I walk to the coffee pot and pour a cup before I glance at the door. God. I really want him to come back right now. Rain pitter-patters on the roof and I glance around the cottage. It’s not fancy like my apartment in Dallas, but it’s cozy. Mug in hand, I walk to the couch and sit down, listening to the thrum of rain on the windows, the drumming on the cottage roof. My mind travels to the past, to the tiny duplex where I grew up, where my mother would leave me alone while she ran around with different flavors of men more often than she stayed home. Those men paid for our home. They paid for my clothes. At times, I didn’t want her to come home. I was comfortable being alone and yet I hated being alone. Until that time she didn’t come home.
Oh good lord, why am I going there? She was fine. She just—didn’t come home until she was ready. It was her choice, and I had to live with it.
I shake myself and snap back to the tiny cottage, the soft velour of the rosy couch comfy beneath me. It’s lonely here, but I’m not crying, made easier by the fact that this place is somehow forgiving in ways Dallas is not. The rain was never judging me. I was. I am, and I’d rather face that judgment here, alone. I am alone and the cold, hard reality hits me. I never liked being alone. I just preferred it to my mother and her many men. I need to find peace with being with me, only me, then maybe I won’t surround myself with the wrong people to avoid empty space.
I need to be here. I need to stay. Now if I can just figure out how to convince a certain asshole cowboy of that fact.
…
I wake to bright lights and a ringing sound that has me shooting to a sitting position. I scan my surroundings, and the previous night comes back to me. The cowboy. The storm. The cowboy. Correction. The asshole cowboy telling me to be gone by morning. That ringing sounds again. Phone. My phone. Cell service is back. I grab my cell phone from the rustic wooden coffee table next to my computer, both of which had no internet service when I finally fell asleep.
I glance at the caller ID to find Martha calling. Martha. The woman who rented me this place. “Martha?!”
“Jessica. Hi, honey. I was worried about you with the storm. Did you get in safely? Are you here?”
“Here? Are you here?”
“Sweetwater, yes. I’m here. Are you?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I got in last night. The storm was brutal. I was stranded and—there was a man here who said he owns this place. He said I have to leave.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy. I should have told him sooner.”
“Told him? Martha, you’re scaring me.”
“Don’t be scared, honey. Jason’s bark is worse than his bite.”
“Jason? Who is Jason?”
“My grandson. I meant to tell him, but he’s been in the city for a few days and this all happened so quickly. You responded the same night I listed the cottage. I didn’t even know he was back.”
“He doesn’t want me here, Martha. He thought I was a scammer. I thought I’d been scammed.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I am. I— Oh dear. I’ve really made a mess of this now, haven’t I?”
“He says he owns the cottage.”
“I told you, my husband built me that cottage. It was there before the main house even existed. Once you get settled in, you come up to the house for cookies and coffee, and I’ll tell you the story.”
“How am I going to settle in? Jason says he owns the cottage. He’s coming here today to ensure I’m gone.”
She makes a puffing sound. “You just let me take care of that boy. He’ll be fine.”
“Does he own the cottage?”
“Technically, yes, but—”
“Martha. My God. You can’t rent me what you don’t own.”
“My grandson will do as I tell him to do. I promise, honey. I told you, I’m going to have a talking to with him. It’s fine. And I’m so very excited to meet you. I’ll have him come bring you up for supper instead, if you like?”
“No. No. That’s okay. I don’t need him to do that. Just—can you let me know when you talk to him? Can you—”
“Jason! Honey, you’re home. I hear you met Jessica.” There is a rough, guttural response I can’t make out, then muffled, tense conversation before Martha chides, “You behave yourself,” followed by a long pause in which I almost laugh. I mean, that big gruff cowboy just had his grandma tell him to behave himself. It’s pretty priceless.
“Jessica,” Martha says, returning to the call. “Jason will bring you up here for cookies later today. I’m making a fresh batch. And coffee, of course. How about four o’clock?”
I open my mouth to object but change my mind. I need to feel good about my living situation, secure, and I don’t right now. “Yes,” I agree. “Great. Cookies are great, but Jason doesn’t have to pick me up. I’ll find you.”
“Nonsense. I’ll send him to fetch you. See you soon.” She disconnects.
I sigh. One way or another, I have to make peace with her grandson, and apparently, that’s going to be over cookies and coffee after he “fetches” me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jessica…
After hanging up with Martha, I give my surroundings a quick inspection. In the morning light, the cottage is as first assessed, more rustic cabin than city slicker romance, but I don’t have any regrets. I want to fade into the basics of life rather than fight for every morsel of success and let go of the pressure to live up to flashy partnership status expectations. I don’t need more than this. I just need to settle in and get my head on straight, do some thinking. Write the book I’m contracted to write. By the time I get my money back from Craig, I’ll be ready for what comes next, whatever that might be. I’ll figure it out. Right now, I just want to settle down before Jason tries to stop me.
