary when they were annoyed. A man factored in facial expressions when he was getting to know a woman. An artist such as himself was particularly attuned to the range of expressions each female possessed.
She might be affecting his barometer of sexual attraction, but this female’s needle gauge was hovering right around the Back-Off-Buddy range.
“Thank you for understanding about the children,” Olivia said, opening the truck door. “They are always scouting for men. Although I will say that they’re a little more enthusiastic about pitching you.”
“Thanks. I think.” He let her get out of the truck, though he was sorely tempted to take her fragile little wrist and pull her back inside for a goodbye kiss that would make her think ten times before she shut that door in his face.
However, the combination of her switch turned off and her lips budded with displeasure signaled he should keep his tendencies to himself for the moment. He also sensed sweet talk was not the way to crack her defenses.
Damn, she was a puzzle.
“I’m good with puzzles,” he murmured out loud.
“I beg your pardon?” She halted before shutting the door.
“Oh. Never mind. Sorry.”
