A Brush With A Billionaire (Sweet Billionaires Book 2) Page 4

  “Sorry, but I couldn’t resist.” His voice trailed off as their gazes locked.

  Sam's heart thudded in her chest as unseen electricity crackled between them.

  Brent reached up and wiped her nose. The trail his fingertips left flared with heat, and Sam knew if she didn’t get out of the room, she would end up kissing Brent McKasson and there was no point in that. While he had proved he wasn’t completely a snob, he still lived in a very different world than she did, and a relationship would never work.

  “I should…” No good excuse came to her mind as conflicting emotions coursed through her body. “Bed. I should get to bed. Long day working on your car tomorrow.” She hated that she was stammering over her words and even more that his twinkling eyes and twitching lips told her he knew he affected her. Before he could say anything else, she tossed the towel on the counter and hightailed it for the hallway. “Thank you for dinner,” she said before turning down the hall.

  “You’re welcome,” he called after her, and she could hear the laughter in his voice.

  Sam entered her room and shut the door, leaning against it. What was happening with her? She was not normally star struck, and she’d promised herself she would never fall for another rich man. That had been easy when she thought Brent a snob, but then a different side of him had emerged. A side she somewhat liked. A side that scared her a little as it sent her heart fluttering in her chest.

  Chapter 5

  Brent wandered into the guest bedroom. He should be reading through the latest script, but Sam’s soulful blue eyes and the way her lips were a little off-kilter when she smiled clouded his vision.

  He had expected she would sit down at the table, grease and all, but she had opted for a shower. And when she had returned and sat across from him, the scent of strawberries from her shampoo had tickled his nose. She cleaned up nicely, and with her hair down, her face exuded femininity.

  Then she had shared the story of her mother. It was almost his story of losing Rachel to a tee. He even had Rachel’s cross necklace on his nightstand back home to remind him like Sam had her mother’s books. What were the chances of that? The only difference was he had blamed God. He had stopped going to church and started dating women he knew he’d never fall for because he hadn’t wanted to get hurt again.

  Sam’s words rattled around in his head. Was she right? Had he been wasting time blaming God when he should have been thanking him for the time he’d had with Rachel?

  An image of a man on his knees flooded his vision, and Brent grabbed his laptop from his bag. Could this be a story? He placed the computer on the desk and sat down. He hadn’t expected to do any writing during this trip. It had just been about getting away from the public, but he wouldn’t turn the writing time down. Though he had written often before the Night Ranger movies, he had put the pen aside when he’d found acting. Taking on characters had taken the place of creating characters.

  However, as he placed his fingers on the keys, images flooded his mind. The story played out, almost like a movie in his head. With a huge intake of breath, he closed his eyes and let the story come. Image after image flooded his mind as the premise played out in pictures. When it paused, he opened his eyes and typed out the words as fast as possible.

  Line after line, the words came, filling the screen. When the river of words ran dry, he stretched his shoulders, surprised to find them stiff. How long had he been writing? A glance at the clock showed three hours had passed. When was the last time he had written for such a lengthy stretch? A glance at his document showed four thousand words. He hadn’t pounded out that many words in one sitting in ages.

  As he stood from the chair, he reached his arms above his head and bent sideways to relieve the stiffness in his back. It was not done, but it was a start. He had no idea if it would go anywhere but the story needed to be told. He could feel that.

  The hallway was dark as he headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sam must already be asleep. He paused outside the entrance and stared at her closed door, wondering how she slept. Did she sleep on her back or on her side? Left or right side of the bed? Brent shook his head to dispel the thought. He was simply here for the weekend, nothing longer. Come Monday he'd continue to the cabin and then his life back in the city. He had no business thinking anything about Sam other than when she would fix his car.

  * * *

  The scent of coffee woke Brent in the morning. He rubbed his eyes and stretched the kinks out of his neck. Though not the most comfortable bed, the exertion from the day had worn him out, and he had fallen asleep quickly.

