Staying Home (Roped by the Cowboy Duet Book 2)

by J.C. Valentine

  Nash’s jaw clenched. “So she pulled you out of bed and sent you over.”

  A faint blush rose up on her cheeks. “I wasn’t in bed yet…but yeah, pretty much.”

  Nash wanted to scold her, to say some cross things that he probably shouldn’t, but when he met her uneasy stare, he had the notion that maybe Vivian was just as much a pawn in Ms. Gretta’s game as he was.

  In a moment of pity, he moved aside and motioned her in. After a brief hesitation, Vivian stepped inside and waited for him to close the door and lead the way into the kitchen.

  When he flipped on the light and turned to face her, he saw her looking around as if she were seeing everything for the first time. Of course, that wasn’t the case, since he’d allowed her into his personal space once before. Maybe she’d forgotten or maybe she was admiring or judging. Whatever her reasoning, he didn’t care.

  “You can set it on the counter,” he instructed.

  “It’s still warm.”

  “I already ate.”

  Vivian frowned. “Well, it’ll heat up nice. Gretta said it’s even better the second day.”

  “It is.”

  She sighed. “Are we going to discuss this elephant in the room or are we just going to go around and around like this forever?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Yes, you do!” she snapped, growing as frustrated as Nash was every time he looked at her.

  “Look, I’m not going to keep groveling. It’s humiliating,” she continued. “I’ve said my piece and you know where I stand. What you do with that is up to you. The ball is in your court.”

  Nash felt his temperature rise. “You stand here actin’ as if this is all my doin’ when it’s you who lied in the first damn place! Don’t go layin’ the responsibility at my feet.”

  “I left because I thought you needed space. I left so I could get things straightened out on my end,” she explained, her voice rising. “And I came back for you.”

  Nash scoffed. “Oh, please. The only person you came back for was yourself.”

  He was shaking his head, so Nash didn’t notice when Vivian stepped closer. She stared up at him. “Gretta was right: you’re a stubborn ass. And I’m sick and tired of it.”

  Before he knew it, Vivian was up on her toes, bringing them eye to eye. He barely registered their proximity or what it meant, too caught up in his own surprise and the tiny flecks of gold and green in her brown eyes, when he suddenly found her hands on his face, pulling his head down to hers. Then it was her heat soaking into him. And then it was her taste—a hint of spearmint toothpaste under her own soft, sweet flavor—as she kissed him soundly on the mouth.

  Nash didn’t think. Couldn’t. In the next moment, his body took over, his hands grasping her tight around the waist, crushing her to his chest, as his head tilted and he opened his mouth to drink in her intoxicating scent, returning the kiss ardently, as if he’d been starved of oxygen all this time and could finally breathe again.

  Vivian’s fingers clenched his hair, pulling at the roots almost painfully, which only spurred his primal instincts on. Nash’s hips ground against hers, his length hardening, throbbing almost painfully as it strained against his pants’ zipper in a desperate plea to be loosed.

  A moan of approval, of need and desire, climbed from Vivian’s throat and her knee lifted as if she were seconds from climbing him.

  That was the ice-cold bucket of water Nash needed to bring him to his senses.

  With the same forceful hands he’d used to pull her close, he summoned the strength to push her away. Vivian’s chest heaved, her nipples firm cherries pressing against the cotton shirt. Her heavy-lidded eyes, still drunk with the lust that filled his engorged shaft, peered up at him, and she drew those plump, silky, kissable lips between her teeth for one last taste of him before the reality of what just happened began to set in, reflecting her confusion back at him.

  “What—”

  “Go home,” Nash ordered, his voice gruff, thick with the desire that only moments ago was nearly responsible for him doing something he would have regretted later.

  “Why? I thought—”

  “That was a mistake,” he cut her off, striking her once again with his words. “One that won’t happen again.”

  They stood there, facing off, while that sunk in, and then Vivian’s eyes flash with a mixture of anger, regret, and more hurt. It was for the best.

