He stands, towering over me. “That was the spot where the rattlesnake just bit you.”
“That was the spot an asshole just pinched me.”
“And a snake would bite you,” he counters, accepting the asshole title. I even think he embraces it. And damn it, why does he smell good? Isn’t he supposed to smell like dirt and more dirt? Not spice and musky warm sunshine. “You need boots that protect you, not prepare you for a fashion show.”
“Stop acting like I’m some fashionista. I’m not.”
“You were wearing high-heeled boots at the side of the road.”
“I was in high-heeled boots when I—” My lips press together. I almost said too much.
He arches a brow. “When you what?”
“Was dealing with you.”
“And that means what exactly?” he challenges. “I saved you.”
“You mocked me.”
“I pulled you out of the mud.”
“You pushed me into the mud.”
He laughs, low and sexy. I hate that I just thought he was sexy. “There you go again. Laughing like you did when I fell in the mud.”
“I didn’t laugh.”
“You laughed.”
“Here we go,” Debbie says, and the brown boots are offered to Jason, not me.
He doesn’t immediately respond, his gaze latched to mine, our fiery conflict alive and well. His expression tightens, his gaze—reluctantly, it seems—pulls from me to her. “Thank you, Debbie.” He accepts the box and motions to me. “Sit.”
“I’m not—”
“You want to bet?” he challenges.
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, “I can call my grandmother. You won’t win that argument.”
“You know that statement—I can call my grandma—doesn’t do your macho baseball player cowboy image much justice.”
“I said grandmother, not grandma, though I claim her as both. And I didn’t know you thought I was macho. Just an asshole. You should state your opinions more clearly.”
“Right. You’re an asshole cowboy who thinks he’s a macho cowboy king in these here parts. Is that clear enough?”
His lips quirk. “I think you need to try again. I still heard ‘she thinks I’m macho’ and I heard it like a compliment. And there was the word king in there, too. That sounds like another compliment.”
“It’s not a compliment. None of that was a compliment. It means you act like a caveman, all old-school alpha male, with an outdated hero complex, and you even—”
“Are you done?”
“No,” I say flatly. “Isn’t that obvious? That’s why you had to interrupt me.”
Debbie clears her throat. “How long have you two been dating?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jessica…
How long have we been dating?
Debbie’s question shuts both me and Jason up. Suddenly aware of how close I’m standing in front of him, I take a step backward. “We’re not—”
“Buying the ones on her feet,” Jason says before I can correct her, taking the box from her hand. “Sit down, sweet pea. You’re trying on the brown ones.”
Sweet pea? Did he really just call me sweet pea?
He sets the box on the chair. “Thanks, Debbie. We’ll let you know how they work out.”
Her cheeks flush pink with the obvious dismissal. The minute she walks away, he’s refocused on me. “Did you bring plenty of jeans?”
“I—a couple pairs.”
His scowl is not one of approval. “What size do you wear?”
“I’m not telling you what size I wear.” I lower my voice. “And what was that? Sweet pea? You didn’t even correct her. We hate each other. We’re not dating.”
“I’m letting you stay despite my better judgment. She’s been pining for me hard. Now she can move on and find someone new.”
“New? Did you date her?”
“No.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“Now, now, sweet pea. We don’t like that language around these parts.”
“Oh please. You’re cowboys, not fucking boy scouts.”
His lips twitch. “Try on the boots.”
I sigh and sit down. “And who calls a girl sweet pea, anyway?”
“Me,” he says, reaching for my foot and pulling off my boot. That’s when he eyes my socks with little cats all over them. He arches a brow.
“What’s wrong with cats?”
“Do you have one?”
“No, I don’t. Why? Were you going to charge me a pet deposit?”
He opens the box and hands me a boot. “I was trying to figure out why anyone pines after something they want but then walks away.” He sits down.
“Okay, Mr. Judgmental, since we seem to be coming up with little cute names for each other. My job had crazy hours, so I wouldn’t put a cat through all that alone time.” I pull on the ugly-ass boot that does, in fact, go much farther up my leg. “And I could say the same for you, since you walked away from pitching, but no, I don’t want to know why. Lord help me if that somehow got out and you thought I was the one to tell. So I don’t want to know.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“And yet you wanted to know what size pants I wear?”
“The two correlate how?”
“Both are very intimate, personal secrets.” I stand up and test the comfort of the boots. I hate them. They make my legs look short and stubby.
“How do they feel?” Jason asks.
“Did you choose the boots because you want me to look ugly? You did basically tell me not to wear makeup and to dress like a nun.”
His jaw hardens and he ignores my comment. “How do they feel?”
“Like ugly flew away and landed on my feet, but alas, if they keep away the snakes, I’ll take them.” I sit down and pull off the boot. “I seem to attract snakes lately. I’m not testing my luck.”
“Wear them out of here.” He stands and says nothing. He walks toward the clothing section where Debbie is doing something, I don’t know what. I pull on the other boot, stick my shoes in the box, and prepare to hunt down a bill to pay.