  He flicked the blanket aside, swung his legs out, and planted his feet on the carpeted floor. His own apartment back home had hardwood floors, and as much as he loved the look of them, he abhorred the chill that caressed his feet first thing in the morning. This soft, fuzzy carpet feeling was much nicer and definitely less jarring.

  After pulling on a pair of jeans and a shirt, he wandered down the hallway toward the percolating coffee pot that held a promise of invigoration for the day.

  Sam stood watching the brown liquid pour into a mug. Sweats hung low on her hips and a loose-fitting tee stopped shy of the waistband, displaying a hint of pale skin.

  A trickle of desire flooded his veins, but he banished the thought. He was here for coffee, nothing more.

  As he took another step, she turned. Even first thing in the morning, her charm radiated. Her pale skin was devoid of any makeup, but held a natural elegance, and he noticed a dusting of freckles across her nose that he hadn’t observed before.

  “Morning, did you sleep okay?” The coffee finished its cycle, and she picked up the mug, cradling it with her hands as if seeking its warmth.

  “Not as nice as in my bed back home, but better than the backseat of my car.” His bed back in Houston was a King-sized memory foam mattress covered in eight hundred thread count Egyptian sheets, but he felt no need to divulge that information.

  Sam’s lip twitched before pulling into a large grin. “Oh, speaking of which,” —she pointed a finger his direction— “I got your part ordered, but since it was Friday, it won’t arrive until Monday, even overnighted.”

  A feeling of relief flooded Brent. Even though he knew he and Sam traveled in different worlds, he wanted to spend more time with her. “Well, I guess that’s all we can do.” He cleared his throat and switched the topic. “Is there any more of that coffee?”

  “Yep, cups are in the cabinet above the pot. I may not have much else, but I always have coffee.”

  She sat down at the small dining table as he turned to the cupboard and fished out a mug.

  “Sugar?” he asked.

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  He turned to find her smirking up at him. “No, I mean where do you keep the sugar? I take two.” She pointed to another cabinet and after pouring in the desired amount and stirring the dark liquid, he joined her at the table.

  The silence pressed down on him until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “You mentioned there was a festival in town this weekend?”

  Her eyes flicked up, a mysterious glint sparkling in them. “Yep, the cowboy festival.”

  “Have you ever been?” He threw the question out and then dropped his eyes to his mug to give the impression he didn’t really care.

  She shook her head, sending a few tendrils of her chestnut hair flying and the smell of strawberries wafting his direction again. “No, I’ve only been here six months, so I wasn’t here for it last year.”

  Ah, well that explained her lack of pictures on the wall. “Well, since you can’t work on my car, would you care to attend? I could use it as character research, I mean.” He added the last sentence hoping she wouldn’t pick up on his eagerness to spend the day with her.

  “I thought you stated you were an action star.” Sam narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I did.” Brent shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, “but I write too, remember? You never know when I might need to use th
e character development.”

  “Mmhm. You really want to attend a small-town festival?”

  “I mean, if you want.” He watched her face closely to see some sign, any sign of what she was thinking. Could she sense his interest? Did she return it?

  Sam’s eyes scanned his face before she sat back and crossed her arms. “Sure, why not?”

  Nodding, he dropped his eyes to his mug again, and the silence descended once more, but the thrill of spending time with her sent his heart thudding, and he had to force the corners of his lips not to turn up in a smile.

  * * *

  Sam was forced to park at the elementary school as barricades closed the streets from Main to Lonestar Avenue. As they approached the crowd, she waved to those who sent a greeting their direction.

  “That’s Heather Shelton. She’s the pastor’s daughter. And that’s Rose Minor. She runs the Soda Spurs flower shop. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

  Brent nodded, trying to remember the names, but knowing he would fail.

