Grumpy Cowboy: A Hot Single Dad, Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

by Max Monroe

  “You feel that?” I question, lightly pushing my fingers against the biggest knot.

  Rhett grunts. “Uh, yeah, I fuckin’ feel that. It certainly doesn’t feel good.”

  “This knot right here is a buildup of fluid and blood inside your muscle,” I explain. “And massage provides the counterpressure that’s needed to force it back into your blood vessels where it belongs. The more of these I get rid of, the less pain and discomfort you’ll have and the quicker your knee can heal.”

  Slowly, I increase the pressure of my fingers while I continually watch his face for signs of it being too intense or painful.

  “And while you think it’s all a bunch of hogwash,” I repeat his earlier words. “It’s not. It’s actually very important and a step that’s often skipped during postoperative rehab. Not only does massage help with inflammation and pain relief, but in your case, it will help with alignment.”

  “Alignment? I got surgery because I fell off a bronc, darlin’. Not because my shit was out of place.”

  “You just love questioning everything I say, don’t you?”

  He just shrugs.

  “I’m aware your knee wasn’t out of place, but between the surgery and the severe injury you endured, you basically need to retrain the parts of your knee that work together to do so effectively. If they don’t work together efficiently, then everything will be out of alignment. If that happens, then healing, stretching, and rehabbing are of zero use. You’d just end up back in surgery down the road.”

  When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I mean, maybe you learned differently where you got your medical degree, but all my years of training taught me that the right kind of massage is vital.”

  The hint of a smirk lifts one corner of his mouth up. “You’re feelin’ mighty proud of yourself with that little dig, aren’t ya?”

  I shrug, but also keep steadily increasing pressure to his hamstring muscle with my fingertips.

  “Well, I can tell you one thing, I’m not gonna let you do this shit as often as you and Joe keep tossin’ those fuckin’ ice packs at me. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t have time to be lying flat on my back all damn day.”

  I grin at that. “Just so we’re clear, it’s your stubbornness that led you to that many ice packs.”

  He quirks a brow. “And how’s that?”

  “Oh, c’mon,” I retort. “If you would’ve been following doctor’s orders from the start, the swelling and inflammation would’ve never gotten that bad.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Your leg looked like a tree trunk.”

  He snorts at that. “You have a real gift for exaggerating, you know that?”

  I roll my eyes. “And you have a real gift for being pigheaded.”

  For the most part, Rhett just lies there with his eyes closed, and the same irritated scowl he tends to have when I’m around doesn’t grow deeper.

  “You do this shit for all your patients?” he asks, his husky voice eventually breaking the silence.

  “Before I left my practice to take a job with the Slammers? No, I didn’t have time to do this with all of my patients,” I answer honestly. “But I did have a few massage therapists that I trusted, and I referred my patients to them.”

  “You work for the Salt Lake City Slammers?”

  “I do, but why are you saying that like it’s a shock?”

  “No offense, darlin’, but you don’t come across as the kind of woman who’s into sports.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Just because I like wearing heels and nice clothes and putting on my makeup and fixing my hair doesn’t mean I don’t like sports.” I mean, truthfully, I didn’t get a job for the Slammers because I like basketball. I got the job because I want to succeed in my career as an orthopedic physician and surgeon. And I want to have the financial stability I never had growing up.

  When it comes to my brother’s and my childhood, it wasn’t abnormal for us to go hungry some nights because our parents were too busy feeding their alcohol habit.

  “So, you like sports?” Rhett asks, pulling me from my walk down unfortunate Memory Lane.

  “I mean, sort of?” I respond and he laughs.

  “How much do you even know about basketball?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Sure ya do.”

  I dig my fingertips into the top of his hamstring muscle, and he grunts in discomfort.

  “Christ, no need to take it out on my leg.”

  “Oh, sorry. Was that too much for you?”

  He glares at me. “You know damn well you did that on purpose.”

