“I’m aware of that fact,” Martha says, leaning on the island. “Because how else would she write a book on the topic? Jessica and I talked for quite a long time on the phone before I chose to lease to her.”
He scowls. “She’s writing a divorce book in the cottage that grandpa built for you.”
“Because,” she argues, “no one finds what your grandparents had while stuck in a bad marriage.”
“Too often,” I add, finishing off my cookie, “people settle for the wrong people, just to be married.”
He arches a brow. “And you’re a happily married expert?”
I bristle despite my best efforts not to react. He’s hit a nerve. A big bouncy nerve. “I’m not married, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here alone.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Because you’re waiting on the right man,” Martha interjects. “Good girl. Where are your parents?”
Another nerve hit, and this one is bouncing around the kitchen until it settles deep in my belly, where I need about ten more cookies. I pick my mug up and sip. “I don’t know my father. My mother’s traveling the world with husband number four.” I sip my coffee again. “She’s certainly taught me what not to do.”
“And now you’re spreading the life-saving knowledge to the rest of the world?” Jason queries.
“Getting out of a bad marriage takes courage,” Martha states. “You know and love Linda. You know how hard that was for her. And Jennie is no different.” Martha looks at me. “Jennie’s my daughter. She married a lawyer in Austin while in school and he was pretty horrible to her.”
“Where is she now?” I ask.
“Teaching English in Taiwan,” Martha says. “It was always one of her dreams. She forgot what she wanted for a time, but she’s happy now. And happy matters.”
She eyes me and then Jason. “Jessica and I need to have some girl-talk time.”
Jason doesn’t accept the invitation to leave. “Grandma—”
“Grandson,” she counters, leaning on the island to fix him in a stare. “Go. Or we’ll start talking about PMS and cramps. The next thing you know, you’ll be doing a tampon run for us.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh and I’m fighting the curve of my lips when Jason turns an accusing stare on me that says I’m not done with you before he looks at his grandmother again. “I’ll be in the den.” He grabs two more cookies and heads for the door, sauntering all loose-legged and confidently away. I try not to notice his ass in his jeans or think about how good those baseball pants looked on him. I don’t like the man. His nice, tight, baseball-developed ass does not matter.
I grab another cookie. He disappears out of the kitchen. Martha fills her coffee cup and claims the stool next to me. “He doesn’t take to outsiders too well.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. He probably thinks everyone wants a piece of him, but I can assure you both that’s not the case.”
Her eyes go wide. “You know who he is?”
“I love sports. Football and baseball. I recognized him.”
“You’re a fan?”
“Ah, well.” I run my hands down my jeans. “No. I’m from Dallas. He played for New York. I sort of hated him. He was good and that sucked for us.”
She laughs. “He was good, he is good, but regardless, he didn’t get to choose his team, you know? He’s a Texan, too.”
“Oh I know that, but he wanted to win for New York. That made him the enemy.”
“Did you tell him this?”
“Yes, well, that did kind of spontaneously erupt from my mouth, but in my defense, I’m passionate about baseball. With that passion comes certain automatic reactions.”
She laughs. “I like you, Jessica. You say what you think.”
“Maybe a little too much for my own good,” I murmur, thinking of the client I called a cheating loser, among other things. I hold up my cookie. “But cookies make everything but the waistline better, even my mouth.”
“Oh pish posh, honey. You’re tiny.”
“Thank you, but I’ve eaten my weight in chocolate the past few days. Maybe I should volunteer here on the ranch and work off some of the calories.”
She narrows her intelligent blue eyes on me. “You want to help on the ranch?”
“I think it might be good for me.”
“Says the divorce attorney used to high heels and high rises.”
I bristle. “I am not the sum of high heels and high rises.”
“No, but I looked you up. I know you’re one of the top divorce attorneys in the state. You, my dear, cater to the rich and famous.”
I finish off my cookie. I really need another. “That just sort of happened.”
