“What?”
“Write that romance novel. Screw the divorce book. Divorce has made you a cynical wench. Back in high school—”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes, it was. We met in our freshmen year. I know you, woman. Set aside the divorce. Write the romance. Write it for you. You don’t have to publish it.”
I laugh. “Right.” I pick up Kelly and walk toward the couch, setting her on the back of the cushion. “No one wants to read a romance novel written by a divorce attorney.”
“Nonsense. Who knows what love really is but someone who’s seen what it isn’t?”
“I have no romance in me right now. I don’t want to go down that emotional rabbit hole.”
“Write something fun. You’re in the country. The Truth About Cowboys or How to Date a Cowboy. I love that. I love it so much.”
My cell phone buzzes with a text from Martha: Is late afternoon okay? I can’t seem to get there sooner.
Of course, I reply, and glance at Shelley. “Martha can’t get here for a bit.” I point to the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee. Tell me all about your trip.”
And that’s what we do. We drink coffee and talk for hours. There’s scavenging the cabinets and eating that follows. Then more coffee and conversation. It’s nearly five when there’s a knock on the door and I set Kelly on the ground. “That’s Martha, I bet.” I glance at my watch. “I can’t believe how long we’ve been talking.”
She eyes the time. “Oh wow. I need to leave soon.”
“I want you to meet Martha. She’s wonderful.” I point at her. “But be good.”
“Be good? Moi? I’m always good and I want her to let Kelly stay, remember? I’ll be good.”
“When do you leave?”
“Ah—soon.”
Another knock. “Soon?”
“Get the door.”
I grimace and walk to the door to find Martha standing there all decked out in a Western shirt and jeans, but it’s the man towering above her from behind—a gorgeous, tall, handsome man, holding his cowboy hat, with a weary expression and tired eyes, but no anger over yet another city girl in town—who catches my eye.
“I just love having you here,” Martha declares, lifting the Tupperware in her hands. “I brought cookies to share with your friend.”
Martha steps inside the doorway, and I back up on cue to allow her entry. Martha spies Kelly and shouts out. “Oh my God. Look at her.” Shelley moves forward to accept the cookies, and the three of them are consumed with cookies, a cat, and joy.
“I need to head out,” Jason says softly, showing no interest in meeting Shelley. Or maybe he made time for his grandmother, but more just isn’t a luxury he has right now. As if proving me right, he adds, “One of my men is on standby to pick her up. She owes him cookies. He’s willing to pay extra with the ride.”
I smile at that, but it fades as I realize his words are light and he isn’t. “I’ll walk you to your truck,” I suggest.
His lips quirk. “I don’t have time to pull you out of the mud.”
“I told you. I only fall on Tuesdays.”
He arches a brow.
“Okay,” I concede. “I fall whenever I damn well please and I please often. I’ll walk you to the porch.”
“The porch it is.”
He opens the door, and Martha and Shelley, and even Kelly, don’t notice. Shelley is now meowing herself over the cookies. “So good,” I hear, even as Jason opens the door and motions me forward.
I step into the muggy day, and I can almost feel my hair frizzing around my face. I turn to face Jason. “She’s not staying. She’s going to Europe with her boyfriend for a couple of months. Which is why she’s not staying, but the cat is, if Martha approves it. And you, of course. The cottage is your office. Do you like cats?”
“I like animals more than I like most people.”
Am I included in most people? Because there’s an edge to him, a hard, sharp edge that may or may not be about me. Shelley’s reprimand about self-esteem comes back to me, and I reprimand myself. This isn’t about me. It’s about the orchard, and I’m not sure I should poke the privacy bear. I settle on, “Is everything okay?”
He stares at me, his eyes unreadable, seconds ticking by before his eyes land on my boots. “You wore them willingly.”
“Snakes scare me more than ugly boots.” All snakes, especially the ex-boyfriend variety of snakes, I add silently, hating the way Shelley’s presence is stirring thoughts of Craig.
