“I am so damn sick and tired of cleaning up other people’s shit and making their beds I could scream. Why can’t they make their own damn beds? I bet they make them at home. Why not here?”

Mira Featherstone jerked back the bed cover and let the flimsy fabric float to the carpeted floor. Next, she swiped at the bottom, fitted sheet and smoothed it out with her hands, evening out the indentations where someone must have laid all night long, not moving. How could people sleep like that? She was all over the bed.

That done, she straightened the top sheet, tucking it tightly back between the mattress and box springs, making sure to square off the corners. She hauled the bed cover back up over the bed neatly, then fluffed and placed the pillows.

There. She did good work.

Good enough for a nice tip, she hoped.

Glancing about, Mira wondered who was staying there. She generally knew which guest was in what room at the resort but she had been off for three days, tying up loose ends at her other job, so she was a bit out of touch. She glanced at the pair of boots in the corner. A man, she deduced, and alone. The bed was not messed up enough for two.

And no sex, obviously. At least if he’d had sex, he hadn’t used the bed.

She could sure wreck a bed during sex. Sending sheets and pillows flying….

Not so this guy, obviously.

She sighed, trying not to think about sex—and the fact that she’d been without that particular pleasure of late—gathered up the small trash can by the desk, then headed toward the cocked-open door. About the time she reached for the handle, it swung forward, sending her sailing backward on her ass. When she regained her faculties enough to see a very large man reaching down to help her up, she realized she was utterly and completely in lust.

Holy mother of all things sinful. The guy staring back with his hand outstretched represented nothing short of cowboy crack. She knew if she partook of him once she wouldn’t be able to stop, and that was the last thing she needed right now. Her gaze traveled upward, perusing every God-given feature the man possessed—deep-set black eyes, chiseled chin and cheek bones, and a scruffy five o’clock shadow. All of which were perfectly set below a black, straw Resistol, cocked sexily to one side. Her gaze traveled down the center placket of the man’s starched, white button-down collared shirt, outlined by the lapels of a black suit jacket. His entire look was polished off cowboy style with a wide leather belt sporting the prettiest silver and turquoise buckle she’d ever seen, dark blue Wranglers that appeared to stretched tight over his ample crotch, and a pair of black caiman boots she knew for a fact cost a whole lot more than her month’s salary.

Holy shit. Her clit tingled already. She grasped his hand and he hauled her up fast, her chest bumping his, her nipples suddenly on fire. Up on her tiptoes, their gazes connected and held while he said in a fathomless voice that rivaled the depth of his eyes, “Sorry about that, miss. My bad.”

She nodded. “Yes you are.”

He cocked a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Bad. That. You.” Shit.

She broke away and looked toward her feet where the trash can had dumped and strewn the badass cowboy’s crap all over the floor. She bent to pick up the stuff, uneasy with the guy towering over her. Empty cigarette pack. Soft drink can. Crumpled napkin. Condom wrapper.

Gulp.

She looked up. He reached down, scooped the items up, and placed them in the can. He sat it on the floor. “There are some things a lady just shouldn’t have to pick up,” he said.

Mira wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor. Lady? He obviously didn’t know her reputation. Could she disappear right now? No. Because of his eyes. Still. Looking into hers.

Holding her to him.

“Um, thank you.” She finally managed to pull her gaze away. “I’ll come back and finish the room later.”

He grasped her elbow and she glanced back. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute. You live around here?”

Mira gulped again and nodded. “Yes. I mean no. I mean, I’ll come back later.” She stepped through the open door, paused, and glanced back. “It’s…protocol.” Then she turned and pushed her cleaning cart down the hall toward the next room. Fast.

“No need to rush off on my account, little lady,” the voice behind her said.

Oh yes there is, the voice in Mira’s head echoed. Plenty of reason. Like, she didn’t want to be fired for cavorting with the guests. Again. Heath McCoy had made himself quite clear after the last time. One more slipup and her employment at Canyon of the Eagles Resort was over. She needed this job so—

As much as she would like to jump Mr. Cowboy Crack’s bones—right here and right now—he was off limits. And as soon as she finished in room 203, she’d find out how long he was here for and would avoid him like the plague. Even though what she really wanted to do was ride him like the mechanical bull she rode once at Hardbodies Bar in Kerrville.

****

Jacob Remington watched the girl slip into the next room down the hall. Girl nothing. She was a full-blown woman and one who was not only easy on the eyes, but also possessed enough curves and dips for his oversized cowboy hands to grip and fondle with ample flesh left over. His kind of woman. Thick and luscious—plenty of spots for his tongue and cock to explore. And before this week was through, he planned on doing just that—bury himself so deep within her soft curves and crevices he’d never wanted to come out.

Hell. What was he thinking?

It was that kind of reckless attitude that got him into trouble the last time he visited Lake Buchannan. The three decadent nights he’d spent with one of the local girls had turned into a nightmare and a lawsuit. Turned out the girl was pregnant but not by him. Thank God for DNA. Thing was, though, it could have been him—he’d been careless enough that it scared the shit out of him ever since.