  “I would never intentionally hurt a patient.” I feign outrage. “That goes against my oath.”

  He smirks at that. “Somethin’ tells me I’m an exception to your oath.”

  “Well, I’ve never had to chase around a patient on a two-thousand-acre ranch just to get him to let me help heal his knee.”

  “And I’ve never seen a physician try to teach horses aerobics,” he retorts on a sly grin.

  “I was not teaching them aerobics,” I protest, and he just chuckles.

  “Whatever you say, Doc. Pretty sure my filly Jasmine is still traumatized from watching the scary lady in neon-pink spandex do jumping jacks and squats in the pasture.”

  “New rules,” I say, and he looks at me with a quirk of his brow. “No talking during massage.”

  That spurs a laugh from his throat.

  “This your way of tellin’ me you don’t want to talk about your new aerobics gig?”

  “It’s my nice way of telling you to shut up for a while so I can focus on your leg.”

  Rhett chuckles, but thankfully, he closes his eyes and keeps his mouth shut for the time being.

  All this constant verbal judo we have going on is enough to make my head spin, and I savor the rare moments of silence while I continue to massage his leg.

  Moving my fingers up and around his knee, I carefully prod around the reconstructed patella tendon, examining its current state before slowly easing my hands farther up his leg to his quadriceps muscle.

  More knots make themselves known as I explore the prominent muscle and slowly increase the pressure into each one to help work out the tension and fluid that have built up inside the taut flesh.

  Eventually, I have to adjust the sheet that covers his body to reveal a little more of his upper thigh, and when my gaze spots the hint of his boxer briefs, it just kind of fixates there.

  Don’t do it, Leah. Do not think about what lies beneath those briefs.

  I try really hard to divert my brain to a safer mental route, but it becomes an impossible feat when my fingers locate another knot in his quad muscle that sits too close to his you-know-what for comfort.

  A few more inches and I would nearly be right there.

  Right at the promised land of cowboy cock.

  Oh my God. Stop it. This is so unprofessional.

  It definitely is completely wrong, and I should not be thinking about any of the things I’m thinking of, but holy hot bod, when my fingers hit a particularly tender spot on his upper thigh and a soft—and insanely sexy—grunt escapes Rhett’s lips, my nipples take that as their cue to join in on the inappropriate, horny fun and tighten beneath my bra and tank top.

  Get it together, Leah!

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m in one seriously long sex drought or because Rhett Jameson’s rugged hotness is a one hundred on a ten-point scale, but my body appears impervious to the memo of keeping shit professional.

  He opens his eyes, and I don’t miss the way his gaze flits from my eyes to my lips to my chest to my fingers that are currently still touching him.

  And I hate how fucking tempted I am to change up the purpose of the massage.

  The urge to just…touch him and caress him and feel him instead of only treating him is so strong that I feel like my head might explode.

  My mind races with a million different conflicting emotions.

  M
aybe you should move your fingers up a few more inches and to the left…

  No! No! Don’t do that!

  But, like, you should probably do it…you know…just to make sure all of his muscles are in good shape…

  My cheeks heat and the room feels like it’s been relocated to the surface of the sun, and all of a sudden, the tank top and jean shorts I bought at Target the other day when I drove into town with Jenny are feeling like they weigh one thousand pounds.

  Rhett’s eyes meet mine again, and I don’t miss the way his lips are ever-so-slightly parted.

  If he keeps looking at me like that, I don’t know what I’m liable to do…

  Rhett

  Fuck, this is starting to feel too good…

  If I would’ve known agreeing to let Leah massage my leg would’ve led to me lying flat on my back—in my fucking bed—while she threads her fingers up my thigh, I sure as shit would’ve never taken my pants off in the first place.

  Christ. I hate how good her hands feel on my skin.

  And I really fucking hate that every time I see her, I feel like she’s wearing fewer and fewer clothes.

  Today’s outfit consists of a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a loose tank top that teases the curves of her breasts, which might as well be a fucking bull’s-eye.

