For the first time, he seemed to notice my surroundings, the hole digger leaning against the fence rail, the two-by-fours one rail down, the nail gun on the grass. “You’re putting in this fence? Isn’t there someone…?”

If he said more qualified, I swore to myself that I would use that nail gun on his beautiful arm.

“… else who can do that?” He looked around, like there was a team of handymen hanging out behind us.

“The guys are off today,” I said tartly. “Why don’t you run along to the Gap and let me work?”

He stared at me for a beat, then burst out laughing. I stepped closer and glared, and let’s all pretend, for a moment, that my change in proximity had nothing to do with an increase of air conditioning access. “The Gap?” His laugh died down to a chuckle. “Summer, I stopped shopping at the Gap when I hit puberty.”

“Well, wherever you idiots shop.” I waved a hand in frustration and turned back to the broken fence. Last night we’d had a bad storm. It had washed out the ditch along this patch of fence line, and I’d woken to find the fence on its side. Thank God Hank had brought the horses in for the storm. Spots would have jumped the downed fence and teased half the horses in Thomas County before noon. I’d spent a day chasing her down with Hank before. It was a pain in the ass—excuse my language.

Cole surprised me by opening his door and stepping out, one tennis shoe hitting the dirt, then a second. He wore jeans that, I swear, if I squinted hard enough, had iron lines on them. “I’ll help,” he offered.

“Help me finish the fence?” Now I laughed. “Please, pretty boy. Get back in the truck before you get dirty.”

He didn’t like that. I could see it in the set of his face, the way his eyes changed. He turned away from me, walked to the back of the truck, and put down the tailgate. When he returned, his hands gripping either side of my hips, I jerked back. I pushed against his chest, preparing for another unwanted kiss, and squealed in surprise when instead he lifted me up, my hands suddenly holding on instead of pushing away, my struggle ending when he set me gently on the open tailgate. He leaned in, his hands moving from my waist to the truck, corralling me in, his mouth close to mine. “Stay,” he whispered, and there was a moment of eye contact before he pushed off, brushing off his hand on the back pockets of his jeans as he walked to the truck and turned it off. I heard the back door open and got my second surprise when he returned with the baby chick in his arms. “Hold him for me,” he said gruffly.

I took the chicken, which was really no longer a chick. It had grown in the last two weeks; it had long legs, big knees, and a comb that had become red and soft. The rooster peered up at me, then back at Cole, and shook out its feathers.

“Just set him on the tailgate and let him move around,” Cole instructed, turning back and examining my handiwork on the new sections.

I found my words and used them. “You brought the chicken? With you?”

“I thought you might want to see him,” he called out, pushing on the top of a new section, as if to test its strength.

“It’s a split-rail fence,” I called out. “You have the line posts and then—”

“I know how to build a fence,” he interrupted, turning to me.

“Really? What fence have you ever built?” I challenged.

“Ever seen Legends of Montana?” he asked. “I spent six months on the ranch there. Bought the damn thing when I was done with it. I can build a fence, Summer.” He stared me down, and I shrugged. It was a good answer.

“Then build the fence.” I gently set the rooster next to me and tucked my hands underneath my thighs, swinging my feet out a little to get some space. The bird promptly put one gentle foot on my bare thigh and hopped up. Cole smiled at the bird, glared at me, and reached down, grabbing the pole diggers and walking to the last crooked pole. He tossed down the diggers and grabbed the pole, working it back and forth a little in the dirt before pulling up on it.

“You should take off your shirt,” I called out. “It’s gonna get dirty.” He looked over his shoulder at me, his hands still on the post. I don’t know why I said that, don’t know where the flirtatious tone had come from, and why it had chosen then, right then, to come to life.

“You should take your shirt off,” he called back. “I’m not going to be the object of your ogling.”

I laughed. “Puh-lease. We’ve all seen what you’ve got.” And we had. He went full frontal in The Evidence Locker. America swooned, and my vibrator got a fresh round of batteries. He turned back to his work, and I settled in. It was nice eye candy, even with his shirt on. And, after a few minutes of watching him, I relaxed. He did know what he was doing. Probably more than me. He was certainly quicker than me. His shirt was just beginning to stick to his back when he finished the job, grabbing the leftover wood and tossing it into the bed beside me, the chicken hopping to the end of my knee and looking up at him.

“Hey buddy,” he said, scooping him up and setting him down on the ground.

“I can’t believe you brought him with you.”

He shrugged. “What else is he going to do? Sit at home and stare at nothing?” He sat next to me and the truck sagged a little under the additional weight. “You really don’t have a cell phone?” he asked, turning to me.

“Nope.” I watched the chicken run, quick and fast away from the truck. “Why were you trying to call?”

“Don wants to have a meeting. He’s coming in tomorrow, wants us to run through some lines together. Why haven’t you signed the talent agreement?”

“My lawyer has it. I’ll call his office, find out where he’s at on it.” Scott had called twice, the first time leaving a message, the second time having the poor luck of getting Mama. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for him. I had giggled into my bowl of cereal and mentally urged her on. I guess, seeing my job wasn’t secured yet, I should probably call him back.

“You have an attorney?” He looked so surprised that I was almost offended.

“Yes, we country folk hire legal help just like you do.”

“I didn’t mean…” He looked down. “We need it signed. If there’s any issues, we need to know that as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I’ll call him tonight.”

“Wow.” He looked over at me, and his arm brushed against mine. “Evening service? I need your attorney.”

I laughed, thinking of his attorney. “I’d rather have yours.”

“Oh, that’s right.” His voice darkened. “I forgot the fawning session on your front porch.”

“What?” I pushed off the tailgate and faced him. It felt better, having some space between us. I could actually breathe.

“You were drooling over him. You have Cole Fucking Masten on your front porch, and you were staring at him like your damn panties were about to combust.”

I tilted my head at him. “Oh. My. God. You’re jealous.” He was. I could see it in the pinch of his forehead. Jealousy I recognized, even if I hadn’t seen it for a long time. Scott had had jealousy down to a science. “And who refers to himself with the F word as a middle name?”

“The F word?” he questioned. “Your country-girl mouth doesn’t get dirty?”

With his words, the feel of the conversation changed, putting us in territory I felt uncomfortable with. Yes, my country girl mouth could get dirty.

Jackass.

Asshole.

Prick.

I had a whole list of words I could have screamed at him. Instead, I turned away and busied myself, chasing down his chicken, who ran from me and over to him. Cole carefully moved off the tailgate and picked the rooster up.

“When can you meet about the script?” The question came quick and businesslike from his mouth.

I shrugged and tried not to stare at the way his T-shirt sleeves had ridden up his arms, revealing more of his bicep. “Tomorrow? I’m open whenever.”