“What else scares you?”
You. You scare me. “Anything that bites makes the list.”
“Then I should warn you.” Suddenly, he’s closing the distance between me and him, stopping toe to toe with me, but he doesn’t touch me. “I bite.” He turns to leave, and I have the distinct impression this isn’t about sex, but rather, some sort of test. I rotate and he’s at the bottom of the stairs.
“I already know you bite. I have the marks on my ass to show it.”
He stops walking and turns to face me, and it’s like a wall has been lifted between us. He winks, his eyes filled with mischief, his expression softening. “Show me tonight,” he says, then he’s walking toward the truck, his stride all arrogant swagger and hotness.
I watch every step, and I don’t enter the cottage until he’s pulling away. I enter the cottage to find Martha, Shelley, and Kelly on the couch, the open cookie container in Shelley’s lap, and Kelly in Martha’s lap. The minute Shelley spies me, her eyes light, as she makes it perfectly clear she’s been talking cats and cookies but other things have been on her mind. “Holy hotness, Batman,” she says. “Who’s the fuckalicious cowboy? Please tell me he’s your rebound man, because I approve.”
I cringe. Lord help me, I should have known she couldn’t watch her mouth.
Martha straightens and sets Kelly on the floor. “My grandson.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Jessica…
Shelley covers her mouth with her hand, and Martha stands up, walking toward me, stopping in front of me. “Do you think such things about my grandson? That he’s a sexy fu—”
“Oh God, stop right there,” I say. “He’s good-looking, hard-working, and loves his grandmother. That’s what I think of him.”
“Is he your rebound guy?”
“Lord help me if he is.”
She narrows her eyes on me. “What does that mean?”
“Can I plead the fifth?”
Her lips curve. “He is quite good-looking, and he does love his grandma.”
“Yes, he does. And for the record, Shelley, who comes from a family of manners and money, just acted like a wench. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry!” Shelley calls out. “I am a wench. My mother can’t stand that about me. She loves me and all, but I embarrass her and me. And can I still have more cookies?”
Martha considers her for a few moments and then me before she walks to her purse and pulls out a bottle of vodka. “We all need to drink.” She grabs another bottle. “Chocolate martinis.”
“I’m in,” I say, relief washing over me. “I have yet to get sloppy drunk since my break up.”
“I wish I could,” Shelley says, “but I need to head back to Dallas in a few hours. I have a flight out in two days. I need to take care of some things.”
“That’s why you came so early,” I say. “You’re already leaving?” I feel a bit of panic. What if this is it? My one familiar, safe person in this world never comes back to Texas? She goes straight to New York from Europe. I swallow hard. “How about that martini, Martha?”
“Let’s do it,” she says, and the two of us head to the kitchen.
Shelley shows up at the opposite side of the island. “Can Kelly stay?”
“Yes,” I say, helping Martha open a bottle. “If Martha says she can stay.”
“She can stay,” Martha says, glancing at me. “You can bring her over when you help me bake.” She sets a bag on the table. “Supplies. Critical supplies.” She removes bottles and a mixer, the stuff that makes vodka better. The stuff that makes it into chocolate martinis.
“She doesn’t bake,” Shelley says, helping create our mixture. “Like at all. Not anything edible.”
“Thanks, Shelley.” I shake the newly filled shaker and fill three glasses. “Like I need any more self-confidence issues.” I down a martini and Martha does the same. Shelley shrugs and follows suit.
Martha picks up the shaker. “More, please,” I say, offering her my glass.
“Oh hell,” Shelley says. “I’m in. I’ll be leaving in the morning instead of tonight, which is fine, but my God, why is it so hot in here?”
“Drink, you wuss,” Martha says. “Stand by the window unit, but it’s not that bad.”
I laugh. “She’s a wuss.”
“Give me that bottle,” Shelley snaps. “I’ll wuss you, scaredy cat. Afraid to do something different.”
