His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone Page A

he could see it in their eyes. They’d been fed up with blisters, flies, dust.
    They wanted a one‐way ticket to their hairdryer and a café latte.
    Shasta’s question was a good one.
    There were easy answers he could deliver with a leer and a wink. About how a girl could never be too wild or too rich. About how it never paid to mix business with pleasure.
    Sometimes with Christina, the reasons to push her away shuffled in his head until it felt like a game of pick the box.
    “She reminds me of Jolie.” It slipped out before he could stop it.
    Shasta’s beer stopped part‐way to his lips. “She’s nothing like Jolie.”
    “Not her face. It’s something in her voice. The way she speaks. How she goes after what she wants—she’s stubborn as all hell and so damn persistent. Every time she opens her mouth, I think about Jols, and that makes me think about what happened with Ian Callinan. And I feel like I want to kill the prick all over again.”
    “Ah.” Shasta crossed one size‐eleven thong over the other. “Just when you were getting over it.”
    “Dickhead,” Tate said, punching his brother’s arm.
    “We all wanted to kill him, mate. You. Me. Dad. He’s gone. You gotta let it go.”
    “Yeah.” Tate picked at the Coopers’ logo with his thumb.
    “So you asked about the horses when you rang from Coober Pedy?” Shasta said.
    “Sunshine could use the work. She’s in foal and she’s getting fat. A bit of exercise will do her good and if you really want to go the whole hog, take Charlie and Rocket too. No one needs them for a few days.”
    “Who’s going riding?” Bree entered the kitchen.

    Lily Malone
    “Romeo here wants to take Juliet camping to the east boundary so she can bitch to him about the lack of five‐star accommodations on this trip and he can prove to himself she isn’t the girl for him,” Shasta grinned and added: “He’s taking her on the scenic route.”
    “Scenic route?” Bree swivelled. Her T‐shirt was red with a white stripe and it was like watching a candy stick twirl. “That’s a sixty kilometre round trip, Tate. Two? T’ree nights?
    Can Christina even ride?”
    “I haven’t asked, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll be back by lunchtime tomorrow. She’s used to a comfy office chair and a German car that couldn’t find a bump on a camel. Four hours in the saddle and she’ll be begging me to turn around. She hears something in the grass? She’ll scream snake.”
    “A hundred bucks she lasts one night,” Bree challenged. “I t’ink she’ll surprise you.”
    “You’re on.” They shook hands.
    “Can you stake two hundred, Breezy? I want some of that action,” Shasta said.
    “Your money’s as good as his.” Bree shook.
    “You’ll have to carry enough food for four horses tomorrow night though, just in case,” Shasta added. “East Hut will have more feed. I had a team out there a couple of weeks back. Branding.”
    They heard the slap of sandals in the corridor outside.
    Christina pushed through the kitchen door and smiled and Tate felt like some chunk of his chest he hadn’t known was missing, had returned. He caught himself before he smiled back at her like a teenager.
    Beside him, Shasta stiffened.
    Towel‐dried chestnut hair crinkled about Christina’s shoulders and Tate watched it swing against her skin where her creamy neck was bare. She turned to stop the kitchen door before it could slam shut.
    His blood headed south.
    He’d never seen Christina in jeans. These were a size too tight and inches too long and they sucked at every sweet curve of her hips and arse. She’d rolled them at the ankle but he didn’t want to focus there, the view was too good higher up.
    Shasta tipped the bottle in his hands, almost spilled it, and Tate wondered what the hell was with his big brother. Bree was standing right there . The way Shasta stared, you’d think Pamela Anderson just waltzed into the kitchen and asked if he’d like to try her