Fetching my bags from the car like a proper Texas gal, however, does not go properly at all. I end up in ankle-deep mud and my tire even deeper in a hole. One attempt to drive it out fails. I’m going to have to get help and that won’t be from Jason. There has to be some kind of service I can call, because I need to get groceries. I have nothing to eat but a stash of junk food. For now, though, I settle for getting my bags to the porch. A sloppy, messy task, but once I’m there, with the bags sitting by the door, the new problem is getting muddy me inside without making a muddy mess. I toe off my sneakers and consider pulling off my pants. I’ve been caught naked and off guard once in twenty-four hours, though, and I think I’ll stick to cleaning up mud if necessary. A few minutes later, it’s necessary.
I drip mud on the floor, but the cleanup is fast and easy. I unpack to stay a while. I shower, and unfortunately, I have no sneakers to put on. I have only high-heeled boots, which in hindsight could have stayed in storage. I need practical boots and a new pair of sneakers. Mine are ruined. I settle on jeans, a Rangers T-shirt, and my stocking feet for now, but my grumbling stomach leads me to the kitchen I assume will be all bare cabinets and my starvation. Instead, I find peanut butter, crackers, and Kraft mac and cheese. I even find butter and milk. I know this is all Jason’s food, but I’ll replace it. Surely he won’t even notice. I mix up my food, and it’s already one in the afternoon as I settle at the island on a stool to eat. I’ve downed half the pan when my phone rings with my best friend Shelley’s number.
“I thought you were going to come and stay with me,” she says. “No you. No call. Please tell me you didn’t make up with Craig. He’s a lousy loser, cheater, bastard, little bitch of a prick.”
“No, I didn’t make up with Craig, because you’re right. He’s a lousy loser, cheater, bastard, little bitch of a prick.” I say those words all light and filled with laughter, but they hurt. I’m objective enough to know that man wasn’t the love of my life, but he was my fiancé. We were committed.
“I left.”
“Left? What the heck does ‘I left’ mean?”
“I needed to get out of town. I went on Zil
low and found a little cottage a few hours away, and here I am. In the cabin. Living life the country way.”
“You—what? You’re joking, right? What happened to staying with me? What happened to your career? You can’t really be taking a leave of absence?”
“What choice did I have? They told me—”
“You’re letting Craig take your career along with your dignity. Don’t do that.”
Knots tighten in my belly. “I’m not letting him do anything. I accepted that book deal I kept turning down. I need a break from divorce.”
“Wait. The book that client of yours bugged you to write forever?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that book about divorce?”
I bristle. “Yes, but—”
“That’s how you’re getting a break from divorce?”
“Shelley—”
“Jessica.”
“I need this escape.”
“By writing a divorce guide. No. Just no. You should have stayed with me and we could have talked this out.”
“Your hot stockbroker boyfriend from New York City was in town when all this went down. I wasn’t going to invade your space.”
“Tommy understands. He loves you and me.”
He does love her. I see it in his blue eyes every time he looks at her. I saw the difference in him with her and Craig with me, but I ignored it. I saw the difference in me, too. I didn’t love Craig. I was in love with the idea of him. That’s why I’m not in the fetal position and bawling. “Look—”
“I’m coming to see you,” Shelley says. “I have things to talk about. Text me the address.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know. Soon. It’s Wednesday, so. Friday or Saturday.”
It’s Wednesday? God. I don’t even know what day of the week it is right now. “You don’t need to come all the way out here for me.”
“Yes, I do. I love you, babe. You’re my girl. I’m coming. I’ll see you soon, because you might be talking all happy and chipper, but we both know you don’t do drastic things like run off to hide in a small town.”
“I didn’t run and I’m not hiding.”
She continues as if I haven’t replied. “You’re all about stability. You’re the queen of habits. You like the norm. You’re freaking out inside. That’s what this means.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I try to mean it. I do mean it. I need to mean it.
“Liar. I’ll see you soon.” She hangs up.
Sighing, I set my phone down. She’s coming. I don’t want her to come. Maybe I am hiding. Maybe for the first time in my life I do need to be alone. Maybe I do need to cry, because I never cry. Not since—not since a long damn time ago.
I bury that thought before devouring the rest of the mac and cheese, then conclude that I’m eating like crap. I’m taking horrible care of myself, because Craig took horrible care of me. I need to respect me more than he did. I need to find a way to workout here. Though I’m not sure how I do that besides jogging, and in the current muddy situation, that’s not happening.
Heading to the bedroom, I pull on my boots and then defy everything I just decided about being better to myself. I do what feels right in the moment. I arm myself with my backup bag of chocolate and my computer before heading to the swing on the front porch. As I sit down, a cool spring breeze lifts in the air, the wind chimes of roses dangling from the ceiling singing for me.
It’s time to work. It’s time to make this book happen, to have a purpose. I pull up a blank page on my screen and type: Goodbye and Hello: A Girl’s Guide to Divorce. Find a new, happier, empowered version of you. God. I need to read this book. Can someone write it so I can read it?
I think about my muddy clothes and go put them in the washer I found in the laundry room, but there’s no detergent. Apparently, asshole cowboy needed to eat, not wash, while he was here. I head back outside, and it’s right about then that the sound of a vehicle approaching draws my attention. A familiar black truck pulls up in the drive just beyond the mud.
