in that area. “Ladies also love hygiene,” she said wryly. “Now about your shower...”
Marc opened the screen door. “Back in a minute!”
“Take your time and do the job right,” Becca cautioned. “There’s no rush.”
“But I’m hungry. If I hurry, I get pizza faster. Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?”
“As a matter of fact, I love it.”
“Then you should—”
“Marc! Scoot.”
“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.
Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him.
“Well,” he said as Marc disappeared inside, “at least one of you likes me.”
Now that he was on the step just below her, she could see his eyes were green, flecked with gold, and she hated herself for noticing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said tightly, “I need to call in an order for pizza.” That would give her an opportunity to regain her composure.
He smirked. Didn’t the man have any other expressions? “Want to know what toppings I like?”
She shot him a look that should have vaporized him on the spot, leaving nothing but his memory and scorch marks on the sidewalk.
“I’ll just wait here then,” he said, moving past her to make himself comfortable on the porch swing. He even took his hat off and ran a hand through his brown hair. In the sunlight, a few threads shone a deep coppery red, much darker than her own strawberry blond.
His hair was thick, wavy, and she wondered errantly if it was soft to the touch. Rebecca Ruth Baker Johnston, pull yourself together. Just because she hadn’t had sex in the two years since Colin skipped town was no reason to become unhinged in hormonal desperation. She marched into the house, locking the door behind her. No matter how good-looking he was, Sawyer was a stranger; she was a single woman with a child to protect. She called the pizza place, but she was so preoccupied that there was no telling what she ordered. For all she knew, instead of a large pepperoni pie with extra olives, dinner tonight might be a piece of garlic bread and six liters of soda.
Well, that’s what she got for stalling. Her philosophy had always been to tackle problems efficiently, then put them behind her. Time to figure out why this cowboy was here and send him on his way. She returned to the porch, her tone brisk as she asked, “So is Sawyer your first name or last?”
“First. Sawyer McCall.” He extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Officially.”
Her fingers brushed over his in something too brief to qualify as a handshake before she pulled away. “Becca Johnston. What are you doing here?” Besides bonding with my son and trying to mooch free pizza.
“Brody Davenport sent me. I don’t know if you happened to notice while you were undressing me with your eyes—”
She exhaled in an outraged squeak.
“—but he’s who I was having lunch with. Brody and I are old friends. He contacted me a few months ago about coming to town to help with the centennial trail ride and to finally meet Jasmine. I need a place to stay.”
That place sure as hell wouldn’t be under her roof. “There are two motels in the Cupid’s Bow area,” she said. “I can draw you maps to both of them.”
He bobbed his head. “Yeah, Brody said you were pretty much an expert on this town—which would be useful to me, since I’m writing a travel piece. Brody also said that if I stayed here, the room would be spotlessly clean and the food would be excellent.”
She bit the inside of her lip. When she’d had the bright idea to rent out her attic, she’d been thinking more in terms of single women who might feel vulnerable staying alone at a hotel, or who would appreciate bubble baths in the spacious claw-foot tub. Maybe she could even rent the room as a long-term apartment to a woman like herself, divorced and needing to regroup. She certainly hadn’t considered giving the key to a smug, sexy stranger. “I think I would prefer female tenants,” she said. “At least until I get a guard dog.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a dog person.”
She wasn’t; training and grooming seemed like a lot of work when she was already stretched thin with limited hours in the day. But she resented being pigeonholed. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. McCall.”
“No, but from what Brody said...” He cleared his throat, looking sheepish.
Ah. So there’d been more to the rancher’s characterization of her than the promise of a clean house and good food. All Sierra’s teasing about being a control freak echoed in Becca’s head.
“Do you currently have any female tenants scheduled?” Sawyer asked.
“Well, not yet.”
“I can pay up front. Cash. And I can give you a list of references, including Brody and his aunt Marie, to assure you I’m not some whack-job.”
She’d known Marie Davenport, a now-retired 911 operator, for years. And there was no denying Becca could use the money; her salary running the community center and her stipend as a town-council member were barely a full-time income. That’s why she’d decided to invest in renovating her attic to an apartment in the first place, so she could rent it to a paying customer. Yes, but...him?
Becca had spent her life mastering the art of structure. During the happier moments of her marriage, she’d relaxed, grown complacent, and she’d paid for it with scandal and divorce. Now, she was more determined than ever to keep her life smooth and orderly. Sawyer McCall might be smooth, with his glib manner and roguish smile, but instinct screamed that life would be anything but orderly with this cowboy living upstairs.
“Mr. McCall, I really don’t think—”
The screen door banged open and a mini tornado gusted across the porch in the form of her son, his green dinosaur pajamas plastered to the wet chest and limbs he hadn’t bothered to dry. “You’re still here! Are you staying for pizza? Mama, can I show him my space cowboys and robot horses?”
Becca studied her son’s eager face and tried to recall the last time she’d seen him look so purely happy. “Mr. McCall and I aren’t finished talking yet, champ. Why don’t you go set the table for three?” She wasn’t convinced she would rent the room to Sawyer, but a slice of pizza was a small price to pay for her son’s beaming smile.
Marc disappeared back inside as quickly as he’d come.
She took a deep breath. “The attic apartment has its own back stair entrance and a private bathroom. No kitchen, although there’s a small refrigerator up there for beverages and snacks. Whoever I rent the room to is welcome to join Marc and me for meals—but in exchange, I was hoping to find someone with a bit of child-care experience. Occasional babysitting in trade for my cooking.” She’d only just now had that brainstorm, realizing how much it would mean to Marc to be around a man, but it sounded plausible. And if Sawyer said no, it would help justify turning him away.
He
