Justin laughs with me. “I promise I won’t growl at you.”
When our food arrives, Justin curls his arm around his huge platter of ribs and pulled pork, and snarls at me.
Laughter bursts out of me. “Message received.”
“What happened to your dainty girl salad?” He points at the mound of brisket burying the lettuce beneath it on my plate.
“Ratio seems about right to me.”
His eyes hold amusement as I stab a chunk of tender meat and bite into it.
Without prompting from me, he cuts off a couple of ribs and slides them onto my bread plate next to my garlic toast.
“You’re a true gentleman, Justin Garrison.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Zoe.” He dips an imaginary hat brim. “I aim to please.”
In all things probably.
I moan when the combination of sweet sauce and savory meat hits my tongue as I bite into the rib.
“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt, but I remember where I know you from.” Becks is back.
With the end of the rib in my mouth, I stare at Justin.
He wipes his sauce-sticky fingers on one of the napkins in the pile, but doesn’t speak.
Maybe they used to date? He probably has pining and broken-hearted women scattered around the western states.
“You’re a Garrison, right?”
He nods, eyes wary and apologetic when they meet mine. “I am. You’ve probably seen me at the Snowmass Rodeo.”
“No, but maybe I will. I recognized you from the tabloids.”
I lift my eyebrows. Why would a local cowboy be in any tabloid?
“All that’s in the past now.” Shifting in his seat, he drops his napkin on the table.
EJ appears again. “How’s your food?”
He angles his body and blocks Becks, who gets the clue and walks away. “Sorry about her. Is she bothering you?”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks for the intervention.”
“I’ll make sure you’re left in peace for the rest of the meal. Dessert’s on the house.”
I finally pull the rib from my mouth, having forgotten I’ve been sucking on it the entire time. Things have gone from awkward to bizarre. Who is Justin?
“I’m sorry about that. Wow.” He uses a fresh napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth.
I set the rib down. “What was that about?”
His dark eyes study me.
In turn, I stare at his thick lashes and the gentle arch of his eyebrows. The cut on his lip has disappeared. Freshly shaved, his jaw is all sharp angles above the strong cords of his neck and Adam’s apple.
“My grandfather was an actor.” He picks up another rib and bites into it.
Nonchalantly, I nod and stab my salad like having a famous relative is no big deal. As I flip through the Hollywood trivia in my head for a resemblance or someone named Garrison, I casually ask, “Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Really? Garrison? Cowboy?” His voice holds a slight edge of something that could be disbelief.
I press my lips together and shake my head. I’m still shaking it when the name clicks.
“Hold on … your grandfather is Rexland Garrison?” I fail to keep the starstruck awe from my voice. I know I’ve failed because Justin’s eyebrows lower and his lips flatten. It happens and disappears in a blink.
The only reason I recognize the name is from my Netflix binge. “Country Rex” Garrison has his own subsection under Westerns. Because he made like a hundred of them in the sixties and seventies.
“Yes, Rexland is my dad’s father.” His voice remains flat.
“So that means you’re …”
“Boyd Garrison’s son.”
“Hollywood royalty,” I whisper like we’re in church or having tea with the Queen of England.
“There’s no such thing. Hollywood isn’t a kingdom. It’s all smoke and figments of our collective imagination. My grandfather bought the land here to create something real in his life. Ironic he used the money he made playing pretend to do it.”
“He’s a legend.”
“Was. He’s been dead for fifteen years.”
“I guess he made an impression on you.”
Justin nods, but doesn’t appear happy. “Growing up I had zero desire to go into the family business or turn into the next legacy brat with a sex tape. My mother packed us up and moved here when I was sixteen. I resented her, the move, the ranch … pretty much everything. I threatened to take her to court for emancipation.”
If I remember correctly, his dad lived in LA. His parties were both infamous and notorious, if the tabloids are to be believed. Another Garrison family fact slams into my brain. Ten years ago, his father died in the bed of a studio head, with the guy’s wife beside him. El Scandalo was one of the more memorable headlines.
“From the look on your face, I’m guessing you know all about my dear old dad. Whatever you think you know, the reality is exponentially worse. The Garrison name kept a lot of things out of the press, even when a single photo could bankroll a tabloid for a year. Felecia Garrison is formidable when it comes to protecting who and what she loves.”
“I’m not judging. Processing.” I can’t imagine being part of a famous family and having my dad die when I was a teenager.
He lifts his eyebrows in question. “Not the simple cowpoke you once imagined? My family comes with enough baggage to fill a covered wagon. Sorry to ruin the fantasy for you.”
The genuine sadness in his voice pierces my heart. “If we’re sharing secrets, I never had a cowboy fantasy until the first night at the rodeo when I saw you.”
The sadness in his eyes disappears as he smiles. “Really? Tell me all about this fantasy.”
He reaches across the small table to take my hand. His thumb traces over my thumb. I lean into his touch, letting it zing through my body before settling between my legs.
And he’s only touching my hand.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I flip back to his family and Beck’s comment. “You’ve been in the tabloids? Recently?”
