certainly are.” She hesitated and the belligerence of her manner softened. “To tell the truth, I guess I’m usually a grouch with you, too. Apparently I just rub you the wrong way.”
If she ever rubbed him the right way—he yanked his thoughts up short, wondering what had come over him. This was Katy Andrews, after all, not just any good-lookin’ woman. “Then you accept my apology?” His voice sounded uncharacteristically rough.
She considered, her green eyes narrowing. “Sure,” she said finally, “why not?”
He felt a load lifting from his shoulders. “Great. Then how about we put our plan in motion by going to happy hour at the Painted Pony Friday night?”
“Going to—you mean, together? Like a date?” Those remarkably long-lashed eyes widened.
“I mean, like we planned. Remember, engagement? Make the grandma happy, scare off my legions of admirers?”
For a moment she stared at him, and then she leaned back in her chair, stifling laughter. “You’re suggesting that we reinstate Plan A?”
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, “I guess I am. What do you say, Katy? If we both make a real effort—”
“Burgers and fries, coming up.” The skinny kid waiter plunked two overflowing platters before them, and Dylan was forced to wait for her answer through the obligatory checklist: mustard, catsup, mayonnaise, extra pickles and lettuce, toasted bun. The woman made a production out of eating a lousy hamburger!
By the time the waiter withdrew, Dylan had lost any slight degree of patience he might have had. “Well, what’s your answer?”
She cut her hamburger in half but he could tell she was still watching him. “This is important to you, isn’t it?”
“Hell, no!” He shrugged that suggestion away.
“In that case—”
“I meant to say, hell yes.” He didn’t want to lose her, even if he had to swallow a little pride.
“In that case, my answer is yes.” She looked at him with a self-satisfied expression. “But just remember, you wanted this more than I did, so you owe me, Dylan Cole.”
“Yeah, and you’ll never let me forget it,” he muttered, staring down at the huge double burger and crisp steak fries on his plate.
And realizing that he’d mysteriously lost his appetite.
The Painted Pony Saloon was the local hot spot on Friday nights, starting with a happy hour—two drinks for the price of one—from five to seven and then dancing from eight until midnight. Katy had come a few times with dates, more often with girlfriends. It was the kind of place where women could do that without feeling threatened.
As a matter of fact, she’d never felt as threatened then as she did now, walking in on Dylan’s arm. They drew so many stares that she felt downright out of place.
“Wanna sit at the bar?” he inquired.
“No, I do not want to sit at the bar,” she snapped. “How about that table over there by the dance floor?”
“The music will be starting in less than an hour and it gets too noisy down front.”
“Is that a crack because I was late and the best tables are already taken? I told you, that last interview ran way longer than it should have.”
“Katy,” he said in a voice as cold as a well-digger’s knees, “if you don’t shut up at least until we find a table, I’m going to shut you up myself.”
She faced him with hands on her hips. “How are you going to do that? If you lay a hand on me, I’ll have you arrested. I’ll have you hauled away in chains. So how do you plan to shut me up yourself?”
“I only know one way,” he said grimly. “If I grabbed you and kissed you right here in the middle of the Painted Pony, that would shut you up pretty damned fast.”
She rocked back on her heels, shocked to the soles of her feet. Kissing Dylan Cole, or being kissed by him, was not something she had ever contemplated…willingly.
Before she could get her battle flags flying again, he took her hand and half-led, half-dragged her to a table in the corner. Once there, he guided her into a chair, then sat himself.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh that sounded like relief, “now you can insult me to your heart’s content.”
He looked so resigned to his fate that she had to laugh. His answering smile was both surprised and strangely warm.
“You win,” she said. “I’ll try to be nice, but with you, that’s a real stretch.”
“Maybe it’ll help if you remember it’s for a worthy cause,” he suggested. “If we can’t even convince folks we’re a couple—dating and dancing and the whole nine yards, I don’t see how we’ll ever convince ’em we’re engaged. And if nobody believes us, your grandma won’t either.”
“Sad but true.” She hauled in a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to pretend that you’re Tom Cruise.”
“Too short.”
“Tom Selleck?”
“Too old.”
“Little Tommy Tucker—I don’t care! I just need someone to think about so I don’t jump down your throat every two seconds.”
“You mean, like now?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Exactly like now. Here’s a new idea. Why don’t we just declare a truce—in public, anyway?”
“Works for me.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s three minutes of seven. Shall we start on the hour?”
“You got it.”
“First person who slips owes the innocent party, big time.”
“Absolutely. Seven o’clock.”
“In that case—Katy, I hate that thing you’re wearing. It looks like an explosion in a fireworks factory.”
Offended, she looked down at the bright print of her sundress. “I’ll have you know, this dress cost me a lot of money.”
“Money can’t buy everything.”
“No, but it can buy a lot. Speaking of which, don’t you own anything except jeans and long-sleeved plaid shirts? I’ve often wondered if there was something wrong with your arms—flabby, weak, whatever—the way you keep them covered up.”
“Wanna find out?” Reaching for the top snap, he fumbled to open it, his eyes glinting dangerously. “We’ll see who—”
“Oops, seven o’clock.” She glanced at her watch to confirm this. “As I was saying, I just love a man in a cowboy suit, Dylan darlin’.”
He
