She found Travis in the tack room,

She found Travis in the tack room, in the midst of cleaning a bridle with a damp sponge and an amber cake of glycerin soap, worn to a sliver from use. The dusty old boom box sitting on the worktable was playing Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Travis’s booted foot tapped the cement floor in rhythm.
For a moment she hovered near the threshold looking at him. Just looking. His dark brown hair was in its customary stubby ponytail. Sometimes, when he was currying a horse, for instance, a thick lock would come loose of the rubber band and it would hang, an inky J against his cheek, until he tucked it absently behind his ear. Lord, he was so handsome. With his high, slanting cheekbones, deep-set gray eyes, and leanly muscled body, he was all thrilling, sexy, dangerous male. A real bad boy. Give him a Harley to straddle and he’d be Springsteen’s song incarnate … except that, strangely enough, this bad boy had been born to ride horses. Stranger still and infinitely more frustrating, he seemed completely blind to the come-hither glances she’d recently been sending his way. But that was about to change.
She spoke, partly because she didn’t want to be caught staring at him, but also because she wanted to gauge his reaction when he saw her. Had he ever seen her dressed like this?
“Hey, Travis.” Margot was sure she detected a silver flash of surprise in his eyes. But any sense of triumph was fleeting. Travis looked away, fixing his attention on the throat latch he was cleaning. She told herself that he was just being his usual self, cool and distant, like Clint Eastwood in those old Westerns, and that he wasn’t truly more interested in a dirty strip of leather than in her.
She mustered an air of nonchalance. “Everyone’s up at the house drinking beer. The caterers are going to start serving dinner any minute. You haven’t even changed yet.” Privately she thought Travis in his dusty work boots, jeans, and faded Pearl Jam T-shirt was a million times better-looking than any other man. “So what are you still doing here in the barn?”
He paused in the middle of soaping the sponge. “Funny you should ask, Princess. Recognize this bridle?” His left brow rose, a dark mocking line that underscored his question. “It’s Killarney’s. The one you couldn’t be bothered to clean. I already did your saddle.”
Her gaze flew to the row of saddles on the wall. There on the rack with the small brass plate engraved with her initials was her saddle. Its leather gleamed softly. She flushed remembering how she hadn’t even bothered to put away her tack after she’d cooled Killarney down, but merely propped the saddle and bridle outside the gelding’s box stall. She’d been in a hurry, afraid she was going to miss her appointment at Serenity, the local beauty salon. She slipped her hands behind her back, hiding her brand-new manicure. “You didn’t have to do that. I’d have cleaned them tomorrow.”
“Sure, you would,” he agreed in a tone so bland Margot knew he didn’t believe her. Once more she wished she hadn’t played the role of Miss Fancy-Pants-Princess-of-the-Barn quite so often, except that those were the only times when she had Travis’s full attention. He was so good at ignoring her.
Right now was a perfect example. He’d already gone back to cleaning the bridle, as if he considered their conversation over. He was running the sponge over the braided reins, and she knew that when she rode Killarney tomorrow the leather would feel soft and supple between her fingers.
Seconds ticked as he continued to ignore her, Margot left to stand there, watching his long fingers deftly reattach the full cheek snaffle to the cheek straps and reins.
What was wrong with her? Here she was, dressed, primped, and perfumed, and still Travis acted as though she were invisible. Did he truly find her so unappealing that he couldn’t be bothered to check out her legs or her breasts?
Perhaps she was standing too far away. Yes, that must be it, she decided. Travis was hardly about to sweep her into his arms if she were on the other side of the tack room.
At the click of her heels on the concrete floor, Travis went still, his hands curved around the metal mouth of the snaffle, his dark head lowered. She stared at his angled head in frustration. Why wouldn’t he look up so he could see how her heart was pounding against the fabric of her dress? Why couldn’t he see how much she cared?
“Travis?”
“Christ.” The muttered curse sounded rough in the quiet of the tack room and she realized distantly that the CD must have ended. Travis rose from the wooden stool and grabbed the bridle. “Go back to the party, Margot. Go back to where you belong. I’ve got work to do,” he said flatly before turning away.
She stared in dismay at his broad back. She simply couldn’t let him brush her off as though she were an annoying gnat. If she did, then she’d never have the courage to show him how much she wanted him. And there’d be no better opportunity than now, when they were alone and she was looking her best.
Bolstered by the thought, she quickly crossed the tack room to where he was hanging Killarney’s bridle on its hook alongside the other bridles, walking on the balls of her feet so the sound of her heels hitting the floor wouldn’t alert him. When he turned around, he was so close she could see the storm brewing in his gray eyes.
“Damn it, Margot.” His lips were pressed in a grim line. “What is it you want?”
Love. The word entered her head unbidden.
No, not love, she quickly amended. She couldn’t, mustn’t, let the L-word slip past her lips. It’d be fatal. Guys hated too much emotion, and Travis was a guy through and through. She could never admit how much she longed to know she was special in his eyes. At least not yet. For now, all she wanted was to know that he desired her, that the storm in his eyes was born from passion and desire rather than anger. She wanted him to ache for her, as a man does for a woman he can’t resist. She’d wanted that for so long, she was going crazy with it.…
And this was it, the moment to prove to Travis just how irresistible she was. Then he would pull her close, touching her with those magic hands that were capable of soothing the most skittish of horses, and make her his. Finally, she wouldn’t be so terribly alone.
She had the line from Cosmo memorized. The article promised it was one that would drive a guy wild. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and remembered to curve her lips in a smile.
“You know what I want, Travis. I was hoping you might give it to me.” Despite her best effort at a sultry whisper, her voice shook. Not trusting it to fail her altogether and realizing that actions spoke louder and more convincingly than any words, she rose on tiptoe and leaned in to him, brushing his lips in a feather-light kiss. The hint of butterscotch on his breath triggered quivers of excitement inside her. She opened her mouth, letting her tongue trace the firm curve of his lips, and the rush of pleasure made her weak. Hadn’t she known kissing him would be like this? So different from the wet, sloppy kisses the boys at school practiced.
She pressed closer, moving her arms up and entwining them about his neck. She was vaguely aware of Travis’s stillness, but even that, the hard strength of his body held in check, was unbearably thrilling. Any second now he’d begin kissing her back, she was sure of it.
She felt Travis’s hands lock about her upper arms, holding her. Excitement flooded her. It was happening. Travis did want her. Her knees buckled. She swayed against him with a soft moan, a moan that became a gasp as she was abruptly thrust away.