In Over His Head

'Then chin up, and I'll see you at six.'

Before Lexie could say another word, the dial tone sounded in her ear. Clicking off the phone, she closed her eyes, then dragged her hands down her face.

She wanted to cry, to scream out her frustration, maybe even get up and smash a coffee cup or two, but she remained dry-eyed, silent and seated, trying to come to grips with the numbing, knee-buckling fact that her dream of building her house on her cove was gone.

She wasn't certain how long she stared off into space before the insistent ringing of her doorbell roused her. She rose and made her way to the door on leaden legs. With the way her luck was running, this was probably someone coming to tell her that her car had fallen into a sinkhole.

But what the heck. Her heart was broken, her land was gone, and she forgot to apply sunscreen yesterday so her damn nose was peeling. How much worse could this day from hell get?

She pulled open the door and instantly discovered the answer.

A whole lot worse.

Chapter 12

Lexie stared at Josh, standing on her porch. Josh with his weight propped on a pair of crutches, his right leg wrapped from the knee down in a cast, and a hell of a shiner surrounding his right eye.

What on earth had happened? When she'd seen him on TV, he'd been fine. Had he competed in another rodeo?

She ruthlessly cut off the barrage of questions and gave herself a mental slap. Not your problem, Lex.

Yup, what a relief this guy was no longer on her radar screen-him and his cast and crutches and bruises. 'Cause if he were still on her radar screen, her stomach would be clenching and her heart thumping at the sight of his injuries. And she didn't feel the least bit clenched or thumped. Nope. Not a bit. And the fact that she couldn't find her voice around the lump in her throat? Just an aberration. And that moisture pushing behind her eyes? Just the fact that she hadn't dusted lately.

Raising her gaze from his cast, their eyes met. Dozens of memories she'd thought she'd sorta, kinda, almost filed away under 'the past' bounced through her mind. Damn it, why did he have to darken her doorstep and resurrect those images she'd worked so hard to bury?

A sheepish half grin pulled up one corner of his mouth, flashing that damn sexy dimple. 'Are you going to invite me in?'

She wanted to say no. Wanted to slam the door in his face, to shut him out of her life and mind. Whatever his reason was for blowing through town and stopping by and flashing his dimple, she didn't want any part of it. Because he would just leave again. How many times was she expected to bear the pain of saying goodbye to him?

Raising her brows, she lifted her chin and forced a coolness into her voice. 'I suppose I'd better invite you in. If I don't you might lose your balance on those crutches and topple into the flower bed.' She stepped back to give him room to enter the foyer.

'Thanks.' The rubber tips of his crutches sounded a soft splat against the ceramic tile.

'Would you like some coffee?' she asked, closing the door, trying her darnedest to ignore her traitorous heart, which seemed to thump out in Morse code, He's here! He's here!

'Coffee would be great.'

She followed him into the kitchen, absolutely not noticing how at-home he looked in her house, instead forcing herself to note the fact that he handled himself on those crutches like a pro. No doubt due to lots of past practice from a long line of rodeo-related injuries. Yup, good thing he was no longer her problem. She might love him, but that would fade in time.

Yeah, like in a hundred years, her inner voice snickered. While he settled himself in the kitchen chair he'd always occupied during their fling, she measured out scoops of fragrant grinds into the filter. Why was he here? And why didn't he say something? She at least had a reason for her silence-the big lump blocking her throat. What was his excuse?

She added water, then switched the coffeemaker on. Unable to put it off any longer, she turned around and faced him. Their eyes met. Just looking at him, her heart tumbled down to her toes, taking her stomach and a few other vital organs along for the ride.

When he still remained silent, annoyance trickled through her. Whatever he wanted, it was time he spoke up. Then left her alone. And clearly she was the one who was going to have to get things moving along here.

She cleared her throat. 'So you injured yourself in the rodeo. I have to admit, I'm having a very hard time not saying 'I told you so.'' Humph. Take that and stick it in your Stetson, hotshot.

'Didn't get hurt in the rodeo.'

She pointedly eyed his cast. 'Slipped on the deck while sailing the Mediterranean?'

'Nope. I fell at the airport. Here. Last night. Tripped over my damn duffel bag.' He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. 'Was all your fault, I'll have you know.'

Her eyes goggled. 'My fault? That you tripped?'

He nodded solemnly. 'I'd set down my bag to dig out my cell phone. I was dialing your number when, through the windows, I saw this gal getting into a cab. I didn't see her face, but she had your curly brown hair. I thought it was you-'

'It wasn't.'

'I realized that when she turned her head, but unfortunately I'd already started forward. I tripped on my duffel and went down like a hog-tied calf. What followed was more embarrassing than anything I've ever faced. People all gatherin' around and starin', then the ambulance arriving. Talk about feeling like the south end of a horse.' He shook his head. 'I spent the whole friggin' night in the emergency room getting X-rayed and outfitted in this cast. Definitely not the way I'd hoped to spend the evening. I would have called you, but I, uh, know how you feel about getting calls from the hospital. So I waited until I was discharged, and… here I am.'

'Yes, here you are.' Looking big and vital and wonderful, albeit bruised, making her heart perform acrobatic leaps. 'May I ask why you're here?'

Without taking his gaze from her, he slowly rose, then hobbled toward her. He stopped when only a foot separated them, then leaned forward, bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of her, caging her in. She pressed her backside harder against the counter, but there was no escaping, unless she wanted to give him a shove. Given the facts that he was injured, and her traitorous body was very happy to have him standing so close, she opted against the shove. Instead she gazed into his serious eyes and prayed he couldn't hear her heart pounding.

'I'm here,' he said in a low, husky voice, 'because this is where you are. And where you are, is where I want to be.'

Elation and something akin to panic collided in her. Clearly he wanted to continue their fling. And while her body and mind were all for it, her heart wanted no part of the inevitable battering it would receive when he left again. And damn it, she resented that he obviously believed he could just pop into town and drop by. As if they were still involved. As if their fling hadn't ended.

Forcing a calm detachment that surely deserved an Academy Award, she said, 'Is that so. And how long are you in town for this time, cowboy?'

His gaze never wavered. 'That depends.'

'On what?'

'You.'

The intensity of his gaze burned her. Heat emanated from his body and although he hadn't touched her, she still felt scorched. His clean, masculine scent filled her head, notching up her temperature another few degrees. She had to resist the urge to fan herself.

No doubt about it, he was potent, and his nearness was nearly impossible to resist. It would be so easy to fall back into his arms, to touch him and to be with him, to resume their fling. But nothing between them had