Any objection to accompanying him died when Hank put it like that. Even Kyle didn’t lodge a protest.
“Do I have to wear a dress or anything?”
“Why’re you asking me? You’ve been to sponsors’ events.”
“At night, the banquet, formal type of events, not during the day. Doc handles all that promotional stuff while I’m prepping the medical room and pimping the Lariat name.”
Hank frowned. “Don’t worry about it. You look great.”
Lainie rolled her eyes. “No makeup, my hair in a ponytail. Yeah, I look real great.”
“You look awesome. No matter what you do or don’t wear,” Kyle offered.
“I think so too,” Hank said.
Maybe fishing for compliments smacked of neediness, but Lainie was compelled to ask the question that’d been weighing on her mind for months. “Why did you guys hook up with me? You both could’ve had your pick of the litter of buckle bunnies. Or rodeo queens. I’m not in the same league as those women.”
Kyle angled across the seat, trapping her face in his calloused hands and her eyes with his. “Don’t ever let me hear you say shit like that. When I saw you for the first time? With those wild red curls, that devilish smile, and beautiful, kind eyes, my heart just sort of . . . stopped. Then you checked out my injury in that no-nonsense manner, but you had such a tenderness about you, Lainie, a tenderness that knocked me sideways.”
Oh, God. Kyle really had thought about the answer, apparently before she’d mustered the guts to ask him the question.
“I ain’t as eloquent as Shakespeare here, but that’s awful damn close to what I was gonna say,” Hank said.
Flustered, she smiled. “Such sweet-talkin’ cowboys, laying it on thick when I’m already a sure thing. But I’ll take it. Even though I’d like a minute or ten to freshen up before Hank drags me to the sponsors’ tent.”
“Whatever you want. I’ll wait.” Hank leaned back in his seat.
“Me too,” Kyle said, with a hint of challenge.
As Lainie jumped out of the cab she heard them snap at each other, but she didn’t stick around to see what it was about.
Lainie wore her Lariat ID, so at least she didn’t look like a free-loading girlfriend. She half expected Hank to abandon her once they were ensconced in the tent, but he was determined to introduce her to everyone. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time. Now she wondered if she was being unfair to Kyle by acting like Hank’s girlfriend in public.
Not that it would’ve mattered if she and Hank were a couple. A number of scantily clad women were roaming around checking out male buckle and bulge size. Including Hank’s. If Hank had worn his official bullfighter clothing, the predatory ladies would’ve glommed onto him even more than they were already trying to.
How would you react if you were his girlfriend?
Rage. She wouldn’t put up with another woman’s hands on her man. Ever. Not in private and certainly not in public.
Was that what Hank and Kyle had fought about? How Hank would explain who Lainie was at an official event? How could Hank expect that Kyle wouldn’t be upset?
“Lainie.” Hank placed his hand on the small of her back and brought her forward. “I’d like you to meet Arvin Zimmerman. Arvin is an old bullfighter, but mostly an old BS-er these days.”
She shook his hand. “Mr. Zimmerman. Nice to meet you.”
“Miz Lainie. The pleasure is all mine. Especially since Hank here usually flies solo.” Arvin’s gaze fell to her name tag. “How long have you worked for Doc Dusty?”
“A little over two years.”
“He seems to have his share of employee turnover in that company.”
Snarky thing to say right off the bat. Lainie smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t know. It’s been the same people in my office since I started.”
“At any rate, welcome. Hank, I’ll need to bend your ear at some point before you take off.” Alone was implied.
“Not a problem,” Hank said smoothly, and steered Lainie to the food table.
The food was standard: a meat and cheese tray, sliced fresh fruit, crackers, a veggie tray, and assorted chips and dips. She’d barely loaded her plate and found a place to sit when Hank was called away.
A bevy of buckle bunnies sat at the opposite end of the long table. They glanced at her dismissively and gossiped about some poor girl’s sluttish behavior.
A camera-toting man took candid shots of the partygoers. Lainie ducked her head, swirling a carrot stick through the puddle of ranch dressing, wishing she were anywhere else. She heard, “Excuse me?” and looked up.
The photographer had aimed the lens close enough to see every pore on her face and snapped off a shot.
She lifted an eyebrow. “The painted ladies at the end of the table are far more photogenic than me.”
“But the fact that you don’t want your picture taken makes you a more fascinating subject.”
“Why would you think I’m camera-shy?”
That surprised him. “Because you ducked when you saw me.”
“No.” Lainie leaned closer, as if to confide in him. “I ducked because of the guy coming in behind you. You blocked me from his view, so thanks.”
He turned, allowing her time to tuck her name badge inside her shirt. “Which guy?”
“Oh. He’s gone now,” she lied.
The photographer was distracted by a pair of double Ds and wandered off.