  “Fine, Nash MacArthur. I’ll leave. But hear this: this is the last time I put myself out there for you. A girl can only take so much.”

  Buttoning her lips up tight, she took two steps toward the front door, stopped, glanced down at the container of food, and her hands snapped out and plucked it off counter.

  “I hope you starve,” she hissed, then stomped out of the room and out the door, slamming it behind her hard enough to rattle the china cabinet in the corner.

  SIX

  With the weather growing colder, the town was changing its stride. Gone were the roadside carts filled with fresh produce and the people riding bicycles down the country roads. All of the sights and smells and sounds of summer had gone the way of the flowers: into hibernation for the next few months.

  Truth be told, Nash used to be a summer kind of guy, but in recent years, he preferred the solitude of the winter months. People were quieter, more subdued. They kept to themselves. He liked that. No one showed up at his door unannounced—much—and gossip was slower to spread. He supposed that had a lot to do with the holidays taking up so much of their time. But rest assured, with each festivity came an abundance of opportunities to rub elbows and whisper in ears.

  Only, people didn’t so much whisper as walk right up to you and tell you to your face what so-and-so said.

  Nash could do without that.

  Ever since Vivian’s unwanted kiss and her storming off into the night a week ago, he’d been keeping to himself. Ms. Gretta’s constant plea for him to come to breakfast and dinner had gone unanswered, although he’d accepted the occasional lunch or brunch—when she’d decided to bite the bullet and come to him.

  Nash refused to set foot under the same roof that the hoity-toity, boundary-stomping, city-dweller Vivian was in. So what if he was a stubborn ass? He did it well, and he’d always been told to stick with the things he could do well.

  The only thing he found curious, if not a bit worrisome, was Ms. Gretta’s tight lip on it all. She was never one to hold back her words, but she’d been quiet since that night. She called daily, stopped by regularly, and didn’t once give him a hard time. When she asked him over for a visit and a meal and he politely declined or evaded her request entirely, she merely switched gears and kept on truckin’. He didn’t know what to make of that, except to say he knew the old bat was up to something.

  But what?

  Spending days tinkering with her tractor, Nash finally left his thoughts at home long enough to venture into town for another part he needed to finish the job once and for all, and maybe to grab a quick bite to eat at Jeb’s Diner.

  It was a small, family-owned dive that hadn’t seen a can of paint or a solid deep cleaning since it was erected in the seventies, but the food that came out of that kitchen was good enough to give even Ms. Gretta a run for her money.

  But Nash would never admit that to anyone ‘cept God.

  Since it was on the way to Tractor Supply, one of the few big name stores they could boast about, Nash decided he’d go ahead and stop in, since he suddenly had a hankerin’ for good, old-fashioned biscuits and gravy.

  The hostess was young, in her teens, probably still in high school, which was not only indicative by the youthful image she presented, but the dour expression she wore suggesting she’d rather be anywhere but there.

  She greeted him with a monotone, “Welcome to Jed’s. How many?”

  Nash issued a chipper, “Just one,” and a bright smile that was not returned, as the girl grabbed a menu from a stack and turned on her heel, and
without a word, began walking.

  Already knowing the routine, Nash followed, but he couldn’t help thinking that it would be nice to have a warmer reception—like the good old days, when the front of the restaurant was manned by the older members of the waitstaff who knew everyone who walked through the door and actually cared.

  And didn’t that age him just the tiniest bit?

  “Your server will be right with you,” the girl said as she flopped his menu on the table and walked away before Nash even had a chance to slide himself into the booth.

  Picking up the menu, he glanced down at the items offered on the breakfast column, although he already knew what he planned to get, and considered the girl who’d seated him.

  She might not be the friendliest, but she was straight to the point. No poking or prying into his life, no unsolicited advice to questions that he hadn’t even asked.

  So, okay, he could see the benefit of stone-faced, uncaring staff once he thought about it.

  “Well, I’ll be! Nash?” Oprah, the owner’s wife and lead on the floor every day the doors were open for business, hooted as she approached the table.