  A white table sat under a tent in front of the post office. Emblazoned in black across the banner that hung from the table were the words "Cowboy Shootout," and a younger man and a woman stood behind the table, cowboy hats on and fake guns hanging from holsters at their hips.

  Brent and Sam joined the line.

  “Howdy pardners.” The woman greeted them when their turn arrived. “Will you be wanting to join the shootout or just the other festivities?”

  Sam looked to Brent who shrugged. “Might as well try it all out, I guess.”

  The woman beamed. “Wonderful. The cost is thirty dollars per person.”

  Brent and Sam both reached for their pockets.

  “I have this,” Brent said.

  “Not on your life,” Sam retorted. “I can pay for myself.”

  The woman watched the exchange with a smirk and raised eyebrows. As both Sam and Brent put their respective money on the table, she scooped it up and continued her spiel. “The action begins at high noon. We’re using paint ball type guns, but it’s washable coloring. There’s a booth in the post office where you can rent western gear or buy it if you want to keep it. The old-time photographer is set up at city hall, and the diner will serve beans and cornbread after the shootout. Connor here will be rounding everyone up at 11:30 on First and Main to go over the rules, so that gives you,” — she glanced at her watch, the only anachronistic piece of her outfit — “about forty-five minutes.”

  She handed them a map which listed all the activities and where they would occur, and after thanking her, they headed to a shady area to take a closer look.

  “What do you want to do first?” Sam asked.

  “We should experience everything, so let's head over to the post office for outfits.” He tried to sound casual, but the thought of dressing up as a cowboy with chaps and guns excited him. Visions of running around pretending to be a cowboy when he was younger flooded his mind.

  Sam’s eyebrow arched, but she shrugged and led the way.

  The post office had closed early for the day, and a table displaying hats and belts of all colors sat in the small lobby. Two clothing racks filled the rest of the space. Colorful shirts, vests, and chaps hung from the metal rods. There were even gingham dresses, but Sam opted for the more masculine outfit and perused the shirts.

  After flipping through the rack, Brent picked a solid blue shirt for himself, a black leather vest, matching chaps, and a hat. A small dressing area with curtains draped over PVC pipes sat snugly in the corner, but Brent offered the space to Sam, opting to put the western shirt over his tee.

  When she emerged a few minutes later, his heart skipped a beat. The chaps were a little big, even cinched in, and hung on her hips. Her red shirt complemented the brown of her vest and chaps. She pushed the hat up with one finger and offered a crooked grin. “Is it awful?”

  He shook his head, transfixed by the sight of her. The image was sexy, but he couldn’t say that out loud.

  Her smile broadened before she dropped her eyes. “We’re all dressed up, what now?”

  Brent checked his watch. They had twenty minutes left. “Want to take a picture? That way you can prove you got this rich boy to dress up?”

  She laughed and swatted his arm. Her laugh was the sound of the wind chime he used to have on his back porch growing up, and his lips pulled into a smile of their own.

  After exiting the post office, they raced across the street to City Hall. The atrium had been transformed into a makeshift photography studio. Huge lights surrounded a camera on a tripod.

  “Welcome,” the young woman behind the camera greeted them as they approached. “Pick a prop from the table, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Brent and Sam examined the table which housed glass bottles, fake shotguns, cards, ropes and fans. Sam grabbed the fake rifle which evoked another smile from Brent. Not being a drinker or a card player, he opted for the rope.

  “Ah, perfect.” The photographer pointed to two crates in the middle of a host of other props. “Sit, sit.”

  Brent sat on the right crate, hoping it would hold his weight, and Sam took the left one, draping the gun across her lap.

  “No, no, this will not work. How about you stand?” The woman pointed to Brent. “Put one knee up on the crate and wrap the rope about your shoulder.”

  Brent followed her directions and after a few adjustments, struck a pose the photographer loved.

  “Now you lean against his leg and hold the gun across your lap.” She motioned the position she wanted to Sam. “But be sure and look at your man.”

