Page 13 of Playing Cowboy
Chapter Seven
Grady
“Aw, hell no.”
Chet frowns, his messenger bag looking heavy, what with the way it’s slung over one of his slim shoulders.“What?”he asks.“It has seven four-star ratings on HotelHost.com.”
“Betty’s Bed & Breakfast?”I glance down Hastings Avenue, not far from thePalmer Propertiesbuilding and just in front of theCracked Egg Café.“Chet, all week?”
“I mean, just until Nash and the rest of his team get into town, and then I think we’re moving somewhere bigger.”
My mind is racing, not just with my gradually simmering crush but with Chet’s mental health.“Listen, no one loves Betty-Jean Simpson more than I do.I mean, her lemon bars are to die for, and her sweet tea?Off the charts.But if you’re looking for a place to rest and work and get a little peace and quiet?No, son, that ...that’s not the place for you.”
He frowns, looking adorably flustered in the early afternoon sun.Flustered enough, I hope, that he won’t notice my obvious intentions in reassigning him somewhere a little more ...private ...for the rest of his stay.“Well, everywhere else was booked up for some reason.”
“For some reason?”I huff.“Chet, the rooms are all full because we’ve got about twelve different construction crews in town trying to wrap up work on the Galloping Galleria before summer’s over.”
He shields his eyes from the sun, glancing quietly up at me.“Oh.I ...I guess I hadn’t thought about that.”
“It’s fine,” I tease, nudging his hip with mine and trying to ignore the lightning bolt of desire the simple touch ignites.“Luckily, you’ve just started over with the town’s best property manager, so you’re golden.”
“Best?”Chet teases back.“Weren’t you in school like ...a week ago?”
“Fine, Chet,” I grouse.“Newestproperty manager.Do you want my help or not?”
“I mean, what are we talking about here?”
“Somewhere a lot more amenable to your, uh ...finer sensibilities, Chet.”
“I took a virtual tour of Betty’s place,” he insists, even as he starts to follow me back down the street.“It didn’t look that bad.”
“It isn’t bad,” I insist as we approach my office building.“If you’re a middle-aged married couple looking to reconnect over sweet tea, lemon bars, and endless—and I do meanendless—talk about the good old days.”
“Oh.”Finally, he gets it.“Oh!”
He pauses as we approach the three-story brickPalmer Propertiesbuilding, quickly doing a little stutter step to keep up as we pass it entirely.“Now,where are we going?”
