Masterpiece by Juliette Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

rugged, well, Max Cash takes rugged to a whole new goddamn level. He’s tall and wide-shouldered and built like a wall of muscle. A dark-haired, gorgeous wall of muscle. We’re talking movie star good looks. The kind that could easi ly be cast in a Brad Pitt movie. Or an erotica novel.
           And the way he rode that bull . Jesus. Then the way he got thrown off that bull and rolled away just in time and almost got crushed. But then he strolled over to the side of the ring and walked off into the crowd, like it was just any other day at the office.
    I mean, we’re talking alpha on steroids .
    And Fleur’s trying to tell me this is the artist who painted those incredible paintings?
    I don’t know what to say about any of this. Except that if it’s possible to be in love with someone you’ve never actually met or spoken to, then I am.
    Somehow I made it down that death-defying dirt road without driving my crappy car into one of the Grand-Canyon-style potholes, to this to-die-for modern log cabin surrounded by green pastures and rocky mountains, which is just about the most picturesque place I’ve ever seen. And now my dream man is sitting there, all cool and borderline asshole-ish – which I can almost understand considering I just bowled on up to his front door without any warning.
    The whole thing is too much. I’m almost speechless.
    Almost.
    But there’s no time for weakness. Or weak-kneed, star struck adoration. This guy looks like he gets plenty of that from women. The last thing I want to be is another one of his groupies. I’m here to pitch a business proposal that could make us both rich. I need to keep my eye on the ball.
    Not on that crazy-thick dark hair. Or those midnight-blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. Or that sinfully-perfect mouth.
    Or that jaw and neck and shoulders that could be photographed and put into some textbook about outstandingly perfect male specimen examples.
    Or those – yes – leather riding chaps.
    Or those ridiculously muscular thighs and that huge … oh Jesus .
    I need to concentrate on what I came here for.
    So I sit in the chair he offered me. It looks like it might have been carved by someone who carves stuff. With an actual knife. It looks like the kind of thing you could get splinters from, but I try to ignore this. I mean, if Max Cash can get thrown off an enormous , angry bull and not worry about it I’m sure I can handle a splinter or two.
    I take a sip of the (very large) cup of whiskey he poured for me. Not a glass, a cup. One of those tin mugs that you actually see cowboys in movies drink out of when they’re sitting around the fire playing their harmonicas. In actual fact I’ve never drunk whiskey before in my life and it’s basically like drinking liquid fire. It burns all the way down my throat and I try not to but I can’t help it: I cough. A lot.
    He’s just watching me and he’s got this almost-amused look on his face, like something about me is mildly entertaining to him.
    When I finally stop coughing he says, “All right?”
    “Oh, yeah.” I try to sound nonchalant. “Fine.” I take another sip of whiskey just to prove to him that I can drink it without having a coughing fit. Which I do. Barely.
    I notice as I look out at the landscape while I drink a little more of the whiskey – it definitely grows on you once you get used to it – that the sun is starting to go down. I’m not looking forward to navigating those big-ass potholes in the dark so I guess I better get down to business.
    “So, Mr. Cash,” I begin, but before I can he starts laughing. And hell, if I thought he was good-looking when he was being serious and asshole-ish, damn . The sight of his smile and the sound of his deep, relaxed man-laughter makes something in me melt a little.
    “Seriously?” he says.
    “What?” I’m just trying to make it clear that I came here for business-related reasons and nothing else.
    “It’s Max,” he says, still smiling. “Just call