Free MisplacedCowboy by Mari Carr and Lexxie Couper Page B

That suit had been bought at the local Target
store, nine hundred kilometers from Farpoint Creek. It had looked nothing like the
designer get-up he wore now.
    He looked…different.
    “Dylan?” Monet’s voice floated to him through the door. “Is
everything okay?”
    He plucked his hat from the changing room chair, started to
put it on his head, stopped and looked at his reflection again.
    He was wearing a suit that cost more than his work truck.
Did his hat really go with it?
    “Dylan?” Monet called again.
    He bit back a curse. After the amazing day they’d shared, he
didn’t want to fuck up her exhibition opening by going as the Down Under Wonder.
    Dropping his hat back onto the chair, he opened the door and
stepped out.
    Monet’s swift intake of breath made his stomach clench, as
did the slow inspection she ran over him.
    He held out his arms, giving her a grin. “What do you think?
Do I pass muster? Scrub up okay?”
    She didn’t answer for a second, just looked at him, her
eyebrows pulling into a frown.
    He fought the urge to fidget. Maybe she hadn’t understood
him. Or perhaps his scruffy hair and unshaven stubble ruined the way the suit
looked. God knows a razor hadn’t touched his jaw since he’d flown out of
Farpoint over three days ago and the only comb he owned was his fingers.
    He looked down at himself, his bare feet somehow incongruous
at the end of the black tapered dress pants. “No good?”
    “There’s something missing,” Monet answered, a second before
sliding past him into the changing room, her delicate scent teasing his senses.
    Bloody hell, he wanted to follow her in there and do wicked
things to her body.
    She stepped back out, reached up and placed his hat on his
head, her lips stretching into a wide smile. “Now that ,” she murmured,
“is good. Better than good.”
    She dropped a kiss on his mouth, a quick brush of lips to
lips, before stepping back.
    The urge to grab her hips and haul her close rushed through
Dylan, and it was only the sudden appearance of a sales assistant that stopped
him.
    So much for being safer out of the apartment, Sullivan.
    The man gave the shoulder seams of the jacket a little tug.
“This is a very nice cut, no? But the hat—”
    “Is perfect,” Monet cut him off, her eyes doing that
twinkling-gleam-of-mischief thing Dylan couldn’t get enough of.
    Twenty minutes later, Dylan paid for his new suit, a pale
blue shirt, socks, boxers and a pair of black boots that wouldn’t last a day of
work on Farpoint with his credit card.
    His Farpoint Creek Cattle Station credit card.
    He snickered, imaging Hunter’s face when his brother was
doing the books later that month.
    Serves him bloody right for not calling me back.
    “You know,” Monet’s hand slipped around his biceps as they
left the store, “you didn’t need to wear a suit tonight.”
    He cast her a sideways glance, the chilly air tugging at the
brim of his hat. “Would I be the only bloke there not in a suit?”
    She rolled her eyes. “You’ll be the only Australian cowboy
there.”
    Dylan’s stomach tightened. “Stockman.” They walked a few
steps, the wave of pedestrians washing past them giving Dylan the sense he was
the only Australian cowboy in New York . Period.
    “Is there something wrong?”
    He turned, needing to see Monet’s face. “Am I a novelty to
you?”
    She blinked, her feet stumbling beneath her. Dylan coiled
his biceps and tugged his arm closer to his side, stopping her fall. He hadn’t
meant his question to sound so blunt, but he needed to know.
    Monet frowned. “Why would you say that?”
    He shrugged. Everything about the situation was throwing him
for a loop. “I just…” He stopped, drew a breath and let it out with a shake of
his head. “It shouldn’t matter to me. I shouldn’t really care, but you’re a
bloody gorgeous woman, Monet. You’re intelligent, witty, talented and God knows
every bloke we’ve walked past since we left your apartment has