with the hope of breaking into the hot country music scene.
There was only one problem: Her upbringing was Southern middle class, and her demeanor more genteel than redneck. Her manager wanted a kick-ass Gretchen Wilson or Miranda Lambert, but Dakota was more sugar and spice than gunpowder and lead. Although L.A. had broadened her horizons, she was still more at home at a potluck social than in a honky-tonk bar. “Plus, I have some serious songwriting to accomplish.”
“And you think this fishing camp will inspire you?”
“Yes,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to Trace. She suddenly felt a bit lost and alone as she gazed around the sparsely furnished cabin. Her career had skyrocketed her to the top, but she had quickly fizzled, and then landed with a resounding thud, not unlike many teen stars. But hard work and determination had always been her strong suit, so Dakota planned to dig deep for her inner redneck and give it her best shot. Perhaps big, bad, and broody over there could lend her a helping hand in that direction. She angled her head at the rough-and-tumble cowboy. “That’s my plan anyway.”
“Yeah?” he said in an irritated tone. “Well, good luck with that one.”
You’d better hope so was on the tip of her tongue, but he folded his arms across his chest, causing a ripple of muscle that chased her train of thought right out the window.
Trace swallowed hard. It had been a long time since a gorgeous woman had looked at him with such unbridled interest. And after just having seen her breasts all but spilling out of her lacy bra like a Victoria’s Secret model’s, he was suddenly breaking into a sweat despite the cool evening breeze blowing at his back.
I do not need this , he thought.
“So you’re sticking around for a while, then?” He knew his tone was chock-full of disapproval, but he couldn’t help it. She might own the place, but she was clearly out of her element.
“I’m just going to lie low, write songs, and reassess things.”
Trace jammed his hands into his pockets and gave her a look that said he wasn’t buying what she was selling. He could feel it in his bones that she was holding something back, and he sure hoped she wasn’t thinking about selling the property. Willow Creek Marina was his reason for getting up in the morning, and he couldn’t even let his brain consider that possibility.
“I do expect regular business updates, though.”
“Not a problem,” he said. She probably had no earthly idea how hard he and his crew worked or what this place meant to the locals who fished here. Plus, a fishing camp was no place for a woman, especially one who looked like her. Even with her T-shirt on backward and her sloppy blond ponytail sliding sideways, she was still sexy enough to make his mouth water. “But listen, we’re real busy right about now, and things can get pretty rowdy at night when the guys come back from fishin’.”
“I’ll be fine—trust me.”
“I’m serious, Dakota.” Trace told himself that it was because she was Charley Dunn’s daughter that he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness where she was concerned. If Charley hadn’t rescued him from what could have been a permanent perch on a barstool and thrown him into this job, he might still be sitting there, pissed off at the world.
“Really, you won’t even know I’m around. I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”
“Right,” Trace said with a deadpan look meant to remind her of her recent screams.
She put her hands on her hips and gave him a comical put-out expression that almost wrangled a rare smile from him. “Look, the spider thing was a fluke. I grew up around these parts. My daddy was a fishing guide, for pity’s sake. I’m hardly a shrinking violet, Trace.”
Oh, wow. The silky sound of his name on her lips awoke something in Trace that he thought he had buried in a deep, dark place never to be reached. But within a few short moments of meeting
There was only one problem: Her upbringing was Southern middle class, and her demeanor more genteel than redneck. Her manager wanted a kick-ass Gretchen Wilson or Miranda Lambert, but Dakota was more sugar and spice than gunpowder and lead. Although L.A. had broadened her horizons, she was still more at home at a potluck social than in a honky-tonk bar. “Plus, I have some serious songwriting to accomplish.”
“And you think this fishing camp will inspire you?”
“Yes,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to Trace. She suddenly felt a bit lost and alone as she gazed around the sparsely furnished cabin. Her career had skyrocketed her to the top, but she had quickly fizzled, and then landed with a resounding thud, not unlike many teen stars. But hard work and determination had always been her strong suit, so Dakota planned to dig deep for her inner redneck and give it her best shot. Perhaps big, bad, and broody over there could lend her a helping hand in that direction. She angled her head at the rough-and-tumble cowboy. “That’s my plan anyway.”
“Yeah?” he said in an irritated tone. “Well, good luck with that one.”
You’d better hope so was on the tip of her tongue, but he folded his arms across his chest, causing a ripple of muscle that chased her train of thought right out the window.
Trace swallowed hard. It had been a long time since a gorgeous woman had looked at him with such unbridled interest. And after just having seen her breasts all but spilling out of her lacy bra like a Victoria’s Secret model’s, he was suddenly breaking into a sweat despite the cool evening breeze blowing at his back.
I do not need this , he thought.
“So you’re sticking around for a while, then?” He knew his tone was chock-full of disapproval, but he couldn’t help it. She might own the place, but she was clearly out of her element.
“I’m just going to lie low, write songs, and reassess things.”
Trace jammed his hands into his pockets and gave her a look that said he wasn’t buying what she was selling. He could feel it in his bones that she was holding something back, and he sure hoped she wasn’t thinking about selling the property. Willow Creek Marina was his reason for getting up in the morning, and he couldn’t even let his brain consider that possibility.
“I do expect regular business updates, though.”
“Not a problem,” he said. She probably had no earthly idea how hard he and his crew worked or what this place meant to the locals who fished here. Plus, a fishing camp was no place for a woman, especially one who looked like her. Even with her T-shirt on backward and her sloppy blond ponytail sliding sideways, she was still sexy enough to make his mouth water. “But listen, we’re real busy right about now, and things can get pretty rowdy at night when the guys come back from fishin’.”
“I’ll be fine—trust me.”
“I’m serious, Dakota.” Trace told himself that it was because she was Charley Dunn’s daughter that he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness where she was concerned. If Charley hadn’t rescued him from what could have been a permanent perch on a barstool and thrown him into this job, he might still be sitting there, pissed off at the world.
“Really, you won’t even know I’m around. I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”
“Right,” Trace said with a deadpan look meant to remind her of her recent screams.
She put her hands on her hips and gave him a comical put-out expression that almost wrangled a rare smile from him. “Look, the spider thing was a fluke. I grew up around these parts. My daddy was a fishing guide, for pity’s sake. I’m hardly a shrinking violet, Trace.”
Oh, wow. The silky sound of his name on her lips awoke something in Trace that he thought he had buried in a deep, dark place never to be reached. But within a few short moments of meeting
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