Page 3 of Branded By Bishop

"I'm a cowboy, Calamity."

"Yes, and that's why you're perfect for the job. No skeevy music manager is going to fight a cowboy who doubles as bodyguard."

The flaws in her logic are big enough to drive a combine through. But her experience on the subject is limited to one shady motherfucker who absolutely did not want to fight her husband after he fucked her over, so I can't hold that against her.

Did Callie's manager really steal from her? Oh, dammit to hell.

Meeting her is a terrible idea for about nine thousand reasons, but letting her get fucked over doesn't sit well with me, either. I don't like the thought of any woman in trouble, especially not one I've been staring at every damn time I drive into town.

"If I pretend to be her bodyguard, we're even?" I ask Morgan, despite my better judgment.

"Definitely."

"Are you bullshitting me?"

"I would never!" she gasps as if that's not precisely how I ended up in this situation to begin with. She may look innocent, but she's tricky.

"Liar."

She sticks her tongue out at me, then giggles when Jon nudges her as if to remind her that she has two hands and neither of them is currently scratching him.

"If you'll make sure Callie is okay for the next few weeks, you'll never hear another word about the favor you owe me," she promises, holding up two fingers, then three, then two again like she's trying to figure out how to give a Scout's Salute but has no clue what she's doing. I'm sure she doesn't. She probably got kicked out of the Girl Scouts for starting a riot.

"Fine," I growl anyway. "I'll do it."

"You're the best fake bodyguard ever!" Morgan cries.

Why do I feel like I just got played? Oh, right. Because I'm absolutely fucking certain that I just got played. But it's too late for that now.

Callie Jenkins…

Jesus Christ.

Why is my heart already racing?

Chapter Two

Callie

"Callie Jenkins?"

"Oh, hey! You can just leave the…" I turn, expecting to see a delivery driver with a stack of pizzas standing behind me in the cramped practice studio. Instead, my eyes land dead center on a red flannel stretched over the widest chest I've ever seen.

I flick my gaze up, over a set of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, full lips, and a nose that's been broken at least once. Beautiful sage green eyes peek from beneath the brim of a dusty cowboy hat.

He isn't a delivery driver. He is beautiful though, the same way storms are beautiful, all wild and imposing. He looks mean as hell, like he was designed precisely to wrestle bulls and break horses, but there's something warm in his eyes that softens him.

"You aren't pizza," I say, stupidly.

The corner of his lip lifts into a crooked smile. "Afraid not, songbird."

"Pity." The word spills out before I can stop it, earning a deep, rumbling laugh from him. I slap my hand over my mouth, my cheeks flaming.

"I'm so sorry. I meant…" I trail off because I'm pretty sure I meant exactly what I said. But there's no way I'm telling him that.

"It's all good," he drawls, crossing his massive arms. The flannel strains over his biceps.

Good lord. Cowboys are a dime a dozen in Texas. Most days, you can't move without bumping into one. But I've never seen one who looks like this. The old dance studio I rent in Silver Spoon Falls is small, with extra equipment stacked in every dusty corner. He dominates the space, his reflection bouncing back from every mirror in the room.