“You’re not Quinn Prescott.”
My arm drops. I’m not even sure how to react to that, let alone what to say. My inner brilliance comes up with, “I’m not? Then maybe I should call the DMV and tell them they made a mistake on my ID.”
His frown only deepens. “I don’t hire minors. Even if you’re legal to work, wages get muddy with minors and it’s not worth navigating.”
Uh…minor?
Cut him.
Is he actually serious? Sure, I’m short. Barely 5’1”. And yeah, I’m pretty small and petite. Always have been. I was teased relentlessly about it in grade school because I always looked years younger than everyone else in my class. Among their many nicknames for me, I think their favorite was “Pipsqueak Prescott.”
But a minor?
This dude must be trippin’ off gin and juice.
“I’m twenty-four,” I state very clearly and a little impatiently.
His expression clears…and there it is. However he was struggling to see me before, he’s somehow figured it out and is now looking at me like he suddenly has free rein to do so. As if he’s actually letting himself really look now.
“I’ve heard that Morty and Quinn Prescott are some of the best horse trainers around,” he says dubiously. “And that you, in particular, have tempered some of the most unmanageable mounts. They say you have a gift.”
My chest swells with enormous pride at the compliment and at the knowledge that influential individuals in our field are actually touting our expertise. But it’s the tone with which he says all of it that rankles on my already prickly nerves.
Disbelief.
I huff, planting my hands on my hips. “What exactly were you expecting? A two-hundred-pound cowhand with a sailor’s mouth and a wad of dip in her lip?”
I immediately realize I shouldn’t have said that. Because he seems to take it as an invitation to conduct a more thorough inspection of my body. From the top of my shoulder-length brown hair and diamond stud nose ring, to the tank top and untucked flannel shirt, to the denim shorts, and finally, to my lace-up, calf-high combat boots.
Despite the fact that I first sat a horse at three years old and have grown up in the rodeo business, cowboy boots have never been my thing. They aren’t a prerequisite to being an expert horsewoman, thank you very much. I just feel more comfortable this way.
“The combat boots were a shock,” he eventually says after his gaze once again finds mine.
The urge to grin hits me, but I instantly quash it. Something still has me on the defensive with this cowboy. Then again, I’m always on the defensive. With almost everyone. I can never seem to turn it off.
And something tells me that with this guy, I’m going to have to keep my back up.
Because if I so much as blink, he might try to get me on my back.
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