Page 27 of Risking it for the Cowboy

Fuck, had that just rolled out of his mouth? He clenched shut his teeth.

But Charlie’s words kept curling through his mind like smoke. What’s the worst he could say … no?

“What?” Tyler asked, pushing off the doorframe and narrowing his eyes.

Goddammit, now Tyler Jacob Dixon, JD, who could never let anything go, was not going to let that slip of T.R.’s tongue go.

Time to backtrack. “Nothin.’ Does manager come with a pay raise? I got a new amp I need to buy. Old one’s blown again and been repaired so many times it’s risking its ninth life, and I got barely enough saved for the Homegrown Award registration fee—”

“No, you don’t, Thaddeus—”

T.R. cringed at his full name. Said nothing.

Tyler didn’t know how much he hated it. “What do you mean, owner?”

T.R. laughed to himself, but God he was an asshole. This was Tyler’s baby and here he was, saying he wanted to sweep it away from him? And did he? Or did he just like the illusion of having some family roots like this farm where so many of his happy childhood memories had been made, where a McClintock like himself could build onto his family’s legacy, like Charlize had felt out west with her uncle—

Goddammit. She was living rent free in his head. He checked his phone again.

“Just shootin’ the shit, man. Tell me what you want me to do as your here manager, and I’ll figure it out—”

“You said owner,” Tyler pressed, his folded arms tightened across his chest, his dad pose perfected over the years to drag answers out of wayward boys.

Oh man, had he … pissed Tyler off? The last thing they needed was trouble in paradise. Nothing but trouble.

“Sorry, man, I wasn’t serious. Just cracked a joke about all the things I do for you here.” He waggled his brows with mock exaggeration as Tyler rolled his eyes. “But guess it wasn’t funny.”

But Tyler was still staring at him as if trying to figure out a puzzle, as he white-knuckled that clipboard and his jaw worked something rough on his molars. T.R. turned his back, burying his head in his work, skin still tingling, because as much as he and Tyler gave each other shit, this didn’t feel like playful banter. Ty had given him a job when no one else would, after he’d shot himself in the proverbial foot so many years ago. For the first time in forever, he’d been given the benefit of the doubt, being employed as foreman. Nothing he’d done had pushed his cousin away over the years, but … was he a threat now? Had he just marked himself for job termination, challenging Tyler in such a way?

Oh, Flower Girl, he can do a lot more than just say no. He’d felt like Charlie had believed in him in that moment. But, naw, if his radar had been so off about her, then it had probably been off about this too.

He gritted his teeth and cranked hard as his music droned. Seconds went by like minutes. He worked off two more lug nuts and secured two more. Had Tyler left? He glanced backward.

“Boxing gloves?” Tyler arched a brow, like a sentinel, ever present and overbearing.

He wasn’t letting this go.

“C’mon, man. I wasn’t serious.” He chuckled.

The air compressor cut off. Silence.

“Yeah, you were, else you would’ve been grinning when you said it.”

Goddamn! T.R. tossed the wrench down and scoured his face, groaning.

“Look, Gramps once told me he planned to leave me this place, but I was just a kid, and it was a long time ago, but my folks—” He cleared his throat.

Hopped down from the tractor and killed the music completely, pulling out his phone again. Of course, to check the time for his gig.

6:49.

Fifteen days, thirteen hours, and nineteen minutes to be exact, his brain tabulated like clockwork.

“No matter.”

Tyler considered him. “Your folks what?”

He shook his head. Tyler had turned this operation into a huge success. T.R. shouldn’t have said a word.