“Thinking of going to the market later and scoping out all the dirt on me?”
“Never.” I pick up another rib and jab it in the air in his general direction. “One thing you should know about me, I don’t care about the past.”
He nods. “Good. Neither do I.”
“Good.” I bite into the meat.
“To answer your question. Yes and no.”
“Really?”
“Nothing too exciting or recent. Red carpet at the Golden Globes when my grandfather received a lifetime achievement award. The foreign press, especially the Italians, loved Rex. All those Spaghetti Westerns bankrolled the ranch.”
“But you were a kid when your grandfather was honored.” I know because I have a vague memory of that award show. “I doubt Becks has that good of a memory.”
“There’ve been few random pictures with my sisters. And a couple of years ago there was an issue of People about Hollywood legacy families. They sent a photographer to the ranch. I’m sure you can find it online easily enough.” A thin line forms between his thick eyebrows.
The thought is tempting for a moment until I reverse our roles. Do I want Justin searching my Internet footprint? What would he find? Sadly, nothing of interest.
“You don’t come across as someone interested in being famous.”
Pausing to take a sip of beer, he meets my gaze. “I can’t imagine anything worse than being famous for my parentage. There’s nothing worse than children of the famous running around and acting like they’re important. For what? Winning a genetic lottery? No, thank you.” Humor makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Unless it’s the cover of Rodeo Man. And I can go shirtless.”
Dead.
Stick a fork in me, I’m done.
The first thing I’m going to do when I get back to Sage’s is look for shirtless pictures of him. Because my imagination is good, but I’m sure the reality is so much bett
er.
“Would you autograph my copy?” I tease back.
“I’ll even buy you a frame so you can put it on your nightstand.”
“I’m going to need a poster size print.”
Chuckling, he licks a drop of sauce off the side of his thumb. I lose the ability to focus on anything but the tip of his tongue sliding past his full lips and gently sweeping his skin.
Needing a moment, I focus on jabbing lettuce leaves onto my fork.
He continues talking like I’m not over here melting into a pile of goo. “It’s easy to disappear from the spotlight when so many others are desperate to hog the light. Sure, over the years I’ve had people show up at the ranch asking questions about the Garrison legacy. My life goal has been to be boring. Boring doesn’t sell papers.”
“What about the rodeos?”
“Sometimes the fun facts of my lineage get added to my introduction, but I ask to keep the focus on me and my accomplishments. Gentry’s good about making sure Buzz Garrison is the star, not who my family is.”
“Gentry?”
“He’s my mentor and trainer. I guess he’s like a manager, if we were in the big time. You’ve probably seen him lurking around the rodeo. Huge silver mustache and resting cranky face?” Justin wiggles his fingers in front of his upper lip.
“You’ve described a human walrus.” I mimic his gesture.
I thought I’d heard Justin laugh before, but he’s been holding back. His whole face lights up as he tips his head backward with laughter. After a moment, he inhales a deep breath and says, “I’m going to tell him that just to piss him off.”
I toss a napkin at him, which he easily catches. “Please don’t make enemies on my behalf.”
“Gentry needs the reality check.” Justin grins at me.
I smile back.
“Enough about me. I hate talking about myself. Nothing more boring than hearing me droning on and on. And on.” He dips his chin and looks up at me. “What about you?”
His words make me chuckle. “There’s not a lot about me to tell. Biographic details you know. Moved here because my best friend did. Working as a massage therapist to pay the man.”
“What do you do when you’re not working? Or focused on paying bills?”
“Apparently take long walks over mountains and hang out at rodeos.”
“Besides those two things.” He shifts his position so he’s resting his forearms on the table, which brings him closer to me. I catch the scent of leather and sandalwood from his skin.
“I’m an artist.” I clear my throat. “I have my MFA.”
“Impressive. What do you make?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“Nothing lately. If you haven’t noticed, this town is expensive. I work as much as I can.”
“Then move somewhere cheaper.”
“I can’t. I love it here.”
He rolls his lips together and nods. “I know the feeling.”
How? I want to ask. If he’s one of the Garrisons, he’s probably sitting on a trust. Never lived off of Ramen to stretch a paycheck. Instead, I say the thing we all say about living high in the mountains.
“It’s magical here. Easy to forget the rest of the world exists.”
“What do you want to forget?” His voice is soft. “Or who?”
I’ve avoided all mention of Neil and the breakup until now. First rule of first dates is to not mention exes and I’m not about to break it.
“I miss having a studio and time to turn thoughts into objects. If I can figure out a way to do that here, then I’m never leaving.” Not exactly an answer to his question, but it’s the truth.
Rubbing his thumb along the corner of his mouth, he stares at me. “Sounds simple enough.”
“I applied to be a resident at Ashcroft next summer. The arts ranch in Snowmass?”
“I know it.” The line forms between his brows for a second and then disappears.
“If I get in, I’ll get room and board along with a studio of my own, twenty-four seven access to kilns. It’s basically my idea of heaven.”
“Why aren’t you there this summer?”
