by trade and living proof that there were a few good men out there. He didn’t lie or cheat or try to charm his way out of a difficult situation. He relied on honesty and integrity and he made Kat feel like a queen.
Sabrina wanted a Harry of her own and so she’d stopped wasting her time with one-night stands.
Sure, she liked sex, and she sure missed it after eleven months of celibacy—the amount of time since her last relationship—but she also liked camaraderie. She wanted a man to make her pancakes the next morning. A man who called if he was running late after work. A man who wouldn’t turn tail and run at the first sign of commitment.
A man who could give her more than just a really great orgasm.
Not that she minded a really great orgasm. But she preferred the friendship that came with an actual relationship. And when she wasn’t in a relationship like now? She had a vibrator that could deliver without all the awkwardness that followed a brief sexual encounter.
No fumbling for clothing or making promises that would never be kept. A vibrator was simple. Easy. Honest.
“I really don’t think this is a good idea. If you’ll excuse me...” She didn’t wait for a response. She darted away from him and left him staring after her.
His gaze drilled into her, and it was all she could do to keep from running back and begging him to give her the ride of her life.
He could. She knew it. She felt it.
She headed for the rear exit. Out in the parking lot, she climbed behind the wheel of her ancient Bonneville. She gave one last look at the exit door, half expecting, half hoping that he would come after her. He didn’t, and a swell of disappointment went through her, quickly followed by a wave of relief.
The last thing, the very last thing she needed in her life, was to fall into bed with the exact type of man she’d sworn off of years ago.
Her father had been a cowboy. A charming, salt-of-the-earth type, who worked from sunrise to sunset and never complained. But while he had a strong work ethic, his moral code had desperately lacked. He’d had an easy grin and a weakness for loose-looking women. He’d cheated on Arlene Collins regularly, always smooth-talking his way back into the house after a night of carousing with every female in their desperately small town. Arlene had forgiven him, catered to him, loved him, in spite of his good-for-nothing ways. She’d been a minister’s daughter who’d taken her vows very seriously. Therefore, she’d stuck by him through all the bad times, eager to keep her marriage together and make it work. But she’d never really been happy because Dan Collins hadn’t been a forever kind of man. He’d been the play-the-field, charm-you-out-of-your-panties sort. The one-night-stand kind.
Just like Billy Chisholm.
Sabrina wasn’t making the same mistake her mother had. At this point in her life, she was done with just sex. When she invested herself in a man, it would be one who would—could—love her and only her. A man who wouldn’t spend every Saturday night cruising the local honky-tonk, picking up women, propositioning them.
Eventually, that is.
At this point in her life, she was busy with her career, dedicated to making her online-dating service a huge success. She needed a big payoff so that she could pay off her student loans, get herself out of debt and get on with her life. As a serious journalist. The website would give her the financial stability she needed right now. That’s why she was here in Lost Gun—for the money. Not to find a date, much less a one-night stand.
Especially a one-night stand.
Sabrina didn’t do one-nighters. And she most certainly didn’t do cowboys.
Not now. Not ever.
No matter how much she suddenly wanted to.
* * *
HER CAR WOULDN’T START. The truth sank in after Sabrina cranked the engine a record ten times, until the loud grumble turned into a faint series of clicks that filled her with a sense of dread.
It wasn’t the first time it had happened. The car was over ten years old. A clunker she’d inherited from her grandfather before leaving town all those years ago. While she did her best to keep up the oil changes and take care of her one and only means of transportation, she’d found herself stranded here lately more times than she could count. She needed a new car. Even more, she needed the money to afford a new car. She rested her forehead on the wheel and cursed the pile of junk for several seconds before gathering her resolve and popping the hood. Outside, she lifted the heavy metal, grabbed a rag she kept stashed in the front grill and started checking her battery connections.
Corrosion had built up and she damned herself for not shelling out the hundred bucks to buy a new one before leaving L.A. But she was on a budget. One that barely allowed for the secondhand shoes on her feet and the designer skirt she’d picked up at a thrift store in Hollywood. Clothes that made her feel like a million bucks even though her bank account reflected anything but. Still. If she’d learned anything from marketing guru Livi, it was that success was all about projecting a certain image. About building a brand.
And her brand as a high-powered executive for the next big website did not involve shoving her face under a hood and praying for divine intervention.
She thought about going back inside and hunting down Livi. Her friend, never short on cash thanks to a decent trust fund from her parents, had picked up her own rental car when they’d arrived in town so that they could split up and cover more territory. The rental wasn’t anything extravagant—this was Lost Gun, after all—but it ran. They’d met here at the kick-off dance after Sabrina had spent the day at the fairgrounds while Livi had visited a nearby working ranch rumored to employ the hottest ranch hands in the entire county. Livi would give her a lift back to their motel.
Sabrina weighed her options. Calling or texting were both out because Livi was notorious for ignoring her phone when in the arms of a hot, hunky man. That meant Sabrina would have to go back inside and risk running into Billy Chisholm again.
She ditched the idea and fiddled a few more minutes with the connections. Sliding behind the wheel, she cranked the engine again.
Click. Click. Click.
“It’s flooded,” Billy’s deep voice slid along her nerve endings and put her entire body on instant alert. He leaned down, his handsome face filling up the driver’s window. The scent of clean soap and raw, sexy male teased her nostrils. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
She blew out an exasperated breath and reached for her cell phone. “I guess it’s time to call a tow truck.”
“Good luck.”
She eyed him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That there’s only one tow truck in town, sugar, and it belongs to George Kotch,” he murmured as if that explained it all. When she didn’t seem the least bit enlightened, he added, “He’s about a hundred years old and tires out real easy.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s already after ten. By now, he’s already eaten his bowl of ice cream, taken out his dentures and called it a night. Hell, he’s probably been asleep a good five hours or so.”
“Lovely,” she muttered.
“On the bright side, he’s up at the crack
