The Truth About Cowboys

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  It’s not long before I’ve set things in motion. Kelly is in the house, aware of where to find her food and litter box. And I’m in the nice, cool kitchen, icing a cake while contemplating the packaging and logo for the Flying J Bakery and thinking through my strategy. Small stores, close by first, and then we’ll spread wider, think bigger.

  I finish with the icing and have tons left over. I grab the bowl and turn to the fridge—and go flying. Kelly yelps, because apparently I just fell over her, and I crash hard to the wooden floor. A jolt shoots through me, and it takes me a solid two minutes to sit up. When I do, the pain is fading, but the entire front of me is covered in chocolate icing.

  Kelly jumps on top of me, and Lord help me, now she has icing all over her feet. I grab her and manage to stand up, but she clings to my shirt and smashes in the icing. Now, the cat is covered in chocolate and so am I.

  With few options, I hurry to the oversized sink, turn on the water, warm it up, and manage to get Kelly underneath it. I don’t have soap for her, but I do manage to clean her enough to dry her off with a towel and let her run away as if I’ve actually killed her this time.

  I clean up the mess I’ve made and then look down at myself. Either I have to go home with a wet cat running around or I have to wash off here and find a shirt to borrow while I throw mine in the washer. I eye the kitty-painted chocolate prints on my arm and shirt. Jason won’t be back until later, if at all today. I have no idea when he’ll return, but I’m sure I have time to borrow his shirt and return it.

  Seeking out that shirt, his shirt, likely in his room, I exit the kitchen and start a walk-through of the house. I find a den, three spare bedrooms, and a stairway leading to a lower level. That must be his room. I hurry down the stairs and a second living room comes into view. To my right is a hallway and, bingo, it leads to a bedroom.

  I step inside and flip on the light, my gaze scanning a large masculine-style room with heavy furnishings, my eyes landing hard on a black four-poster bed while my nose flares with the scent of him. Jason really does check the “smell good” box.

  Feeling a bit stalkerish now for real, I hurry to the closet and flip on the light there, too. There’s a row of T-shirts, and I grab the most worn, basic-looking one I can find in black. With it in hand, I exit the closet, flip out the light, and find the master bathroom a few feet away.

  This is a big room as well, with a garden tub and white tile. It’s not fancy, but it’s modern. A nice, cozy house. Jason’s house. I step to one of the double sinks and look at myself in the mirror, icing splattered on my face and my shirt—I’m not sure it can be saved. I strip it away and set it on the sink, and even my favorite pink bra is covered. I unhook it and pull it off, too, praying the stains come out. I look around and find a cabinet stocked with towels, and I’m about to clean myself up when a loud crash sounds in the bedroom, followed by a meow.

  “Oh God,” I murmur, dropping the washcloth and darting for the bedroom door to find Kelly darting out of the other door and Jason standing a few feet in front of me.

  And just when I think I can’t do anything more incredible, I do this. I’m now standing in front of Jason, in his bedroom, with bare chocolate-covered boobs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Jessica…

  I quickly fold my arms in front of my bare chest. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  He arches a brow the way he used to when a batter stepped to the mound and got cocky with him. Right before he threw a strike. “No?” he asks.

  “No,” I say with absolute certainty.

  He closes the few steps between us and stops in front of me, his gaze raking over what I can’t hide of naked breasts, and then slowly, oh slowly, lifting. “Because it looks like you want me to lick chocolate off your breasts.”

  “I can see how that might be easy to assume,” I say, trying to sound prim, not the breathless thing I’m doing right now, “but I’m your tenant and you’re my landlord. I didn’t forget that. And you aren’t even supposed to be home.”

  “So you thought you’d just come hang out naked and covered in chocolate in my bedroom?”

  “I was carrying a bowl of icing and the cat tripped me and then jumped on me. And yes, I thought leaving the cat alone wasn’t smart and I’d just borrow your bedroom. Borrow your shirt. Borrow your washer and dryer. You’d never have known.”

  “And yet here I am.”

  “Yes. Here you are and”—I point behind me—“I’ll just go get dressed.”

  “In my shirt?”

  “Yes, that’s non-negotiable considering my current state of undress, but I’ll make all of this up to you.”

  “Make it up to me now,” he says, his voice low and rough, his hand coming down on my arm as he pulls me forward. I could pretend I didn’t have a choice, but that would be a lie. I’m both clumsy and honest to a fault.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being a chapter in my book?” I sound breathless, but who wouldn’t be? I just went to war with a bowl and a cat, and I’ve now added a man to list.

  “Right now,” he says, “I’m not thinking about anything but you and what I want to do to you.” He reaches for my hands, where they hold my breasts captive, and pulls them down. I let his gaze rake over my naked breasts and my now rapidly-puckering nipples. “Correction,” he says, his eyes finding mine. “What I’m going to do to you.”

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea. We hate each other when we have our clothes on. Eventually that’s going to catch up with us.”

  “Says who?”

  “Jessica! Jessica, are you down there?” Martha calls out.

  My eyes go wide. “Your grandmother, apparently.” Footsteps sound and my eyes go wide all over again. “Oh God. She’s coming down here.”