“I missed the application deadline last year.” Because Neil didn’t want me to commit to something that could interfere with summer travel plans. That turned out well. “It’s highly competitive. Doubtful I’ll get a spot, but I’ll never find out if I don’t try.”
“That sounds like the first time I got on a bull in competition.”
“Ceramics are less likely to break my ribs.”
“True. I guess I get used to always having something on my body hurting or aching.”
The image of him lying on the dirt flashes in my mind, making my breath hitch. “What about you? You said you don’t want to go on the national circuit. Why?”
“Mostly because I hate being away from home. Makes me a cranky bastard. Or more of one, if you ask anyone who knows me.”
“Gentry mentor you in that area, too?”
His neat rows of white teeth appear when he smiles. “Gentry’s going to love you.”
“Why’s that?”
“He loves strong, smart women.”
I hope he’s not the only one, because it would be ridiculously easy to fall in love with this cowboy.
Chapter 17
Justin
This date has jumped the rails a few times tonight and we’re still eating dinner.
Being sideswiped by Becks and her nosiness threw me off. I can’t remember the last time someone bothered to ask me about my famous family. Not randomly in public, anyway.
A decade later, and we’re still picking up the pieces from my father’s messy exit. Mom spends a lot of time in her house outside of Santa Fe. My sisters in California aren’t directly tied to Hollywood or anything to stir up the memory of Boyd or Rex. My own damn fault for living and breathing the ranch and rodeo.
When Zoe mentions applying to Ashcroft, I focus on keeping my features neutral.
No reason a cowboy, even a Garrison legacy, would know much about an arts and crafts center.
Or be on the board.
Not even if he’s the grandson of one of the founders.
My grandmother might’ve been the heart and willpower to keep our ranch going for all those decades, but Felecia Garrison is also a lover of the arts and dabbles in painting.
Named for a nearby ghost town, Ashcroft’s the favorite darling of my grandmother. While she doesn’t handpick the artists anymore, she does wield influence over the rest of the board.
My role is fiduciary, but I could make a phone call or two.
The trouble is all final decisions are merit based and in a blind portfolio review. No biographic information is allowed in the selection process. Of course someone on staff knows.
I ask myself if the roles were reversed, would I want her to pull strings? No, I’d want to earn the spot on my own.
While I’m mentally meddling in her future, Zoe tries to bring the conversation back to me.
I’m genuinely not interested in talking about myself. Instead, I tell her about the Easy Z.
“It’s a little oasis around here. Not much has changed since it was purchased in the fifties. Same log cabins and central dining hall.”
“Sounds charming.”
“You should come up this weekend and I’ll give you the tour.”
Her full lips press together in a frown. “I’d love to, but I’m working on Saturday and have plans with a friend on Sunday.”
“Then we’ll figure out another time. You should come when we’re having a cookout and bonfire. We even have a couple of guys who sing old country songs and play the fiddle.”
A smile softens her face. “You’re selling the whole package.”
“I’m happy to indulge someone’s fantasy.” My words are deliberately vague, and when I see her blush, I know she’s thinking of her cowboy fantasy statement from earlier. Good, because I can’t stop thinking about her words.
The busboy clears our plates
and Zoe asks for a to-go box. I’m not sure why she looks sheepish asking, but she keeps giving excuses about getting a doggie bag.
“Don’t feed the bones to the dogs. They can shatter and be dangerous.”
“It’s not really for the dogs. More like lunch tomorrow.”
She lives in a two million dollar condo, but saves leftovers for the next day? Maybe that’s how she can afford to live in the heart of Aspen’s west end. Or her mystery roommate makes bank. Earlier, while I waited for her to crate the dogs, I took a quick inventory of the space. Expensive furniture, lots of home accessories and stylish clutter, but nothing personal. No framed family or group friend photos. Nothing to give me an insight into Zoe.
“Do you have any of your work at the condo? I’d love to see what you make.” My words are genuine. Plus, I’m not ready to end the evening just yet.
“Um, a few things. Most of it’s in boxes. Or at my parent’s house.” Ducking her head, she plays with the sleeve on her jacket.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, show me another time.” I touch the back of her hand, gently resting mine over hers and stilling her fidgeting. “Hey.”
She meets my eyes.
“I want to get to know you. All of you. Not just the gorgeous, sexy, funny part you’ve already shown me.”
“You can’t say things like that,” she whispers.
“Why? If they’re true?”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
“And this is a problem because?” I lace my fingers with hers and bring our joined hands to my thigh.
“If I tell you, it’ll be breaking rule number one for dating.”
“You’re married?”
“Lord, no.” She inhales a deep breath. “Recent breakup.”
My mood pops like a balloon. “How recent are we talking?”
“A couple of months, but we were together a long time.”
I nod, but don’t comment.
“It’s over. So over. Taylor Swift is writing a new break-up song about how over we are.” Her smile is forced.
“Now the cowboy fantasy makes sense. Summer. Rodeo. Rebound fling.” Classic.
And now I sound like the cranky bastard people think I am.
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