  Shit.

  I shut my eyes for a moment and try to think about anything but how soft Leah’s hands feel or the way her breasts move up and down as she works her fingers into the muscles of my thigh.

  All the shit I need to get done for the upcoming Fourth of July celebration.

  The ridiculous shit Tiny says on a daily basis.

  Goddamn baseball.

  I roll through every possible thing that would serve as a good distraction from the woman who’s currently touching me, but when I open my eyes again, every thought disappears in a dangerous poof.

  Her eyes lock with mine, and she doesn’t stop moving her fucking hands across my skin. And it should be illegal for this doctor to ever administer a massage to any of her male patients, especially when she’s dressed like this.

  It feels too damn good, and my cock really wants to take notice.

  Son of a bitch.

  This woman looks like a goddess standing before me, and I’m starting to forget the actual purpose of this massage. Hell, I’m not even sure if I remember I busted my fucking knee at this point.

  We’re just staring at each other, and her hands don’t stop moving, touching, caressing me.

  And my dick has definitely taken notice, already hardening beneath my fucking briefs.

  Temptation floods into my veins, and every cell inside my body wants me to lift my hands, pull down her tank top, and suck one hard nipple into my mouth.

  Because her fucking nipples are hard.

  So hard, they’re practically waving at me from beneath her damn shirt.

  She bites down on her bottom lip, and fuck me, the urge to pull that full mouth of hers to mine and feel if those lips are as soft as they look is beyond enticing.

  Hell, the urge to pull her onto my lap so her luscious thighs are straddling my hips is almost too much to control.

  I don’t know whether I need to shove her hands off me or act on animalistic instinct.

  But before I can even decide, something shifts in the air and Leah yanks her hands away from me like my skin is on fire.

  “Uh…” She pauses, blinks several times, and clears her throat. “I…uh…I think that’s about it for today.” Her voice shakes with shock and nerves and I don’t know what else. “Yep,” she adds on a ramble as she quickly tosses the towel back over my leg. “You’re all set. Alllll set. Good to go. Massage time done.”

  I stare back at her, completely at a loss for words.

  I have no idea what just happened or why I was feeling the shit I was feeling, but with the way she keeps dropping shit as she tries to stuff it into her bag, I can assume I’m not the only one who’s confused.

  “So…uh…we’re done?” I eventually question, sitting up slightly on the bed. “For the whole day?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She nods but avoids my gaze completely and strides into my bathroom to grab a fresh towel even though there’re still two towels sitting on my nightstand.

  “So, yeah,” she continues and tosses the towel my way. “You’re all set for the day. Just make sure you do some ice tonight, and… uh…yeah…uh…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And then, she’s gone. Out of my bedroom, down the hall, and once the sound of her footsteps reaches the front of the house, I hear the screen door creak open and slam shut.

  What the fuck was that?

  As I get up off my bed and wipe the massage oil off my leg, I realize my cock is still hard as a hammer beneath my briefs.

  Pretty sure you’re not supposed to get hard-ons while your doctor is massaging your leg, you sick bastard.

  I’m also pretty sure that I should avoid having Dr. Leah Levee massage my leg.

  Like, at all fucking costs, that shit shouldn’t happen again.

  Too bad you’re already wondering when the next deep tissue massage will occur…

  Leah

  The instant I’m out of Rhett’s house and in my loaner truck, I waste no time starting the engine and getting the hell out of tempting-cowboy dodge before my libido has any more time to act a fucking fool.

  What in the hell happened back there?

  In the rearview mirror, I glance at Rhett’s house as it disappears with a cloud of dust behind me.

  Never in my career have I ever fantasized about having sex with a patient.

  Not one single fucking time.

  Yet, back there, that’s exactly what I did.

  I groan and grip the steering wheel tighter as I turn onto the road that leads to my cabin.