Jason gets out from the driver’s side, pulls off his hat, and runs his fingers through his loose, wavy dark hair before sauntering toward the cottage. Powerful thighs flex beneath denim while long, measured strides lead him across the muddy terrain, and Lord help me, he might be a jerk, but he’s a Wrangler commercial come to life, and I need a cold drink right now.
This is the kind of man that women fantasize about. The kind that makes you sink into a hot bubble bath and touch yourself when he’s gone, because you wish he was touching you. Craig’s the suited version of this cowboy, a popsicle you want to lick until they open their mouth and speak, only to ruin the fantasy.
Exactly why I don’t move or smile or drool.
Jason eyes me and trudges up the porch, and even then he’s all kinds of lethal, athletic grace.
“I thought I told you to be ready to leave when I came back?”
I set my computer aside and dart to my feet. “Your grandmother overruled you.”
“You don’t get to take advantage of my grandmother.”
“Take advantage of her? I paid to stay here.”
He reaches in his pocket and holds up a check. “Your refund.”
“I don’t want it. I have a lease, and just to be clear, I’m a divorce attorney. I know how to read a lease and a contract. I also know how to enforce those documents.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. That is so.”
“Then tell me. Is a lease with someone who doesn’t own the property binding?”
“She was representing you,” I hedge.
“That’s a no. Why would you want to be somewhere you’re not wanted?”
He hits a nerve and I cut my stare, but even as I do, his voice, his accent, hits me with realization. I forget his jab. I forget the pain it creates. My gaze shoots to his, eyes going wide with understanding. I know why he doesn’t trust me. I know why he thinks I’m after something. “You’re Jason Jenks. You’re the Flying J. The best pitcher the Yankees ever had and lost.” I grab my shirt. “I love the Rangers. I hated when a Texas pitcher ended up in New York. You have mad skills. I loved you.”
Oh God, did I just tell the man I loved him? “Loved to hate you,” I amend. “That’s a real emotion.” Emotion. God. His parents died in a plane crash right before he retired. “And—and we were all sorry when—”
“You’ve been cut, Jessica,” he snaps, proving he not only now knows my name, he has a precise way of using it, all low, rough, and cranky. “Time to pack up and leave.” He turns and starts walking down the stairs, shutting me out, shutting me down.
Stupid, stupid, Jessica. Why did you bring up his parents? I was afraid when my mother came home late. His parents never came home.
“Jason!” I run to the railing. “Jason, I won’t talk about—baseball. I won’t talk about baseball!” He doesn’t turn around. “And I can’t leave. My tire is stuck.”
That gets his attention. He stops at his truck door and eyes me over the hood. “And I suppose you want me to get it out? Again?”
“No. Well, yes, but first, I want you to take me to have cookies with your grandmother.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jason…
The last thing I need right before the anniversary of my parents’ plane crash and while battling with the bank to keep this damn struggling ranch alive, that no one but me knows is struggling, is trouble. Yet trouble is most certainly standing on the porch of the cottage. Trouble in the form of a pretty, pushy, out-of-her element woman who has taken over my life, and my office, in a span of twelve hours. Trouble that now knows who I am, but what did she know before she showed up here last night?
“How about those cookies?” she calls out, leaning over the railing.
She wants cookies, I’ll give her cookies, because not only do I wa
nt to please my grandmother, but also there is no better way to get a person to talk than putting them in a room with my grandmother and her baked goods. “Come on,” I order and open my truck door.
“I’ll be right there!” she calls out as she turns away.
“Now or never, sweetheart,” I say. “Once I leave, you and your tire are on your own.” I climb into the truck behind the wheel and eye her on the porch, where she’s presently looking like a doe in headlights, not certain what to do now. Or rather, a city girl in the country, wearing those damn high-heeled boots again.
I start the truck engine. Her big blue eyes go wide and she grabs her laptop, shuts it, and starts down the stairs, intending to bring it with her. She can think again. That piece of electronics is not coming with us, but then, that might not be an issue. At the rate she’s going, it may end up as buried in mud as she was last night.
At present, she’s balancing on one brick at a time to track a path through the swampland of the yard, with more success than I would have given her credit for, considering last night’s mud bath. But then, last night was treacherous and she is one of those pretty city girls I left behind, right along with baseball. In other words, she probably took ballet and wears a silk eye mask to sleep at night.
Proving what I can assume to be right, she arrives at my truck nice and clean, yanking open the door. “I’m here,” she announces.
Yes. Yes. She is.
“Here” isn’t enough, though. “Inside with me” comes next. She climbs into my truck, filling it with the scent of flowers and sunshine, and it pisses me off. I don’t need her bouncing around the ranch, trying to convince everyone she’s a sweet thing when she’s already trouble.
“Just for the record,” she says, shutting her door and setting her laptop between us. “I’m only playing this game with you for one reason. We both know who’s in charge.”
The Truth About Cowboys Page 3