I’m on my booted feet when Jason returns, handing me a bag. “Two pairs of Levi’s. I guessed at your size.”
He guessed at my size? Has he been looking at my size? And this is weird. “Why would you pick out jeans for me?”
“My grandmother’s suggestion. She worries. I don’t like her to worry. And why did she want you to have these jeans? To cover your legs. The material is thick.”
“Texas is hot.”
“And snakes get meaner when they get hot. I swear their teeth get longer, too.”
“Haha. Aren’t you funny?”
“Not usually,” he replies dryly, dismissing me with a glance at his rugged-looking watch, brown leather wrapping his wrist, expensive brown leather. A carry-over from his big city life? “I need to be somewhere. Let’s head out.”
“Right. I’ll just go pay.”
“I paid. My grandmother wanted to do this for you.”
I frown. “I’ll undo it and pay myself. I’m not letting Martha pay for me. That’s not right.” I start to walk.
He lightly catches my arm, but heat radiates up and over my chest like fire, burning me alive. My gaze jerks to his again and that fire now blazes a circle around us. “If you talk to Debbie, she’ll ask questions about you and me. Do you really want to answer questions about us?”
“There is no you and me,” I say, and I tell myself to pull back, but I don’t. “I’m really not big on playing games with a girl’s heart.”
“You’re not. You’re keeping her from playing games with her heart. It’s quite nice of you, actually.”
“Because I’m so nice?
”
He just looks at me, that handsome, chiseled face of his unchanged, unreadable. Did I say handsome? “You’re a divorce attorney,” he finally says. “We both know you’re not nice.” He releases me, his hand falling away, and I feel cold where I was hot only a moment before, which is pretty much all over. It’s the air conditioning, I tell myself, only I’m not actually sure they have one running.
He picks up the box I left on the chair and starts walking, calling over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
I grimace, throwing darts at his back, but I also manage to notice his butt again. A butt so worthy of those baseball pants I bet there are shots of it on the internet. Oh my God, did I really just put that idea in my own head? I’m not Googling that man’s butt. Not. Doing it. He just cut me down for being an attorney.
I hurry forward and once again find him in the truck, waiting on me. I climb inside and toss the bag of jeans onto the floorboard. “You keep leaving me behind. Cowboys are supposed to be gentlemen.”
“I am. We are. And believe me, walking away was me being a gentleman.” He starts the engine.
“Because you hate attorneys?”
“I don’t hate attorneys.” He backs us up then sets us straight again. “I just don’t trust them.”
He means he doesn’t trust me. I sink down into my seat and refuse to comment. How can I? Why would I? Considering my recent self-made circumstances, I don’t trust me much right now, either. After today’s weirdly hot encounter, I certainly can’t be trusted with this cowboy riding next to me. I mean, he smells good and every decision that has smelled good to me lately ended up as a mistake. No more mistakes. No more Jason. I’m breaking up with my fake boyfriend. Debbie can have him. He’s all hers, and I’ll take the scowl on his face as his stamp of approval.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jessica…
Jason doesn’t drive me back to the cottage. He drives half a mile down the road and pulls into a dirt parking lot. I straighten, trying to see over the high dash and bringing what appears to be a country store—since the wooden sign on two wooden posts says Country Store—I’m smart like that—into view. It’s a cute little place that resembles a giant log cabin, with massive logs stacked on top of each other to support a shingled roof. An oversized porch—which I love—spans the entire front of the structure, and a Texas flag hangs from one side. That’s the thing about us Texans. We do love our state.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Groceries,” Jason informs me, parking to the right of the wooden steps. “You’d better get them now. Another storm is blowing in. You should get candles while you’re at it. The lights in the cottage go out when the wind comes on strong.”
It’s like the man knows my fear of a serial killer in a dark cabin. “The lights go out?” I demand, rotating to face him. “Are you serious?”
“I wouldn’t be here waiting for you to go shop if I wasn’t.”
The idea of being stranded with no supplies isn’t a problem I want to face. The idea of being alone in the middle of nowhere in that dark cottage isn’t, either, but if I’m going to be forced into that situation, I’ll do it with candles. “Hurry,” he says. “The storm is expected to hit in the next few hours.”
“You aren’t coming in?”
He slinks down into his seat a little lower. “I’ll wait right here.”
“What about our reputation as girlfriend and boyfriend? Debbie surely will hear you let me shop alone.”
“She’ll think we just had another lovers’ quarrel,” he says. “I’d say we’re about ready for a divorce, wouldn’t you?”
I have no idea why him staying behind bothers me, but it does, which is a good reason to get out of the truck now. I slide my legs over the seat, about to exit the truck when I realize I have no purse. I have no money. How did I even think I was going to pay for those boots in the store? I settle back into the cushion and shut the door. “I’ll come back on my own.”
“I can’t promise your tire is coming out of that mud,” he says. “Not until I get back with a tow tool that I don’t have on me, and I don’t have time to come back today.”
“I have no purse and that means no money.”