  Nash turned his head and looked up at the woman who was twice his age and the total opposite of her infamous namesake—rumor had it her mother never missed a show—in welcome. “Hey there, Oprah. How’ve you been?” He pushed out of the bench seat and embraced her in a brief but warm hug. The act wasn’t just customary or expected, but offered willingly between friends.

  “Good, honey.” Her smile diminished as she looked down on him, and he knew what was coming next. “How have you been? I mean, considering everything. I heard your little lady returned. Have y’all patched things up?”

  He’d bet she knew full well he and Vivian hadn’t patched up anything, but Nash couldn’t bring himself to be snappy with one of the few people in town whose gentle prying was born strictly out of caring about him.

  “No, we sure haven’t, Oprah. And I don’t expect we will be,” he tacked on, hoping she’d get the drift.

  She didn’t. “In due time, honey. In due time. Meanwhile, I have a strawberry pie in the back I’ve been savin’ just for you.”

  Nash chuckled. “Oprah, strawberries have been outta season for a couple of months now. I sure hope it hasn’t been waitin’ that long.”

  She swatted his shoulder. “They’re frozen, ya goof! I thawed ‘em out just yesterday.”

  Nash narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Now tell the truth, Oprah. I haven’t been in for a meal in well over a month. Either you’ve been spyin’ on me, and Lord knows what you’ve seen if that’s the case, or that pie ain’t for me.”

  Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Oprah admitted, “Okay, fine, ya got me. I make a fresh one every coupla days. You just got lucky.” She swatted him again. “Spyin’!”

  Nash laughed. “I’ll have a cup of sausage gravy. Extra biscuits.”

  She didn’t even use the pad in her hand to jot down his order. “Just a cup?” she asked skeptically.

  Nash tipped his head side to side. She knew him well. “All right, a bowl.”

  She nodded and smiled, as if his answer satisfied her. “That’s more like it. Gotta feed those hunky muscles,” she said with a wink and headed off for the kitchen to place his order with the cook, leaving Nash with hot cheeks and studying the wood grain tabletop to escape the intrusive looks from people at nearby tables.

  Times like this, Nash wished he was a little more on top of the electronic, cell phone, social media craze. He’d stick his nose right into the screen and block out all the distractions.

  Actually, that wasn’t true. He’d never been much for all that fussy stuff. Nash preferred simple, and as much as he didn’t feel like talking to people most days, he still preferred face-to-face interactions than all that distant, fake connection people seemed to be gaga for.

  It was just an addiction to escaping the real world, if you asked him, and Nash much preferred experiencing life with his own eyes rather than through the scope of someone else’s lens. Live in the moment, not for the perfect angle.

  It was while Nash was being all introspective that his neighbor snuck up on him and offered herself a seat at his table. And she’d brought company.

  “Fancy runnin’ into you here.” Nash’s head snapped up at the sound of Gretta’s voice, and his shock only deepened—along with his suspicions—as she slid in across from him, followed by her female friend who was closer to his age than Gretta’s.

  “Fancy indeed,” he drawled, eying the two of them as they got settled. “What’s goin’ on here?” What he meant by that was, what the hell are you doing interrupting my meal and why do you need a friend to do it?

  Gretta wore her trademark mischievous smile which did not bode well for Nash. “This is a restaurant, isn’t it?”

  The droll-faced hostess stepped up and dropped two menus on the table and walked away, leaving Nash to wonder if she’d even heard Gretta’s parting “Thank you.”

  “Sylvia and I were out and about and were feeling a bit peckish. Ain’t that right, Syl?” Gretta jammed her elbow into the younger woman, who jumped and pasted on a quick smile that she flashed at Nash.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Boy, am I famished,” she enthused, dropping her gaze once more and scanning her options.

  Nash wanted to tell Ms. Gretta then and there that she was more transparent than a plate-glass window, but he was curious to see just how far this little charade would go.

  “Syl is a vegan,” Gretta imparted, as if that was supposed to impress him. “She’s very into a healthy lifestyle. I asked her to give me some guidance.”

