Home Is Where Your Boots Are by Kalan Chapman Lloyd Read Free Book Online Page B

hearing. Granted, it was a hearing about the ownership of cows, but they were show cows mind you.
    The sun was shining, the birds were singing, I was smacked by a sense of …
    “Holy crap!”
    My feet landed in the sticker bushes, my coffee landed on my head , and I landed on the bricked sidewalk, no doubt ruining both the front and backsides of my dress.
    I looked up from my askanced position at ground level only to be blinded by the glint of a pair of mirrored Ray-Bans. I held up a scraped palm to shield the glare and laid my eyes on the assailant, a tall broad-shouldered suit. He none too gently grabbed my injured hand and hauled me to standing, drawing me dangerously close to him. Oodles of uber-perfection oozed from every ounce of his being. 
    Completely nonplussed by knocking me over and not at all impressed with my outfit, he slowly drew off his sunglasses to regard me without much interest.
    He was about 6’5” with a swimmer’s body, overly broad shoulders , and a narrow waist. His GQ haircut and standout sunglasses immediately shouted to the world that he wasn’t from Brooks. Sunglasses off, he had a square jaw, amazing nose and deep brown eyes. His brown hair, tanned skin and white teeth screamed Hollywood dreamboat. He was very much perfect in every way. That and the overly calm, cool, and collected demeanor that rolled of f him in waves combined to make me feel very annoyed. In reality, it was only my current level of self-esteem that was making me irritated, so I tried not to take it out on him. He was just an innocent (supposed) bystander of my irritation.
    “You went flying,” he said, without so much as a how-do-you-do.
    I teetered for a second on my heels and started to lay into him, “What were you doing?!”
    “You weren’t paying any attention at all,” he went on, without responding to my question . I withdrew and went into full- on diva mode.
    “Me?! You ran into me.” His mouth quirked, without humor.
    “Nope, I tried my best to avoid you, but you just kept on and ran into me.”
    “I. Did. Not .” Ran into him, my ass.
    “Whatever you were doing, you weren’t paying attention.” I gave up on the fault and tried to deflect any blame headed my way.
    “Aren’t you even going to ask if I’m okay?” The man didn’t even pause.
    “You’re fine. Definitely need to change your clothes, but fine. Here.” He handed me my rescued files and notebook. I was trying to be calm before my court appearance. It was a struggle.
    “Who are you?” I bit out, not sweetly. He had the nerve to laugh.
    “Spencer Locke.” I stopped being angry for a moment and morphed into curious.
    “As in the Lockes, as in Charlie Locke?” I asked.
    “The one and only,” he allowed a smile to pass over his sharply cut features.
    “Charlie doesn’t have a son! Does he?” I blurted before I could stop myself. He laughed this time, shark-white teeth flashing, and rolled his eyes.
    “If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that in this town. I’m Charlie’s nephew. Currently serving as the senior associate attorney at Locke and Associates.”
    “You’re an attorney?”
    “Don’t I look like an attorney?” He asked, unruffled but abrupt.
    “I didn’t know Charlie had a nephew who was an attorney.”
    “He tells me I’m a damned Yankee. He probably kept me in the closet until I decided to submit myself humbly to his tutelage.” I laughed at his superfluous words, my earlier ruffling momentarily forgotten for what passed as flirting for me these days.
    He put his sunglasses back on, and I took the opportunity to more thoroughly and objectively inspect him. His eyes had been chocolate. His hair the dark kind. There was an attempt at the lazy brilliance so perfected by those born with southern charm, but it fell short. The sharp bite of his eyes was too assessing, his thick lips too set in thought, his cut-glass jaw too clenched. The façade was there; the extra-long height, the sharp suit,