Page 41 of Fake It Till You Make It

Amarie followed him around the back of the truck, where he pulled out a pair of steel-toed leathers and a pair of clean socks. He kept spare everything in the flatbed.

He took the shoes and crammed a roll of black athletic socks with the UA logo into the toe. “They’re a little too big.”

“Try four inches. With your size thirteen foot, right? They’ll look like clown shoes on me.”

“How do you know my shoe size?”

“Your mother.” She shrugged.

“What has that woman not told you?”

“Hmm, not sure yet,” Amarie answered. “I’ll let you know.”

“Not funny. Here,” he said, lowering the truck’s tailgate. “Take a seat.”

Amarie tried an awkward hop-jump thing that made all her lady curves jiggle. A satisfying sight Eli tried to ignore and failed. Did she realize how her curves stretched those hip seams? Deciding it best to stop his agony, Eli grabbed her around the waist, plopping her onto the warm metal. The humidity had climbed with the temperature. And on cue, he glanced up and saw her shirt clinging to her full rack, a generous helping of feminine bounty even for Eli’s massive paws. This was torture. He dropped to one knee before her.

“Oh, how chivalrous,” she teased.

“Give me your foot.” He gripped her delicate arch, easing her toes into the shoe, wiggling the boot into place. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.” She angled her one foot, presumably for aesthetic evaluation. “Cute. Got any food to go with this footwear?”

He wouldn’t mind a taste of something sweet. A wildly inappropriate image, sexual in nature, flashed in his dirty mind. Annoyed by his reaction, Eli bristled, an exaggerated response for a physical awareness he didn’t want to feel.

He didn’t get to answer because Matt Johnson picked that moment to round the corner, holding the reins on a reddish-brown gelding with a longish black forelock shielding his eyes. Eli still had his hand wrapped around Amarie’s shapely calf, her foot supported on his thigh.

“Morning, Eli.” A straw stalk hung limp at the corner of the farmer’s mouth. Eli had never acquired the taste of farmer’s gum. He’d take his gluten in a cereal bowl with milk. Matt ran his fingers through his loose, mixed-gray waves, pushing the shoulder-length strands back to reveal dark-amber, intelligent eyes. “This why you late—playing footsie with your lady?”

He wore a clean white T-shirt, denim jeans, and cowboyboots older than Eli. Tanned skin, the color smooth as calf leather, peeked out from the neckline and sleeves of his shirt.

“Nope. Had to get her car taken care of.”

“Yep, I heard a little something about that.”

“Hi, I’m Amarie.” Matt accepted the hand she offered.

“The cat whisperer I heard so much about.” He gave a lopsided grin, engulfing her hand in his weathered mitt. “Matthew Johnson, ma’am. Call me Matt. And this here is Harry.”

Eli kept his eyes trained on the animal. Harry’s head bobbed in greeting, but then his nostrils widened. Apparently, another male had caught Amarie’s scent. Didn’t she know she couldn’t come around animals smelling like a treat? The horse danced in place, but Eli noticed Matt tighten his hold on the reins. And his curious busy bee of a partner had hopped down, and with her hand raised, was reaching for Harry the hair-grabbing horse.

Eli snagged Amarie around the waist, his heart rate jumping the second her body collided with his. “Already forgot our conversation?”

A string of indistinguishable objections fell from her lips, cursing his name. “You’re asking for trouble you don’t want from me, Eli Calvary,” she huffed, trying to stomp her foot, but his big boots flopped around her slender ankle.

Matt stood there chuckling at the both of them. “He’s right, ma’am. You smell sweeter than fresh-picked apples. I’m afraid El’s valid in saving you from an entanglement with this fella.”

“Oh,” she said, looking up at him. “You could’ve just said that.”

“I did.” Eli smirked, releasing her. “Remember the ‘don’t be a nuisance’ comment? Harry’s a therapy horse like thegoats you’re so fond of,” Eli added. “The women and children that sometimes reside on the property like his company more than people. He’s frisky when it comes to ladies who smell like you do.”

Like Harry, Eli found himself needing to add a foot of space between Amarie’s lush curves before he started chomping at the bit for a taste of her, too.

“Equine-facilitated therapy,” Amarie echoed. “I’ve read about it being used for those experiencing significant traumatic change.”

Impressed, Matt beamed. Eli could have smiled, but he didn’t want to.

“My late wife, God rest her soul, had a soft spot for women and children fallen on hard times. When she died, I couldn’t bring myself to stop her good work.”