  Nash’s eyebrows rose. “Guidance…on eating fruit and veggies?” He could think of at least five on the dinner table each night, and that wasn’t even factoring in the other two meals of the day. Gretta was one of the healthiest eaters he could think of.

  “Exactly. You know my health has been…lackin’ lately.” Gretta raised her chin and sat higher in her seat. “Maybe a leaner, healthier diet will help.”

  Nash felt bad for suggesting otherwise. “Well, it certainly can’t hurt.” Except he was questioning the honesty of that claim because, along with those healthy foods, there was never a shortage of fatty sustenance.

  She nodded, her expression tight, if not a touch defensive. Which had him thinking he should probably give her the benefit of the doubt, just in case. Besides, he understood. Independent and used to always being strong for everyone, it had to be hard for her to admit to any kind of weakness now.

  Nash certainly knew he wouldn’t be keen to stand in her shoes.

  “Did y’all decide what you wanna order?” Oprah asked, appearing at their table as if from the fade.

  Nash’s heart skipped a beat, and then he waited patiently while the women ordered their healthy breakfast of scrambled egg whites, dry toast, and fruit salad. Since theirs wasn’t anything that needed to be cooked to perfection, it didn’t take long to come out, and then Nash had to suppress a rash of guilt for eating what was effectively a bowl of fat with a heaping side of starch.

  To her credit, Sylvia didn’t seem to mind his choice, which earned her a few brownie points. The only worse thing Nash could think of than a vegan was one that rubbed their lifestyle in another’s’ face.

  “I wish I could eat that,” she said, surprising him.

  “You do?”

  “It was my favorite growin’ up. My momma made the best gravy.” She sighed at the memory. “Unfortunately, it goes straight to my thighs. I found a clean diet is the only way to maintain my ideal weight.”

  “Did I mention Syl is a yoga instructor?” Gretta asked, her smile downright devious. Nash was surprised she didn’t wink and laugh lecherously while she was at it.

  Needless to say, he got her meaning. He could just imagine the sort of things a yoga instructor could do with their…uh…figure. Was that the reason she was introducing them to each other? Or did Nash have it wrong? They were total op
posites. He was a known meat lover. The only exercise he got was tending the land and other miscellaneous activities that honed his body naturally. He certainly wasn’t one for new age anything.

  What if…

  Nash’s suspicions were confirmed in the next breath.

  “I tell ya, Syl is unlike any woman you’ve met before, sweet pea. Especially nothing like that…” She closed her eyes and tipped her head toward the ceiling, pretending she’d forgotten her name.

  “Vivian,” Nash deadpanned, unamused by her antics, and even less so her schemes. There was no way in hell she’d forgotten the name of the woman she practically held as her daughter and was currently living under her roof.

  It also hadn’t passed his notice that she hadn’t eaten anything on her plate. Just moved it around now and then.

  Gretta snapped her fingers. “That was it. Yes, Vivian. Definitely not a match. A city girl and a country boy. Whoever heard of such a thing,” she trilled, laughing with Sylvia, which irked Nash’s nerves instantly.

  “I’ve always heard that sayin’ that opposites attract, but it never works,” Sylvia added conversationally. “It’s just one of those things. Sparks excitement, but it’s like burnin’ a candle at both ends.”

  Nash refused to speak on it and add more fuel to the fire, but he could see the merit in her words. Still, he was upset with what Gretta was trying to pull on him. And so plainly obvious too! He might have been wrong on her exact plan at the start, but he was dead certain of her direction now.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  Turning a flirtatious smile on Sylvia, Nash said, “You are so right about that.” His gaze flicked to Gretta and back and with all the Southern gentleman he could muster, he drawled, “Syl.”

  The poor girl looked as if she might faint, she was so taken in by him. Nash almost snorted in disbelief and amusement. It was good for a man’s ego for women to trip over themselves in their presence, but this was too much. She was either naïve or desperate or both. Whatever affliction she suffered from, he didn’t find any of it attractive.