  “Go get dressed,” he orders, and I don’t need encouragement. I twist around and all but dive into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

  Panting out a couple of breaths while I try to calm my body and my heart, I’m about to go for the sink when I hear Martha announce, “I didn’t expect you back so soon, son.”

  “You know I don’t like to miss the Sunday feast, Grandma.”

  “Did you meet with the bank yesterday?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh. Well did you talk to someone about baseball maybe?”

  “Everyone is always talking to me about baseball even when I don’t want them to.”

  “You know you love it,” Martha pushes.

  “I loved it while I was playing, Grandma.”

  “Talking about it now is salt in the wounds then, right?”

  “What wounds?”

  I can almost see Martha purse her lips as she adds, “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Grandma—”

  “Was it a woman? Is that why you went to Dallas?”

  My eyes go wide and I silently mouth, “A woman?” Oh God. Why didn’t I think of that? What is it about me that makes a guy want another woman? “I mean I thought you and Jessica were flirting and quite smitten with each other,” Martha adds, “but then I realize—you were gone on a weekend and maybe I’m wrong. You are human. You have needs.”

  “If you must know, I was exploring a few ways to improve the ranch. I’ll share more when I have details, and as for me and Jessica, I’m not sure why two people fighting makes you believe they’re smitten.”

  “Because while fighting, you both look like you want to rip each other’s clothes off.”

  I manage a silent gasp at her boldness while Jason laughs, a spontaneous relaxed laugh that vibrates with love for his grandmother. “Ah, Grandma,” he says. “You do have a way of getting to the point.”

  “Well, in hindsight you two are quite bad for each other. She’s here because she just got hurt. She’ll be rebounding if she dates now. And you’re here because you got hurt, too. That
seems like more hurt to come. Anyway, I’m sure you’re tired. Rest and you can stuff your face soon.”

  Kelly meows. And then meows again. I facepalm. Now she’s going to know I’m here, somewhere in the house. I have to get out of this bathroom. “Oh look at you,” Martha coos. “I didn’t know you were here. Kelly. My new baking buddy kitty, but I need your new mama, too.” There’s some muffled conversation that follows, like whispers, and then suddenly a knock on the door. “Kelly and I are upstairs waiting on you, Jessica. I’ll get some coffee ready.”

  I cringe. Busted. “I already made it,” I call out.

  I can almost feel her smile through the door. “Did you now? I better go get a cup.” There are footsteps, and I rush to the sink and start washing up, wondering what she thinks. Does she think we did get naked? Which we did, but not here, not now. And what was he doing in Dallas?

  Another knock sounds, and I hold the towel to me and turn toward it. “Yes?”

  “You done in there?” Jason asks.

  “Almost.”

  I toss the towel with my shirt and bra onto the floor and then grab his shirt, quickly pull it on and, good Lord, it’s past my knees. I knot it at my hip and then snatch up my clothes, along with the towel that now needs washing. With a deep breath, I turn to the door and pause. A weekend trip is not a business trip. It’s a woman and he was, just now, just minutes ago, trying to do me. He might have still had her all over him. I shiver. Yuck. Ugh. I’m so stupid.

  Marching forward, I open the door to find him standing there all big and beautiful. I bet the chick in Dallas thought so, too. His gaze rakes over the front of his shirt where my nipples are surely puckering all over again. I don’t look at him. Well, not his smug, could’ve had two women in a weekend if I wanted them face. I don’t need to see that shit. “Move,” I order.

  “Move?”

  “Yes. Move. I need to go help Martha.” I shove his chest.

  He catches my wrist and my gaze shoots to his. “Let go. I have to go before your grandmother thinks we’re up to something.”

  “We were.”

  “We aren’t anymore.” I tug at my arm. “Let go. I feel really weird about your grandmother.”

  “Don’t. She’s—”

  “Jason, I like her. I don’t want her to think I’m some—”

  “She won’t. She doesn’t. She loves you.”

  “I really want her to keep loving me. So can you please let me go now?” I look down, my eyes on his chest.

  He stares down at me, which I know only because I feel it. God, I feel this man far too easily. What was I thinking with him? Martha’s right. I’m rebounding. I’m going to get hurt all over again but I don’t seem to care. I just want to avoid that fear of being alone.

  “Jessica,” he says softly.

  “I’ve got baking to write and a romance novel to do.” I blink. “I’ve got baking to do and a romance novel to write.”

  He inhales, his jaw clenches. He hates the romance novel, which is why I brought it up. He takes a step backward. Then another, and I hurry forward. I’ve made it to his door when he says, “I’m not that guy, Jessica.”

  I halt and turn to look at him. “That’s why I put you in the divorce guide. Don’t worry, you won’t show up in the romance. That’s a one-hero show.”

  “I’m not that guy who has a woman in every place I go.”

  “Of course you are. You were a famous ball player traveling the country.”

  “You can’t play ball and women and do both well. I played ball and played it well.”

  I remember the models rumored to date him. I also remember the one he was engaged to.

  “Okay.”

  I turn away and he calls out, “I didn’t meet a woman in Dallas, Jessica.”

