of a button and a rerun of the latest NASCAR race blazed across the massive screen. The sound roared through the bus and she stirred.
With the fast reflexes of an eight-time PBR champion, Pete hit the mute button. The sound faded into the steady hum of the engine.
Wendy shifted, but she didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she half turned, snuggling deeper into the chair.
He fixed his gaze on the TV and tried to ignore his throbbing muscles keeping tempo with his heartbeat. He could kiss a good night’s sleep goodbye. Times like this, it was all he could do not to grind his teeth. Which was why he’d turned down the woman tucked into his bed. And the one stowed away in his bathroom. Even a warm, willing body wasn’t enough to distract him from the pain wrenching through him after a particularly grueling ride.
But damned if the steady, hypnotic sound of Wendy Darlington’s snoring didn’t do just that as he sat there and the minutes ticked by. That, and she smelled really good. Like homemade peach ice cream. And heaven knew he’d always had a hankerin’ for peaches.
He closed his eyes and focused on the soft zzzzzzz echoing in his ears. Her scent filled his head and oddly enough, his shoulder started to settle down. Not that the pain went away completely. There wasn’t a woman alive who could distract him that much.
But at least he managed a few hours of peace. No crying shoulder. No bulls to ride. No contracts to sign. And most of all, no truth nagging at him, because, as determined as Pete was to sign the damned contracts, he didn’t really want to. He’d gone from being a nobody to a somebody by being wild and free and reckless. The leader of the notorious Lost Boys—the most talented group of riders on the circuit so-called because they hailed from the same small town of Lost Gun, Texas. Pete was their poster child. He lived for the thrill of the moment, and Western America was all about the future. About supplementing his income when the fun ended and he was no longer raking in the cash. While the contract wouldn’t actually keep him from climbing onto a bull, it would still send a powerful message that Pete Gunner was getting older, wiser and it would certainly end his career as PBR’s favorite badass.
But none of that mattered as he sat there, listening to Wendy Darlington snore softly just a few feet away. Instead, he fixated on the sound and let his troubles slip away along with the pain. And then for the first time in a long time, he actually fell into a deep sleep.
4
SHE HAD THE WORST CRICK in her neck.
The pain edged its way past sleep until Wendy finally opened her eyes. She blinked once, twice and reality quickly crashed down around her.
Pete Gunner sat on the opposite side of the table, a pile of pancakes drizzled with sweet-smelling syrup in front of him. He wore nothing but a pair of jeans and a smile. His shoulders were broad, his chest solid and tanned and muscular. Golden swirls of hair spread from nipple to nipple before whirling into a funnel that dipped below the table’s edge. A bucking bull tattoo blazed across one thick biceps. Muscles rippled and flexed as he scooped a bite, and her mouth went dry.
“Good morning.” His deep, sexy voice snapped her back to reality and the all-important fact that there was sunlight streaming through the windows.
Oh, no.
She bolted upright and winced at the pain at the base of her skull. “This can’t be happening.” Her gaze swiveled to the window and she blinked against the stream of brightness. “I slept all night? The entire night?”
“A whopping six hours.” He shoveled in a mouthful of pancakes and chewed.
“It’s six-thirty? In the morning?”
“I thought we already established that,” he said after he’d swallowed.
“Have we been driving all night?”
“With the exception of a thirty-minute stop, yes.”
“Where exactly are we?”
“Texas.”
She gave him a duh look. “Exactly where in Texas?” She glanced sideways and caught a glimpse of Welcome to Pinto Creek on a road sign that flew by. “Pinto Creek?”
“For about the next five minutes, then we’ll be in Lost Gun. And then home.”
“How far is that from Dallas?”
“Three hundred and twenty-six miles.” He motioned to a mile marker that rushed by. “And counting.”
“This can’t be happening.” Panic bolted through her and she pushed to her feet. As if there were any place to go. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He shrugged. “People get grouchy when you wake them up. For all I know you could be some kind of early morning crazy who threatens to murder the first person that taps them on the shoulder. I like breathing too much, especially when I’ve got a mean bull coming up in Boulder next week.”
The mention of bulls snagged her back to the all-important fact that the papers still sat untouched on the table between them.
“You still haven’t signed.”
“I never sign anything before breakfast. I can’t concentrate on an empty stomach.” He held up a forkful. “Pancake?”
Her stomach grumbled at the sight, reminding her that she hadn’t had anything since the chocolate bar she’d wolfed down at the rodeo arena.
Woman doth not live by candy bars alone.
Lisa’s voice echoed in her head. Best friend and serial-dater Lisa was always encouraging Wendy to go out with someone—anyone—and have some fun.
But at twenty-eight, Wendy wanted more from a man. Sure, she liked doing the nasty as much as the next red-blooded female, but she wanted a real relationship to go with it. And while she didn’t have her heart set on marriage just yet, she at least wanted a man who was open to the concept.
That’s what she told herself, but her gaze snagged on Pete’s mouth anyway. A dab of syrup sat at the corner and she had the overwhelming urge to lean across the table and lick it off.
Crazy.
She shook away the notion and fixed her gaze on the papers. “I really need to get these back to corporate for a counter-signature.” The bus swayed to the left as it made a sharp turn and she clutched the edge of the chair. “The sooner that happens—” she fought to regain her composure “—the sooner you get your check.” She dangled the one advantage she had over him. Money. It was more than they’d ever paid to any spokesperson in the history of Western America and it was a heck of a lot more than the payout on any old bull.
A gleam lit his eyes before taking a nosedive into the deep blue depths. “I never talk money before breakfast, sugar.” He downed a large gulp of milk that sloshed slightly in the glass as they rumbled down what was now a dirt road.
She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took another bite and a strange tingling started in the pit of her stomach.
It was the bus, she told herself. They were pitching and rocking. Enough to hollow out anyone’s stomach.
Except his. He seemed immune.
She knew the feeling. She’d lived her life on the road at one time and nothing had bothered her. Not traffic. Or turbulence. Or a rough stretch of road.
Then.
But now things were different. She was different. Even if she had slept like a baby for the past six hours.
“So why don’t you like pancakes?” he asked as they hit a pothole and she clutched at the chair’s edge.
“Who said I don’t like pancakes?”
“I offered to share and you turned me down.”
“It’s