  Brent’s face heated. “We’re not a couple.”

  “You are today.” The photographer motioned for him to stare down at Sam. “Hmm, can you put your hand on her shoulder?”

  Brent dropped his right hand to rest on Sam’s shoulder. As it landed, a spark ran up his arm.

  “Perfect, now hold that pose.”

  The lights flashed, and Brent heard the clicking of the camera, but he couldn’t remove his eyes from Sam. He should not be developing feelings for this woman he’d probably never see again, but he couldn’t convince his heart of that.

  “Okay, now a silly pose. Why don’t you wrap the rope around her as if you’ve lassoed her?”

  With a smile, Brent helped Sam stand and circled the rope about her waist. The sweet smell of strawberries flooded his nose again as he leaned close to her. Her breath caught, and he found her eyes. Desire and fear fought for control in the deep blue depths. His lips parted, but before he could move, the camera flashed.

  “That was perfect. You can come see them this afternoon.”

  Brent didn’t want the shoot to end. He wanted another minute with Sam this close to him. He wanted to know what would happen if he touched her lips, but the moment was gone.

  She leaned away from him and untangled herself from the rope before replacing her gun on the prop table. Following her lead, he coiled the rope and added it.

  After clearing his throat, he glanced at his watch. “Almost time, shall we go hear the rules?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  The crowd had grown while they were busy, and without thinking, Brent grabbed her hand as they edged their way forward. A warm tingling raced up his arm at her touch, and he dared a glance at her.

  She returned his gaze, a mixture of emotions on her face. His eyes dropped to her lips, but before anything further could happen, the crackle of a megaphone interrupted the moment.

  Blake, the man from the welcome table, stood on a picnic bench, megaphone in hand. “Welcome everyone to the Cowboy shootout. Cara will hand out the paint guns. Every person gets one. You’ll also get a colored badge. Blues are one team. Reds are the other. You can use the space from the post office to the general store. If you get tagged in the chest or the head, you must exit the game. The last person standing will be deemed the winner. Questions?”

  A murmuring ran through the crowd, but no one braved a question. Brent pu
lled Sam over to the table where Cara was handing out guns and badges.

  “Hello again. Same team or different?”

  “Same,” the two answered together, and a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years flickered in his heart.

  She handed them each a blue badge, a gun, and an ammo packet. Forced to drop Sam’s hand, he gathered the supplies, but he missed the warmth.

  “That’s all you have, so shoot wisely. Have fun you two.” She winked at them before turning to the next couple.

  Brent checked out the gun which resembled a six shooter though the barrel was much longer and a black air pressure container stuck out from the bottom of the handle. The cylinder didn’t open, but a hole in the front allowed the balls to be inserted and then the cylinder turned to engage them. He loaded five pellets into the chamber - as much as it would allow. It would be slow, but he had enough ammo for three reloads. After slipping the gun into the holster around his waist, he dropped the extra ammo in a pocket on the other side and looked up, expecting to need to help Sam, but she had already filled hers as well and was placing the gun in her holster.

  “You’ve shot before.”

  “Yeah, my dad taught me before I went to college. He wanted to make sure I could protect myself.”

  “Somehow, I doubt you’d have any issue taking care of yourself.”

  With a step, Brent closed the distance between them, but as he reached for her hand, the megaphone crackled again.

  “Pick your starting places,” Connor’s voice blared.

  Around them, people raced to secure their positions. Sam grabbed his hand this time and pulled him back toward the post office. Warmth traveled up his arm. Several others joined them, and at noon a gun fired into the air. Around them, people rushed out into the open, but Sam and Brent took a slower pace, running from one building to the next place of safety. Brent kept his eyes peeled for red badges.

  The sound of pops and groans from hit people filled the air. Brent snagged a few people with red badges before taking a shot to the arm. That didn’t disqualify him, but it stung a little. Beside him, Sam rubbed her calf where she had taken a shot.