“What’s she talking about, honey?” Martha asks.
“Ignore her,” I command. “I usually do.”
“She always wanted to write a romance novel. She wrote short stories and they were good, but they wouldn’t pay the bills, she said. She went to law school. She became a divorce attorney, and you know why? Her mother is a serial divorcée.”
“I heard that,” Martha says, grimacing. “At least she has a bed.”
I gape. “Did you just really say that?”
“Don’t tell Jason,” she orders. “He doesn’t believe there’s anything in life for me but baking.”
Shelley finishes making her drink. “Those cookies are out of this world. So good.” She eyes me. “There’s more than divorce and cookies in the world. Divorce is why you became cynical and settled for that loser ex of yours. Dream big again. I bet you, if you took the time to write the romance, your divorce guide would be even better. You’d write it like someone who sees both sides of the coin.” She motions me toward the living room. “Bring the booze. Let me show you the books I brought.”
“You brought books?” Martha asks, perking up.
A few minutes later, we’re all on the living room floor, with drinks in hand, looking through the books while Kelly climbs all over us.
“I like this idea for you,” Martha says, sipping her drink. “I mean, how crazy wonderful would it be if a breakup actually brought you closer to romance?” She winks. “Like with my grandson.”
“Don’t do that,” I say, pointing. “Don’t. If we were—if we did—and we didn’t work out, I’d lose you and my cookies.”
She waves me off. “Nonsense. I’m a grown adult who’s ancient enough to see beyond a breakup. People and friends are hard to find.”
I share a look with Shelley and then we’re crying and hugging. It doesn’t last, but we talk about her man, her trip, and our forever friendship. “I’m here and you’re leaving.” I sigh as we all settle back around the books. “It’s surreal.”
Martha starts to read in a deep “do me” voice, “He walks toward me, all swagger and attitude, his eyes on my body. His—”
“Stop,” I say. “I’m blushing.”
“He’s just walking,” she says. “And he’s looking at the key in her hand. Where’s your gutter mind?”
“It’s your voice. Stop the voice.” I take the book. “Stop reading that.”
“Write a romance,” Martha urges.
Shelley stands up. “I’m going to get your computer so you can start right now. I know you. You never leave anything undone.” She slurs her words and starts to walk, which turns out is right into the chair. “Oops.” She giggles.
Martha laughs. “She’s drunk.” She points at me. “So am I.”
I move her finger back to point at her chest. “So am I,” I say.
We both laugh and Shelley returns with my MacBook, sinking into a cushion as she sits down. “Okay,” she says. “Here we go. Title: The Truth about Cowboys? Or better yet, how about: How to Date a Cowboy? Do we all like this ridiculously good title for a romance novel?”
Martha nods. “Love it and I have the goods. Start typing.”
“I’m ready.”
“I’m starting this book?” I ask. “Or are you?”
“Me for you,” Shelley says. “This is an outline. Consider me your assistant. The best fucking assistant ever. And I do mean ever. Fill my glass,” she orders, and I laugh as she looks at Martha. “Give us the goods.”
“I’m a list person. What qualities would a cowboy you want to date and get naked with possess?” she says, and I all but choke on my drink while Shelley nods in earnest. “Good. Good. Go on.”
“Number one: a nice, tight ass that does a pair of Wranglers justice. And no second ass hanging over his belt buckle in the front. The only thing big we want up front—well, you know what that is.”
I do choke this time. Literally, choke and start coughing.
Shelley just gives an “Amen, sister,” as she types. Then, “Next.”
“Two,” Martha says. “Smells good even after he’s been out working. My God, do you know what it’s like to have a man that smells like cow shit cuddle up to you? Take a damn bath or don’t come near me.”
We both laugh. “I don’t think I want to know how you know this,” I say.
