had to admit that Reese seemed competent as he saddled Whiskey, the big gelding she’d picked out for him. He’d known what to do with the hoof pick she’d tossed him, and only had to spend a minute persuading Whiskey to open his mouth for the bit. She figured that was pretty good, since Reese probably hadn’t ridden in years and Whiskey practiced being stubborn on a daily basis.And he’d worn the tight jeans. Or a pair just like them, jeans that showed off his strong, muscled thighs and hugged a butt too nice to hide under tailored business suits. She sneaked a glance when he had his back to her. He looked good in anything, but jeans had the advantage of hitting her in her weak spot, the one shaped since her childhood by cowboy movies and the rodeo circuit. He could belong here, if he wanted to.She had to remember that he didn’t. Because outside of his fondness for high-class women and big-city life, there didn’t seem to be a thing wrong with Reese Barringer.“Hot damn, I’m not too late after all.”T.J.