  In reality, after the massage, I should’ve pushed his leg through some stretching, but hell’s bells, it was more than apparent my stupid, horny body couldn’t handle anymore up close and personal contact with Rhett Jameson today.

  Are you sure, though? Because you could’ve easily just slid down those briefs of his and saddled the fuck up. And, boy oh boy, from the looks of it, that cowboy is packing some serious—

  Oh. My. God.

  Is this a stroke?

  Am I having a stroke?

  I force a deep inhale and exhale into my lungs.

  “Stop being a lunatic,” I tell myself out loud. “Just chill the fuck out and stop thinking about what that man looks like naked. Or while he’s having sex. And definitely don’t think about what he’d look like while having sex with you.”

  I cringe, and when I see my cabin up ahead, instead of turning into the driveway, I drive straight past it and head to the closest “cell spot” that Tex showed me on the map.

  The instant I get there, I slam on the brakes, grab my cell phone out of my bag, hop out of the truck, and start walking until all the bars on my phone appear.

  Fingers to the keys, I type out a message to Carla and Taylor.

  Me: Anyone around to offer some advice?

  Carla: GIRL, I thought I’d never hear from you. I’ve tried to call and text and email, but you never answer.

  Me: It’s because this ranch is in the middle of nowhere and the cell service and WI-FI is total shit. I’m standing in a meadow right now just to text you. Not even joking.

  Taylor: How is the ranch life, by the way? Getting along with your patient?

  Me: Getting along with my patient? HA. Not even close. Nothing is what I thought it would be. This ranch is gorgeous, but it’s out in the middle of nowhere. Literally. It’s an hour drive just to reach civilization. And my patient isn’t 14 yrs old like my boss told me. He’s a 36 yr old hot, grumpy cowboy who doesn’t want me around.

  Carla: A hot, grumpy cowboy? This sounds promising.

  Taylor: LOL.

  Me: It’s not promising. We spend most of our time together bickering and arguing, and he’s so freaking stubborn it’s not even funny.

&
nbsp; Carla: But he’s hot? And he’s a cowboy? This sounds like a situation I’d volunteer to be in…

  Taylor: For real. This is some sexy, enemies-to-lovers kind of shit.

  I roll my eyes and type out a response.

  Me: I’m not in a romance novel, Tay. This is real life. And he’s a bit of a dick.

  With a big dick.

  I grimace. For the love of everything, I really need to stop thinking about Rhett Jameson’s penis.

  My fingers hover over the screen as I contemplate if I should tell them about the entire massage thing that just went down. I mean, it was the whole damn reason I texted them in the first place.

  But something tells me they’re only going to cause me more confusion.

  Hell, before I came here to the ranch, they were on my ass about putting myself out there and dating again.

  And I know it’s been a long-ass time since I’ve dated or done pretty much anything with the opposite sex, but hello? I’ve been busy for the past eight years with my job.

  Carla: I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to see what this hot cowboy of yours looks like.

  Taylor: For real. Pic or he doesn’t exist, Lee.

  Yep. Definitely not going to tell them about the massage.

  Instead, I’m just going to focus on forgetting that insanity even happened.

  It’s the only way I’ll be able to move forward from this and actually do my job.

  I mean, I can’t be getting all fucking turned on every damn time I see Rhett with his stupid shirt off. He’s shirtless all the freaking time. And my job makes me have to be around him all the freaking time.

  So, yeah, I have to move past this.

  Lock the memory up tight in the deep recesses of my brain and forget about it altogether.

  Me: I’m not sending you horny bitches a picture of my patient. Anyway, I have to get going. I’ll try to text and call when I can, okay?

  Carla: WTF? I thought you said you needed advice with something…

  Shit. Quickly, I scramble for a reasonable excuse.

  Me: Never mind! Sam just got back to me about it. All is good in the ranch hood. See ya on the flip side!

  God, I’m being so weird. I know I’m being weird, and I know they’re going to know I’m being weird.