“They can’t smell themselves,” she says, grabbing a cookie and taking a bite, the rest of her sentence shared with the chewing of a cookie. “I appreciate the hard work, but good grief. You aren’t getting lucky like that!”
There’s a lot more to come from Martha, and I don’t even know when or how, but I lay down and listen to them talk. The room is kind of spinning, and I think—I’ll sleep just a few minutes. Just a few, and a few ends abruptly with a loud pounding sound. I jerk to a sitting position to find the room fading into darkness. God. How long have I been sleeping and what was that noise? I blink and find Shelley asleep on the floor and Martha on the chair where I fucked her grandson, also asleep. Neither of them moves.
“Jessica!” It’s Jason’s cranky voice, coming from the porch. “Grandma.”
No one moves but Kelly, who jumps onto Martha. Still, she doesn’t move, but my stomach is swaying. Oh God. I’ve killed his grandmother with romance novels and chocolate martinis, with a side of her own cookies for extra effect. She mumbles, “Good kitty,” but keeps her face pressed to the cushion.
Relief washes over me. I have not killed his grandmother. I just got her wasted. I’m pretty sure this means the end of the cowboy and the city girl lust affair. I stand up and start walking toward the door, and I only stumble once. No, twice. Okay. I fall in front of the door. Is it Wednesday again?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jessica…
I’m on my stomach when Jason enters the cottage. Doing the only thing I can do, I rise up on my hands and look up at him. He, in turn, stares down at me, all big and, well, big. That’s all I’ve got right now. I’m too damn drunk to have fancy prose and descriptions. I do, however, offer him the most concise explanation for my present condition available. “There might have been vodka involved.”
His eyes lift to scan the damage, which I believe amounts to three drunk women and not much more, before he kneels in front of me. “You got my grandmother drunk.”
“I got her drunk!” Martha shouts. “Leave her alone. I brought the vodka.”
His jaw clenches. Damn. Even drunk me knows that he didn’t like that answer. He glares at me. Definitely not happy. “Is that true?” he demands.
“Ask me when I’m sober, because right now, I can’t remember how all those drinks got down my throat.”
He grimaces again. Apparently honesty is not always the best policy. His hand comes down on my arm and he drags me to m
y feet. I proceed to plant my body against him right as Shelley yells, “Hot cowboy is back.” She hiccups. “Sorry, Martha. I forgot. Grandson.”
“He was just leaving,” Martha says. “Weren’t you, Jason?”
Meanwhile I’m still pressed to the hot grandson. I think there might be some downstairs action on his part, too. Or. Ouch. No. That would be his belt buckle. “I think you need to let me go before you damage my female parts with sharp objects.”
His gaze shoots to mine and the scowl he gives me could kill. Fortunately, I have vodka immunity.
“Hand me that bottle,” Martha orders from behind me.
“No, Grandma,” Jason bites out. “No.” He turns me away from him and shackles my wrist, dragging me with him as he charges toward the living room.
I stumble. “Hey. Hey. Let me go.” He sits me into a chair and takes the bottle from his grandmother. “Enough. Enough already.”
“You don’t get to make my decisions, Grandson. We aren’t driving or even baking under the influence. Leave us alone.” She points a finger at him. “Do not cross me.”
He pulls his hand back as if burned. “Your health—”
“My cholesterol is perfect. My blood pressure is perfect. I had an EKG and a heart scan and both were perfect. Even my bone density is above average. Oh yes. I’ve never smoked. My lungs and kidneys are freaking amazing. I can have a damn drink or ten if I want them.”
“As for me,” Shelley groans, “I’m pretty sure my liver was killed today.” She pushes to her feet. “I need a bathroom.” She takes off running.
“See?” Jason challenges, waving between me and his grandmother. “That’s what more gets you.”
“She’s a lightweight,” Martha says, grabbing a cookie. “Calorie-free when you’re drinking. I love it. Go, Jason. Let us have our girls’ night.”
The Truth About Cowboys Page 16