He glanced down to the condom in the trashcan. Thank God, he’d finally matured enough sexually and realized the consequences. You’d think one would have learned those kinds of lessons by age thirty-two, right?

Well, he guessed he was a little slower than others.

Not him. When it came to women—especially beautiful, voluptuous women like this one—his brain sailed out the window and all he thought with was his dick. Of course, he and his dick had had a lot of fun over the years but it was time to be more responsible.

After all, he was a professional man. A businessman. He couldn’t afford to be a horny bastard forever, could he? One day, for certain, it would come back to bite him. And not in a good way.

His thoughts rolled back to the woman he’d met up with in the bar last night. He hadn’t been cautious in the least, but he had used a condom. Hell, she was hornier than he was and they never even made it to the bed. Just divorced, she was eager to bury the memory of her ex-husband in tequila and cock. He’d fucked her up against the wall in his room and it was all over in ten minutes—with seconds to spare, likely.

Embarrassed afterward, she’d straightened her skirt and cleaned up quickly in the bathroom. He’d walked her down to the lobby and had the desk clerk call her a cab. It was an uncomfortable twenty minutes until her ride arrived but she’d thanked him and turned away hurriedly, leaving him standing alone.

It was for the best. Her emotions were too raw and his were permanently disconnected from sex. Sex was sex, nothing else. Sex didn’t equal love, relationship, or anything close. It was simply for the sake of getting off. Even though she echoed the same sentiments last night, he didn’t think she was quite on the same page as him. He’d almost felt sorry that he’d nailed her—last thing he needed was an emotional nut case on his hands—but she’d come on so damn strong in the bar and had assured him she was ready to get on with her life.

Well, maybe. Maybe not. That’s for her to figure out.

He stared down the hall at the housekeeper’s cart. He’d take a helluva lot longer with a woman like the chick next door, if given half the chance. His cock started to rise to the occasion.

Dammit.

Shaking his head, he tucked back into the hotel room and searched for his cell phone, spotting it on the dresser. He’d left it there, he guessed, when he’d gone downstairs for breakfast. Time to switch gears and get his head off sex and the woman in the next room. He had work to do. He snatched up the device and swiped the face. Two missed calls and three texts. He’d read them while heading to Highland Ranch.

Heath McCoy was going to be pissed with him for being late. What Heath didn’t know, though, was that he was going to be pissed at Jake for a lot more than that.

****

Mira listened to the heavy footsteps fade as they moved down the hallway toward the stairs. Good. He was leaving. She’d finish this room, and then quickly move back to his, before heading down to the desk and talking with Amaline at the front desk. She wanted to know who the hell this man was and exactly why he was here!

It mattered. People didn’t come to Lake Buchannan by happenstance. Oh, of course, it was a vacation spot but the hotel staff was made up of locals and everyone knew each other. There were regulars, of course who came from out of town, too. But usually there were hometown connections and all she had to do was figure out this man’s link to the area.

Snapping her fingers, she jogged to the window and scanned the parking lot. Vehicle. What type would he drive? That would tell her a lot.

There he was, strolling out from under the entrance canopy toward the parking lot. He passed the silver Mercedes and a couple of Harley’s, then strolled by various and sundry dusty ranch vehicles, and finally headed for a late model, slick and shiny, candy-apple-red Dodge Ram dually pickup truck. A man’s truck, that was for sure. Ranch truck? Maybe. But, too clean. This ride was slicker than pig’s shit and darned fancy.

Maybe it was a rental.

No. She didn’t think so. Why rent a dually unless you were going to haul something and pull a trailer? This guy wasn’t hauling or pulling—and he was a guest at the resort. She’d have to think about that.

He must have money. Shiny new truck without a speck of dust. Fancy belt buckle. Expensive jacket and Resistol. Damn expensive boots. Tony Lamas, maybe? She usually knew her boots.

She pondered that, too, while she watched him back up and pull straight-ahead then toward the road. Watching him from afar made her clit throb even more. Involuntarily, she reached between her legs and squeezed her pussy. She should get a grip but she would love to get off right now thinking about him.

No. Not here. She watched as he turned left and rolled down the highway. She wondered where he was heading and clicked off the possibilities in her mind. Once he was out of sight, she turned back toward the room and aimlessly worked to finish cleaning room 203.

But her mind drifted.

She glanced at the wall this room shared with 201, her brain tripping over recent, and very interesting, turn of events. Mr. Cowboy Crack was likely the finest looking stranger to invade these parts in some time. And even though he was hands-off, she could still fantasize about the man, couldn’t she?

Of course, she could. Fantasies were personal and untouchable.

Her eyes closed and she replayed the few minutes she’d spent with him in her head. Thinking about it nearly sucked the breath right out of her lungs. She mentally perused his body one more time. Black hat, white shirt, tight jeans, black expensive boots…

Total package. She imagined his package was totally fine, too.