***

Liz didn’t even knock on his door but plowed right inside without an invitation, then grabbed the hat she’d stomped on from the rack. She crammed it down on her head, and followed the string of clothes to the bathroom.

She could hear Raylen muttering about something over the noise of the shower before she slung the curtain back and glared at him.

“What the hell was that all about?” she demanded.

“What the hell are you doing in my house and why are you wearing my hat?”

“Having a fight with you, you mule-headed jackass! The door was open, and evidently this hat means more to you than I do, and since it started the fight, I figured it should be here for the next one. Now answer me!”

“Don’t you treat me like dirt and then yell at me. I didn’t cause this problem, lady. You did when you’d rather talk to your carnie boyfriend than me. Go on back and talk to him some more, and put my hat back on the rack. This steam will get it all out of shape.”

“You are a jealous horse’s ass. I wasn’t talking to a boyfriend. That was Blaze. I told you that he is my friend, and Tressa’s been sick. And this hat is so ugly it would take more than a stomping or steam to get it out of shape,” she said.

“You are making excuses. And don’t talk about my hat like that.”

Liz narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be hateful! This is your fault, Raylen O’Donnell. Your Irish temper put you in this pot of boiling water.”

“You put me in this pot, not my temper,” Raylen argued. “You’d rather talk to your carnie friend than me? Well, go on and talk to him. And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

She glared at him and tried to stay angry, but it didn’t work. How could she be mad when he was standing there all wet and naked.

He reached out with both hands, slipped them under her armpits, and picked her up as easily as he would a feather pillow. He quickly removed his hat and pitched it out onto the vanity, set her down, clothes, shoes and all, under the shower spray, and kissed her hard.

One kiss and she forgot all about fighting, his hat, Blaze, or even the fact she’d said she would take over the fortune telling business while the carnival was in Bowie.

She stripped out of her clothes and pulled the shower curtain shut.

Later, when she was dressed in a pair of his pajama pants and a T-shirt that came to her knees, he drew her to the bed, stretched out beside her, and wrapped her up in his arms. “Are you sure you aren’t Irish?”

“Maybe a little bit, but Aunt Tressa says that we’re predominantly Italian. I might consider converting to Irish, though. Are there classes I have to take?” she teased.