“And yet you’re here, writing a book, with no cases to handle? What happened? And before you answer, that background is part of the reason I said yes to you renting the cottage. Anyone who has dealt with the rich and famous knows to keep their mouth shut about their lives.”
I radiate toward the part of that statement easily answered. “I do indeed know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“What happened?” she repeats.
I grimace and grab cookie number three. Thank God I brought my fat pants, otherwise known as leggings. “Besides my mouth?” I ask.
She reaches for a cookie and gives me nothing but silence in return, willing me to fill said silence. “Answering that defies my declaration that I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
She leans on the island. “Answer me anyway because it’s me and we’re now friends.”
Says the woman who gave me my pity party cookie escape, therefore deserving the basic rundown. “I was forced to take on the client of all clients. He’s not only the top corporate customer for the firm, but I was promised that he’d be my final case before making partner.”
“Filthy rich asshole?”
“So rich. So arrogant. Such a cheating asshole. And I told him so. I also assured him that I wasn’t going to cheat his wife. He’d already done that. Needless to say, he wasn’t happy and the partners suggested that a leave of absence was in my best interest. Luckily, this book deal was on the table, so I took it.”
“Ouch,” Martha murmurs. “Surely you’d dealt with that kind of man before without such a reaction. What set you off about this particular man?”
I swallow hard and shove the remainder of the cookie in my mouth, which really is an achievement considering the size. I grab my coffee and down the rest of it. My eyes are burning. Damn it, they want to leak. “It wasn’t him,” I manage, choking down the coffee and cookie, and still managing a bitter laugh. I shouldn’t say more, and yet out it comes from my mouth. “I’m pretty sure it was finding my fiancé in bed with his secretary that morning.” I stand up, my throat constricting. I think I’m choking and not on the cookie. On my life. “Do you have a bathroom I can use?”
She studies me a moment and I think she might say something about my comment, but she seems to change her mind. “Of course, Jessica. Just past the living room and down the hall.”
I don’t wait for further detail. “Thank you,” I murmur, hurrying out of the kitchen and rounding the corner, only to run smack into a hard body. His body. I know it’s him. I can smell him, one part spice and one part arrogance, because yes, arrogance has a scent. Jason’s arrogant scent. He’s now my captor, holding my arms, his big body more than in my path—our legs are pressed together. My hands are now resting on what I reluctantly admit to be his impressive chest. I expect him to let me go, to back away, but he doesn’t.
My chin tilts and his sky-blue eyes catch mine, staring down at me, and there aren’t enough cookies in that kitchen to save me from the judgment in their depths. There also aren’t enough grandmas in that kitchen to save him from how angry that makes me.
CHAPTER NINE
Jessica…
> There’s a story behind why I don’t cry in public. It’s not a pretty story, but then neither is crying in public. Actually, crying is rarely pretty, especially if you aren’t wearing waterproof mascara, which thankfully, in the Texas heat, is mandatory. But the point is. I’m not going to cry. That’s my new mantra.
I.
Am.
Not.
Going.
To.
Cry.
Still trapped just outside the kitchen, with a big wolf of a cowboy pressed close to me, one would think this mantra would be easy to maintain. However, this hot cowboy isn’t exactly looking at me like he wants to lick my wounds. I stare up at Jason and the judgment in his eyes about kills me. I’m on judgment overload. I don’t belong here, they say—he says—without speaking a word. I don’t belong back in Dallas, either. I came here to escape judgment, only to find it again in this man’s damningly gorgeous blue eyes.
I open my mouth to speak then snap it shut. Martha has been good to me. Going off on her grandson and telling him what I think isn’t polite. Not in her house, or rather, his house. It’s simply not the right time or place for words.
I step around him, or I try. He catches my arm, and damn it, my eyes are tingling. They want to weep. Okay, they don’t. I do.
“Where are you going?”