  I don’t look at him, but I’m ridiculously happy about this news, which is a problem. I’m going to rebound myself out of my new house and home, and then where will my newly minted, second broken heart go to heal? This is home. Jason’s right. He’s my landlord. And so, I don’t turn around. I don’t respond. I walk away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Jessica…

  I stop at the laundry room and put my clothes in to wash. A few minutes later, Martha’s grinning when I enter the kitchen. “Wipe that grin off your face,” I order. “I’m only wearing his shirt because Kelly and I ended up with an icing catastrophe.” I walk to the coffee pot and fill a cup, glancing at her over my shoulder. “I didn’t know he was home when I went down there.”

  “Then why hide from me?”

  “Because,” I say, adding Splenda and powdered creamer to my cup, “I knew you’d make assumptions. And you did.”

  “Did I now?”

  I step to the opposite side of the counter and sip my coffee while she ices one of about a hundred cookies left to ice. “Yes. Because as you said yourself while I was listening through the bathroom door, I’m in the rebound zone. And I don’t feel like rebounding. I’m not equipped for romance right now.”

  “And yet you want to write a romance novel?”

  I grab a knife with the intention of helping with the cookies. “You and Shelley came up with that idea, not me. I’m not writing a romance novel. I don’t even believe in love right now. I’m highly cynical, which we’ll blame on my mother and my ex-boyfriend, because that’s easier than blaming me. We can do that the next time we open a bottle of vodka.”

  “Sounds like the perfect person to write an uplifting guide to divorce.”

  “Hey, divorce is uplifting if you’re in a bad marriage, but you know, Shelley thinks I’m going to write it all bitter and forlorn.”

  “Are you?”

  “It’s fairly angry so far, which isn’t my approach to divorce, and I don’t know how to fix that. I need to write the book.” I grimace. “I have a deadline in two months, and this is my job now.”

  “I thought you were just on a leave of absence?”

  “Might as well call it A Prelude to Employment Divorce: The Failed Separation.”

  “Your choice or theirs?”

  “Theirs.”

  She presses her hands to the island. “You’re a superstar. I Googled you before we signed the lease. Surely they’ll want you back.”

  “I don’t know about that. I pretty much opened my mouth and vomited words at our client. Cheater and pervert were on the top of my tongue. There were others, but those two stand out.”

  “Was he those things?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, picking up a cookie, and this time, I take a bite. Nervous eating is going to do me in, but I don’t care. I swallow and add, “I only represented him because of pressure from the partners.”

  “Surely your track record mattered? You were about to make partner, right? I saw an article about that, too.”

  “My record would matter if he wasn’t the firm’s largest client, a billionaire many times over.”

  “Oh my. It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

  “Too often, it is,” I agree. “Let’s just hope I actually turn in a good book to my editor. I’ll be screwed if I have to return the advance.”

  “Take it from an old lady,” she says. “Your heart is broken. Once it heals, you’ll look at things anew.”

  “That’s the thing,” I say, holding out the knife that now drips with icing. “I’m not heartbroken. I’m hurt. I’m embarrassed. Honestly, I’m a little scared, and I can’t really explain why—but bottom line: I’m not heartbroken.”

  “You didn’t love him.”

  “I think it was all about security for me. The perfect job, the perfect apartment, the perfect man, at least on paper.”

  “Ah yes. You didn’t have that growing up. Interesting that you know this about yourself.”

  “I didn’t, or I wouldn’t have been with Craig, but this kind of thing makes you look
at yourself.”

  “Maybe it’s not that you’re afraid of being alone. Maybe,” she speculates, “you’re afraid of dating again, and you need an excuse to protect your heart. The whole ‘find myself all by myself’ thing can be quite deceiving.”

  “And you know this how? You were happily married, enviably happy.”

  “I was, but I had a life before my husband. I had a Craig. My Craig was Jesse, and I really did hate men after him.”

  “And yet you ended up happy. How in the world did that happen? Tell me. Inspire me.”

  “I was a wedding planner coming off the Jesse hell, handling a wedding here at the ranch for one of Oliver’s closest friends. Oliver and I were like oil and water. Talk about fights. We went at each other, but you know the fine line between love and hate became love.”

  “A wedding planner. That must have been hard when you were dealing with Jesse.”

  “It helped me to get out of the house and see outside my own self pity.”

  “Yes, but the romance of a wedding must have been brutal.”

  “The romance made me remember that love exists. Take my advice. Write the romance novel. It will make the divorce guide have more depth. It will make you write to people’s hearts when you see your own again. Go on a few dates. Jason—”

  “Oh no.” I point my cookie at her. “I see what you’re doing. Not your grandson.”

  “You two—”

  “No, Martha. Not Jason.”

  She cast me a curious eye. “But you two—”

  “Martha.”

  “Jessica.”

  “I can’t. He’s very…”

  “Very what?”

  “Too much right now.”

  “I’m headed out to the orchard,” Jason says from behind me, and when I whirl around to face him, my stomach does this flip-flop thing that it’s never done for another man.

  His eyes, those bright blue eyes, land on me. “Your cat is asleep in my bed.”