Page 57 of Taming the Wild Cowboy

Maclyn propped herself onto an elbow. “Really?”

“Neither of them were interested in a commitment at the time. It was better to keep it on the down-low.”

“And then they got interested?” She truly hoped that Trev was not relating a parable about commitment. His next words reassured her.

“They were always interested. They’d dated years before, and the spark never died.”

“Ah.”

“Are we good?” he asked, his expression suddenly serious.

“Yeah. You?”

“I might need time to recover physically, but …” He flashed a pirate’s smile.

She rolled out of bed and held out a hand to hoist him to his feet.

“You’re kicking me out?”

“You’re the one who said you had to go. What are you going to wear home?”

“My boxers, boots and jacket.”

“How is that going to work?”

“I’m going in through Hayes’s bedroom window. I’ll pick up the clothes tomorrow.”

*

Trev had no intention of going though Hayes’s window, but he was thankful that Wade wasn’t in the kitchen when he let himself in wearing his muddy coat over boxers and boots. He had his excuse laid out—the only washer on the property was in the foreman’s house and he’d left his muddy jeans to be washed, but if he had been caught, the incident would have taken its rightful place in family lore.

The television was blaring in the living room, the light rippling over the dark carpet as he eased past the doorway, peeked in on his way by and then continued down the hall. Wade was sound asleep in his chair, the remote clutched in one hand.

Trev had just closed the door to his dark room when a sweep of headlights illuminated the interior. Odd time for visitors. Prying his boots off from his wet-socked feet, he grabbed a pair of jeans out of his drawer, pulled them on, then reached for the MSU hoodie hanging off the bedpost. Wet socks would have to do, because someone was coming up the walkway. By the time Trev reached the kitchen, the door was opening.

Ballsy burglar?

Nope.

A long-lost brother stepped inside, shaking water off his sleeves.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Trev asked.

Jordan pulled off his wet felt hat and hung it on a chair finial before shooting Trev a confused look. “I told Wade I was coming home.”

“Must have slipped his mind.” Or he had some kind of a plot brewing in his diabolical head. Jordan frowned at Trev’s feet. “Why are you wearing wet socks?”

Trev glanced down. “Long story. I’d rather hear yours.”

“A story old as time. Consultant gets the snot slapped out of him by incompetent project managers until he can’t take anymore.”

“Your project?”

“I finished my part. Could have signed on for phase two, but no way.” He sat in Wade’s chair at the table. “Dealing with these clowns was the kick in the ass I needed.”

“I know the feeling,” Trev said. “I guess I know why Wade is firing me.”

“Wait. What? He’s firing you? How does that work?”