“To pee.” I blink away that weeping sensation and look up at him. “I’d invite you, but I don’t like you enough to let you watch.”
“Aren’t you funny?”
“No. I told you. I’m not funny at all. And I’m not sure what was funny about that. I let all my boyfriends watch.” I jerk my arm away and start walking. Oh Good Lord, did I really just say that? I let all my boyfriends watch me pee? Am I trying to convince him I’m a freak that he should keep away from his grandmother? Apparently, yes, because since I found Craig in bed with his secretary, I can’t control what comes out of my mouth. It’s like a foot-in-mouth illness. I’m sick. Do you know how many loser spouses I’ve heard blame an illness for cheating? It’s nauseating.
Hurrying down the hallway, I turn left to find a row of doors. Fortunately, one of them is the bathroom, and I waste no time shutting myself inside. I’m now standing in a basic bathroom that is small, unexceptional in all things aside from being clean, immaculately clean to the point I hate to use it. I’m never this clean. I’m messy, my house cluttered even if my work is not, and I’d drive whoever is this clean crazy. It must be the cowboy. It’s his house and this bathroom is proof that I’m the opposite of all things that is that man. I certainly couldn’t look that pretty in a cowboy hat and I haven’t ever wanted to try.
I step to the sink and stare at myself in the mirror, my hair frizzing all over my head. God, I’d look better in a cowboy hat than not right now. I press my hand to my face. Why did I tell Martha what happened to me? Now, Jason will know. Now, everyone will pity me. I don’t want to be pitied. My cell phone rings in my pocket. I don’t even remember picking it up, but I must have had it in my hand when I ran to the truck, chasing Jason like an idiot. I shouldn’t have run after him. His grandmother would have made him come back for me had he left me behind.
I glance at the caller ID and find Craig’s number. My gut twists and I hit decline and set the phone on the counter. I then realize the man has my money and try to call him back. But I get voicemail. Then my voicemail notification goes off. I ignore his and open the message, listening. “The money is tied up,” he says. “I can’t get to it. I tried. You know I just paid my partner deposit last month. I’m not fluid. It’s going to be about six months. I’ll let you know.”
Six months?
I stare at the phone like it’s grown horns. That jerk expects me to survive without money for six months? I start to pace the tiny space, which is no easy task. I hit the toilet and end up sitting on the lid, because basically, that’s oh so appropriate right now. My life on the toilet. Maybe that should be my book title. Divorce is Better Than a Life on the Toilet.
I shove my hand through my hair and force myself to focus. Breathe, Jessica. I inhale and force myself to think. I have the book advance. I’ll get it soon, I hope. I don’t know how long these things take. I’ll call my agent. I’ll inquire and plan based on her feedback. What sucks is I can’t even afford a good attorney to fight Craig, not until I at least get that advance. This is ridiculous and embarrassing. He not only took my home and job, he took me to the cleaners. The good news? Anger has driven away the tears. The bad news? Away is a loosely defined term. Perhaps delayed my tears is more accurate. I do believe those tears will visit me tonight. In fact, I should plan a date with myself. Chocolate. Wine. Me alone in the cottage. That’s when I’ll explode.
I make this deal with myself, swear I will stick to the terms, and stand up to look myself in the eye, just to be sure I believe me. I step to the mirror as a thundering knock sounds on the door and has me yelping. Good grief.
Fist balled between my breasts and over my racing heart, the distinctly masculine pounding repeats and I decide that I’m done with men, and the top of that list includes attorneys, cowboys, and athletes. And assholes. I’m definitely done with assholes. There’s another knock on the door, and I’m done for sure, ready to tell this particular man how done I am. I yank open the door and jolt all over again. Jason is not only waiting on me, he’s right in front of the door, his big body consuming any possible path I have forward.
“Are you here to stop me from getting back to your grandmother and those cookies and doing one or both harm? Here to escort me back to my car and send me on my way?”
