The Fantasy Factor by Kimberly Raye Page A

night, Houston Jericho walked back into her thoughts, and the fantasy started all over again.

4
    “T HIS IS A ONE-TIME THING only,” Sarah told Houston as she climbed into the passenger side of his pickup, the bed filled with Mr. Jenkins’s large order of azalea bushes.
    “This is good business.”
    “What do you know about the nursery business?”
    “I know that for any business, it’s all about making the customer happy. Mr. Jenkins looked mighty happy when I told him we could deliver his purchase. He even looked happy when I added the delivery charge to his bill.”
    “But I don’t have a truck.”
    “You do today.”
    “Exactly, which is why today is a one-time thing. I can’t be away from the nursery for deliveries.”
    “You could if you made them before you opened, or in the late afternoon.”
    “Would you stop with the suggestions?”
    He shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
    “You’re not. You’re making me crazy.” In more ways than one.
    She was acutely aware of his close proximity. Of the firm masculine thigh only an arm’s length away. If she wanted to, she could reach out and finger the hairy skin barely visible through the rip in the thigh.
    If she wanted to? Okay, so she wanted to. But she wouldn’t. Because Sarah Buchanan didn’t do those things anymore. And she wouldn’t do them until Grandma Willie was no longer living and breathing and Sarah had fulfilled her promise to the old woman.
    Until then, she intended to be a well-behaved, modest young woman. The picture of wholesome goodness. Saint Sarah, herself.
    Her gaze drifted to his thigh again and she licked her lips. And then promptly regretted it when she found him looking at her, his liquid-gold gaze dark and hungry and tempting.
    “We’d better hurry. I have to get back.”
    “Isn’t your cousin Arnie watching things?”
    “That’s why I have to get back. Last time I was out for a chamber of commerce luncheon, he gave away two gallon containers of Mexican heather and ten bags of potting soil in exchange for a new fan belt for his car. He’s really into cars and he’s not too good with money. But he’s reliable,” she added, suddenly feeling guilty for not pointing out his finer qualities.
    If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all. Her Grandma Willie’s voice echoed through her head and she stiffened. She became acutely aware that she was riding through the heart of Cadillac in Houston Jericho’s truck, in front of God and everybody.
    There goes the reputation.
    She shook away the thought. He was giving her a ride. End of story. It wasn’t as if she was jumping his bones for all the world to see.
    Not yet.
    She ignored the sudden image of Houston beneath her, his body glowing with a fine sheen of sweat, his eyes piercing as she slid down his hard length in a ride that was far from innocent and blatantly carnal.
    “Are you okay?”
    “W-what?” Her head snapped around and her cheeks burned.
    “You look flushed. Are you running a fever?” Concern furrowed his brow and a burst of warmth went through her. Followed by a rush of embarrassment because he knew what she was thinking. He looked into her gaze and she knew he knew and it made her face burn all the hotter.
    “I’m fine.” She adjusted the air-conditioning vent and aimed the blast of cool air at her face. Then she busied herself rifling through the stack of invoices she’d brought with her to keep her occupied while they made the twenty minute drive out to Mr. Jenkins’s house.
    Five minutes of staring at the same invoice and seeing nothing except that thigh out of the corner of her eye had her folding the blasted things and stuffing them into her purse.
    “Whoever planted those hibiscus are just asking for trouble,” she said as they passed the local cemetery. The familiar flower blossomed in the bright Texas sunlight. “Those are tropical. While it’s hot here in the summer, the first cold front will whither them right up. Wildflowers