The Boss and His Cowgirl Read Online Free

wasn’t a good idea. Then she thought about using his cologne—the signature scent of almond, cedar, bergamot and lemon that never failed to weaken her knees. Nope. That would not be a smart move, either.
    She slipped out of the bathroom, pausing at the master bedroom door to listen. A sports program droned on the big screen TV in the living area and she saw shoulders and a head silhouetted over the back of the couch. Her embarrassment sent her scurrying, but she stopped when the guy spoke.
    â€œYou all right, Miss Dreyfus?”
    â€œY-yes.” She didn’t recognize the voice and the man didn’t turn around, for which she was grateful.
    â€œThe senator and his party went to the fund-raiser. Their return ETA is midnight. Mr. Tate moved your things into the guest room next to his on the far side of the suite.” He lifted his hand and gestured before continuing. “If you’re hungry, I’ll order room service. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know. I’m Glen.”
    She clutched the lapels of her robe closer to her chest. Food was the last thing she wanted but she desperately wanted a Diet Coke. “Hi, Glen. Is there... I saw a kitchen. A Diet Coke, maybe?”
    â€œI’ll have one sent up, miss.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll just be in my...room.”
    She dashed across the open space and ducked into the bedroom the guard had pointed out. A lamp glowed next to the bed, on which the linens had been turned down. Her suitcase occupied a low bench. Checking the closet, she found her hang-up bag with her clothing inside. The case holding her personal care items had been tucked into the adjoining bath. While not nearly as opulent as the one in the master suite, it was far fancier than the bath in her previous room and was Architectural Digest -worthy compared to the one in her apartment back in DC. The room itself, even though it was probably the smallest bedroom in the suite, was magnificent. She needed to focus on something normal—as if brocade coverlets, silken accent rugs and needlepoint chair upholstery was normal. A hysterical giggle erupted from the back of her throat before she could stop it.
    Digging through her suitcase, Georgie found her comfort jammies—worn sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Ways to win my heart...1. Buy me coffee 2. Make me coffee 3. Be coffee.” Not that she was a caffeine addict. Much. She wondered if there was a coffeemaker in the kitchen. If she couldn’t sleep—and she suspected it would be hard—she’d go look. Coffee would be a godsend.
    A light tap on the bedroom door had her scrambling back into the robe. “Yes?”
    â€œI’ve got your Coke, and the hotel doctor is here to see you.”
    â€œDoctor?” She’d forgotten, in the midst of her mortification, that Clay had offered to send a doctor. Georgie opened the door a crack and a kindly face with wild black eyebrows peered at her over Glen’s shoulder. “Miss Dreyfus, I’m Dr. Bruce. The senator asked me to look in on you.”
    â€œUm...sure. Come in.” Glen handed her a bottle of Diet Coke so cold it still had little bits of ice clinging to it.
    â€œI’ll be right out here, ma’am.”
    Ma’am? Ouch. She was only thirty. She pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose and nodded, suddenly reminded of her dowdy looks. Stepping back, she opened the door wide enough for the doctor to enter.
    He waved her toward the edge of the bed. “Do you mind sitting here, Ms. Dreyfus? I fear I’ll need to do some prodding and poking. I hear you’ve had quite a day.”
    The snort escaped before she could stop it. “You could say that.”
    â€œAre you wearing anything under the T-shirt? Perhaps a tank or bra?”
    Georgie blushed. “Oh, yeah. That would probably keep both of us from being embarrassed. Just a sec.” She grabbed a spaghetti-strapped tank