He tapped one finger against the fridge door. “I would have done that much even for somebody I didn’t like. As for the rest?” His knuckles skimmed down the back of her arm so lightly that the rough yarn of her sweater woke up her entire body, her skin rippling with goose bumps. “Now, that might be flirting.”

“Might be?” she asked breathlessly.

His breath stirred her hair, as if he’d bent a little closer. “Depends on if you want it to be.”

She knew the exact instant he backed away. It could have been the faint change in temperature, or the creak of the floor, or something else an instant before those things registered. She inhaled.

“Until then, no.” LJ put a new pot on the stove. “It’s not flirting.”

He must have cranked up the thermostat too much, because beneath her clothes, she was sweating. She turned to stare at him, fighting the urge to gulp air. He knew, damn him. He’d known exactly what his nearness was doing to her. “If that wasn’t flirting, what the hell was it?”

He flipped a dish towel to hang over his shoulder, but the laugh she expected never came. “Hope,” he said.

Eleven

LJ climbed the stairs in the Lawler house slowly, the stir-fry he’d made with Andra sitting heavy in his stomach. He should have made this visit the day after the rodeo. Hell, a real man would have done it after their first cooking lesson, when he made spaghetti and Andra made him forget that anything in the world mattered beyond getting her to smile. The steps seemed to waver under his feet, and deep down, he knew exactly why he hadn’t done this sooner.

The top of the stairs led to a long hallway, the golden pinewood floors softened by a scattering of Navajo rugs. When Stacia had answered the door to the main house, she’d told him Bill Lawler’s study was the fourth door on the left. She’d also said she’d have a whiskey waiting in the kitchen for him when he was done. And some towels to mop up the blood.

LJ stopped, his shoulders twitching under the too-crisp fabric of his fresh shirt. Stacia’s teasing hadn’t exactly eased his nerves. He’d come here to make a good impression, and he knew what a long shot that was. What a long shot he was.

Every place he’d ever been, people’s eyes had made assumptions about him. Teachers thought he’d be disruptive and probably slow. Coaches thought because he was tall, he’d like basketball. Cops thought he was either coming from making trouble or headed to make some more. He’d left New Orleans for a better job, sure, but Montana was also supposed to be his chance at fresh eyes.