“Fuck," she says, her hands scrambling and missing. Some people around us are in stitches, some are murmuring about public indecency. The phone skids across the floor and I reach out one foot to catch it, pinning it beneath my boot.
Leaning forward, I press the pause button on her screen. “Sorry, folks,” I say to the half-horrified, half-amused faces all around me as I sit up straight again. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Must have drifted off and started talking in my sleep.”
I hand the phone back to the young lady.
While trying to get back to my book, I can feel many pairs of eyes on me, including the lovely ones belonging to the tattooed woman next to me. I can tell her jaw is hanging open.
Without looking up at her I ask, “You trying to catch flies with that mouth?”
“I’m Wren,” she says.
I tear my eyes away from the page and look at her. Her pretty eyes are full of gratitude. “Like the bird, not like Ren & Stimpy.”
I shoot her a questioning look. “Ren & Stimpy?”
“My mom’s a hippie. She named all her kids after birds. My younger brother is Raven. My older sister is Dee. Or sometimes Chick. Short for Chickadee.”
I don’t want to know any of these things about anybody’s family. The way people come up with names nowadays, I just don’t want to know.
“Sam,” I say, automatically reaching out my hand. She slips her small hand in mine. As I gently squeeze her fingers, I can’t help but wonder what those hands of hers are normally doing when she’s listening to that sexy story in the privacy of her own home.
One side of her mouth curves up when she smiles at me. “Hi, Sam. That’s the perfect name. You sort of remind me of—"
“Number 47!” calls the bailiff.
I watch Wren startle, pop up, and scamper away toward the front of the room where a court clerk sits behind a desk, confirming the validity of the questionnaire answers previously filled out by each juror. With a walk like that, I wonder if it would be all that terrible if she and I got chosen to serve on the same jury. Might make it bearable. Or terrible. She’s definitely a handful; I can just tell.
Her butt in those short shorts is round and squeezable, her hair is wild. The top half of her body is covered by a long cable knit sweater, the really soft kind that makes women’s curvy bodies look extra huggable. Dropping my gaze lower, she’s got even more tattoos decorating the backs of her thighs. When I sort out the words on one of them, I realize I’m in big trouble with this girl.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” it reads.
No need to worry. I probably won’t get picked.
Chapter Two
Wren
Nice ass for an old cowboy.
My new friend Sam’s number gets called shortly after I return to my seat in the jury room, and I have to smile at the way he mutters under his breath as he slowly rises to his feet, something about how his reading’s been interrupted right as the plot was starting to get good.
He can’t fool me. I can tell by the wear and tear, he’s read that book about eighteen thousand times.
Nah, he’s just mad I didn’t get dismissed. He’s getting increasingly worried he’s going to end up in the jury box with little ol’ me.
He doesn’t like the looks of me at all. He’d probably be shocked out of his mind if he knew I thought he was better looking than that mustached guy from Roadhouse—one of the greatest movies of all time.
I know the type. I see guys like him at the farm supply store where I work as a cashier every day. Not all of ‘em would dress up for court the way Sam has: pressed dark jeans, belt with a silver buckle—a small buckle, not too flashy—plaid button down shirt that’s slightly outdated but he carries it off well. And fills it out well, I might add.
Men like Sam are not an uncommon sight around here; this is cattle country, after all. What I do find unusual is the fact that he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Not even a dent in his weathered ring finger to indicate there might have been one there, once upon a time. Too bad. How can a virile, gorgeous, salt-and-pepper daddy like that not have a partner? Who knows. Maybe he enjoys being single. Maybe he’s a bad boy with a reputation with the ladies, or maybe he’s a serial monogamist who’s emotionally unavailable. All the possible scenarios swirl around in my head, and my intuition rejects every single one.
I watch him quietly answer the clerk’s questions, nodding respectfully and saying, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.”
I survey the crowd and notice a couple of other people staring at Sam too. Heat rises under my skin. I don’t like it that other people are admiring him. Why in the world would that bother me? I just met him less than thirty minutes ago. And using the word “met” might even be a stretch. More like I sat here bugging him to pass the time while we wait.
He seems like an interesting guy to talk to.
Not to mention he saved my face when I forgot to pair my Bluetooth earbuds with my phone and the entire first seven rows in the jury pool room got to hear the first seventeen second of my favorite audio smut.
It doesn’t embarrass me at all if people know what I listen to. Some people read cowboy books. The lady in the row in front of us crochets baby blankets. Me? I listen to guys jerk it while I cross stitch cuss words and pictures of vaginas. I didn’t bring the current cross stitch project with me today, though. I can’t very well be stitching “Fuck Off” at the county courthouse, I don’t think. That would be too tacky, even for me.
I wait patiently and watch Sam stride back to his chair next to me. I give him another smile, which he acknowledges with a polite nod.
Even though his rugged face doesn’t give a hint of a smile back at me, it doesn’t feel cold. In fact, everything about him feels warm. He’s handsome, kind and polite. I really hope he has kids; it would be a shame not to pass down those good genes of his. Calm down, Wren, I say to myself. It’s bad enough I wear my heart on my sleeve; I don’t need to advertise my baby fever, too.
“It’s OK,” I say.
“Ma’am?”
I like the way he says “ma’am” instead of “what?” He oozes old school manners.
“It’s OK if you don’t smile. I can read people pretty well, and I think you’re the kind of person who reserves your smile for when you’re really feeling it. And that’s perfectly cool. In fact, I think that’s kind of badass.”
Sam assesses me from the side, leaning away and casting his eyes at me, his brow furrowed. “Glad I got your permission.”
I like his brand of sarcasm. We all know this dude does not give a shit about permission for much of anything.
“Also,” I add, “thank you. For earlier.”
He has to think for a minute as I study his focused ice blue eyes.
“For taking the blame for she-bop soundtrack coming from my phone,” I whisper.
Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Ma’am, I don’t have to know what that was, I just didn’t want you getting in any kind of trouble. If anyone gets sent home, I’d rather it be me, ‘cause for some reason you seem to be in your happy place. Just make sure I don’t ever have to hear that foolishness again.”