“Put it on my account.” He glances over at me. “Don’t argue. I need to attend to our high water locations.”
“Oh right. Of course. Just—I’ll pay you back the minute I can get cash, or if Martha wants to send me an invoice, I can do it that way.”
“Hurry,” he repeats, seemingly without concern for the money, but I am concerned. I don’t want to take advantage of anyone. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I plan to become.
I sigh and open the door again, rushing outside, and a cool wind rushes over me, the smell of rain in the air. A cursory glance at the sky and I find a cluster of clouds bruised and all but bursting. The storm is indeed coming. I hurry up the steps and inside the store, finding a respectable little shopping area, the kind you’d expect in any small town. There’s a decent fresh produce section and about a dozen rows of products. Without another human in sight, I grab a hand basket and waste no time selecting a few fresh fruits, an avocado, more boxes of mac and cheese, candy, of course, and some random items. The candles and matches I need, however, are nowhere in sight. And really, why wouldn’t there be candles and matches, if Jason works at the cabin, and the lights truly go out?
“Hello there.”
At the frail female voice, I turn to find a lady in her sixties with a hunch to her back and lots of gray hair joining me. She’s wearing jeans and boots and a “Country Store” T-shirt. “What can I help you with, honey?”
“Hello. Thank you. Do you have candles and matches?”
“Oh no, honey. That would be the hardware store.”
I frown. Surely Jason knew this. He’s messing with me, I think, but why?
“Anything else I can help with?” the woman asks.
“I’m ready to checkout,” I say, grabbing a jar of pickles from the shelf—they’re calorie-free and I promise myself they’ll be my work snack while the candy in my basket next to them mocks me.
“This way,” the woman directs, taking off down the aisle. “You new to town?” she asks over her shoulder. “Or visiting?”
“I’m here for a few months.”
We clear the row of products and she rounds the big wooden counter where the register sits. “Is that right?” she asks. “We don’t get a lot of short-termers here. Where you staying?”
I set the basket on the counter. “At the Flying J cottage. Martha rented it to me. And actually, this will be on Jason’s tab.”
Her brows dip the way mine must have when she told me she had no candles. “Jason’s tab,” she repeats. “You’re another one of his city girls, then?” Her voice reeks of disapproval.
My eyes go wide. “His city girls? Oh. No. I rented the cottage from Martha. I’m writing a book. I needed an escape. I left my purse and my tire is stuck and—Jason just helped me out. I’m not with him. I barely know him. And yes, I guess I am a city girl, but don’t hold it against me. I really am glad to be here and not there.” I snap my mouth shut. Why am I rambling? I don’t ramble. I’m an attorney. I listen. I talk when necessary.
The woman looks at me over the rims of her dark-framed glasses.
“He’s in the truck outside if you need to confirm the charge,” I add, because why shouldn’t I just throw some more words onto this fire? “I left my purse at the cottage.” Which I already said.
She just looks at me for another full ten seconds and then starts ringing up the order. She doesn’t say another word to me. She doesn’t even speak when she finishes and hands me my bags. There’s scorn in her eyes. Good Lord. How many city girls has Jason brought here and what hell have they wreaked on the town?
I try to smile. I think I might look more like I stepped on a thumbtack. “Than
k you.”
She doesn’t return my pained smile. I snag my bags and head for the door, anger starting to form. Jason didn’t take me here for groceries. He took me to this store with an agenda. The minute I head down the stairs, I spy him in his truck, his hat over his face. I stomp to the passenger door, open it, and plop my bags between us. He doesn’t move, but he’s not asleep. “You knew she’d hate me for being from the city, and you wanted her to make me feel like I don’t belong.”
He shoves his hat back and straightens. “I take it Bella was working today.” He starts the engine. “Bella judges everyone. That’s how small towns work. They know your business. There are judges everywhere.”
“And you wanted me to know this so I’d go back to the city where assholes roam freely?”
“According to you that happens here, too, because I roam freely.” He backs us up then sets the truck into forward motion.
“One asshole, who at least has a grandmother who can control him.”
“Nothing wrong with loving your grandmother,” he comments dryly.
“Well,” I say, the wind officially out of my sails. “I won’t fault you for that. I think it’s sweet, which means you aren’t all asshole, I suppose.”
“Sweet.”
“Yes. Sweet.”
He grimaces. “Just what every man wants to be called by a woman. Sweet.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, while I think your love for your grandmother is sweet, you’re still an asshole.”
“Thanks. I feel a hundred times better now.”
Already we’re leaving town, the road leading toward the cottage in view. “Bella didn’t have candles.”
“There are candles in the cottage. Kitchen drawer by the stove.” He turns us down the dirt road.
“Which you knew all along,” I accuse.
“It slipped my mind.”
More like he wanted to mess with mine. I process that and try to put into perspective what it is that he hates about me being here. He parks in front of the cottage. I turn to face him. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for the ride. Thank you for helping me last night. Thank you for letting me borrow your store account. Thank you for letting me stay.”
The Truth About Cowboys Page 7