He surprises me by scrubbing his face, looking away, and he appears rather tormented before he faces me again, his hands settling on his lean hips. “Look, I know what it’s like to need an escape. Just remember this place is mine as well.” He steps back and waves me forward. “Enjoy the cookies.”
The implication is that I will betray him and his grandmother by turning him into a payday. I could bristle at this. I could take this as an insult, but I’ve dealt with the rich and famous. I know how often they’re betrayed for a payday.
“I know how easy it is to see assholes everywhere when it’s all you’re used to seeing, but I’m not one of them.” I start walking and at the end of the hallway, I pause. “I’ll sign a confidentiality agreement.” And with that, I head to the kitchen to do just what he suggested: enjoy the cookies.
CHAPTER TEN
Jessica…
Still reeling from that encounter with Jason, which shouldn’t have me reeling at all, I enter the kitchen again and stop dead just inside the doorway. Martha isn’t alone anymore. She’s chatting with a tall, muscular man with raven hair, who is now fixing me in an angry stare.
“Jessica,” Martha exclaims. “Your ears must be burning. I was just talking about you and the cottage. This is Roarke. He owns the ranch next to us. He and Jason have been best friends since childhood.”
“Ah,” I say to this interesting bit of information. “That explains so much.” I set my feet in motion again, approaching the island then stopping at my prior spot right next to Martha, which sandwiches me between her and him.
“And what exactly does that mean?” Roarke asks.
Martha picks up her cup. “Yes. Please. Tell us. What does that mean?” She looks eager to receive my assessment, a smile quirking her lips. She’s enjoying my mouth, while my mouth enjoys getting me in trouble these days.
Knowing this, I could hold back. I could. I should, but it’s like a bottle top has been removed, and I’m now the fizzy drink inside that was shaken before released. I’ve held my tongue for so many years, it just can’t be held any longer. “Well,” I say, picking up my coffee cup. “You’re a good-looking judgmental cowboy. That seems a perfect match for Jason, who’s also a good-looking judgmental cowboy.” I sip my now cold coffee and set it down.
“They’re both good-looking, aren’
t they?” Martha says, sipping her coffee, and since she hasn’t been in the bathroom giving herself a pep talk, I suspect her drink is quite warm and wonderful.
“And,” I add, not about to agree to that comment, despite opening the door myself, “that kindred spirit you two share, Roarke, explains the hate in your eyes. You can stop shooting daggers at me, so I’ll just clear the air. I’m not after a payday. I’m, ironically, trying to escape men in general and somehow ended up at a ranch filled with them.”
“She didn’t know the cottage was on a ranch,” Martha adds.
“I offered to sign a confidentiality agreement. It’s worth it for these cookies.” I pick one up and look at Martha. “You should package these and sell them.”
She beams a smile at me. “You’re too kind.”
“Why here?” Roarke asks.
“Because I thought it was a secluded cottage.”
“Then why stay?”
I take a bite of a cookie. “Need you really ask that question?”
Martha laughs. “You know, if you come by tomorrow morning, I’ll feed you and teach you how to make them.”
“I can’t be taught to bake. I’m bad at all things domestic. Probably because my mother favored takeout.”
Roarke laughs. “You really are a piece of work. I don’t believe I’ve ever known a divorce attorney.”
Obviously, Martha has been talking fast. “And I’ve known a lot of people,” I say. “But never a real cowboy, just the fake kind that puts on boots and jeans and never gets dirty.”
“Know many baseball players?”
“Actually, yes. I helped a pitcher, who will remain unnamed, get divorced.” I don’t offer details. That’s one thing I can’t talk about. My clients’ business. “I’m not starstruck,” I add. “Did you play ball, too?”
“No,” Roarke says. “I train horses. I’ve always trained horses.”
“People bring horses from around the world to work with Roarke,” Martha says. “They call him the horse whisperer.”
The Truth About Cowboys Page 5