by Tessa Layne
The tension left her body. “Try them on?”
“Towel on or off?” He smirked, heat rising through him at the thought of getting naughty with Lydia in nothing but a pair of boots. Her boots.
Her mouth twitched. “I told you to get dressed.”
“Best way to show off a pair of boots is in nothing else.”
Shaking her head, she turned around. But not before he caught her smiling openly. Colt rolled up the socks she’d included in the box, then sat to pull on the boots. His foot slipped in like it was greased in butter. He stood and shut his eyes, reveling in the feel. The arch hit him perfectly, and there was plenty of room in the toe box. Damn if she hadn’t ruined him for any other pair of boots. “They fit perfectly,” he called over.
Slowly, she turned, her gaze dropping first to the boots, then crawling up his body. Her sexy smile returned, and he stood a little straighter under her scrutiny. “You look good. Real good.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll look better without the towel.”
“Before you say that, read this.” She dug into the small bag she carried and pulled out a bundle of folded papers, holding them out.
“What’s this?” She shook the papers, and he took them. He scanned the papers, stiffening as anger and disbelief knotted in his chest. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”
Panic flashed across her pretty features. “What do you mean?”
“No one, and I mean no one offers fifty-one percent of their business to a potential investor,” he growled. “You’ll lose a lot more than your shirt that way.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What if I said you’re taking a chance on a no-good untalented designer who’s a bad bet?”
Someone said that to her? Anger flashed in his gut, hot and sticky. He’d happily take aim at the asshole who’d told her that. “Whoever said that never put a foot in your boots.” He raised a finger. “But that’s not how you make an investment opportunity attractive. Besides, if you’d just asked, I’d have helped you out.”
She scowled. “I don’t want a favor. This is a business proposition.”
“And clearly, you don’t know the first thing about running a business.”
“But I’m good.” She gestured to the boots.
“Yes. You are. And you’re smart. Too smart to make a rookie mistake like this. What gives?”
Her color heightened. “I was hoping it would incentivize you to be hands-off.”
“That’s not how you get me to be hands-off, darlin’.” He shook his head with a laugh. “The more money I invest, the more hands-on I’m going to be.”
“But Travis mentioned you were going to be a silent partner,” she said in a small voice.
He puffed out his cheeks and stared at the ceiling, blowing out a long breath. “That’s… different,” he finished lamely. “And fundamentally more complicated.”
“I see.” Disappointment radiated from her.
He hated that. Hated to see her upset, knowing he might be the cause. But this wasn’t the average endorsement deal he made, where he whored out space on his body for a fancy company logo. This was… personal. “What do you think your start-up costs will be?”
“I can bootstrap it for about twenty. I have some savings left–”
“But you don’t wanna operate without a safety net. Believe me.” He scrutinized her, in full business mode now. “Where you gonna get your clients?”
She met his gaze directly. “I was hoping you could help with that.”
“How are you gonna compete with the likes of Paul Bond? Or Heritage?” He ran a hand over the back of his head. “Hell, what about Lucchese or Tony Lama?”
Fire snapped in her eyes. “While you were carousing and rodeoing all over the west, I worked with one of the finest shoe designers in the world. My designs are good, my fit is excellent, as you can attest to, and I understand instinctively how to make the perfect shoe or boot for the client.”
He liked her all riled like this. Passionate and strong. Too many times in their youth, she’d let the others run roughshod over her. Hell, he’d been as bad, maybe worse than the others doing it too.
“You’re an influencer,” she continued. “You wear my boots tomorrow night, and people will take notice. I’m ready to take orders and work fast. A couple of years of hard work, and I can hire a team. Scale up.”
“What happens when you can’t keep up with orders?” Hell, a couple of Instagram posts from him, she’d probably have orders for six months, or more. And once that first wave of clients spread the word, she’d be inundated.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Besides,” she added. “I don’t need world domination. I just want to make a living doing something for myself.”
That, he understood. The pride of accomplishment. Of being able to stand on your own two feet and look the world in the eye. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Their gazes tangled and the air between them sparked with a moment of mutual respect and more. So much more. She was damned irresistible. Unable to stop himself, he closed the distance between them.
“One kiss. Just one kiss, Lyds. While we’re both sober and in our right minds.” He brushed her hair behind her ear, not missing the shiver that went through her.
“I don’t think I can possibly be in my right mind when you touch me that way,” she murmured, never taking her eyes from him.
It might only be a slight opening, but he’d take it. He lowered his head, brushing his mouth against hers slowly. When she didn’t pull away, or push him, he pressed more firmly, nearly dropping to his knees when she leaned in, opening her mouth. She tasted better than he remembered. He caught the faint taste of whiskey on her tongue, but heat enveloped him as they deepened the kiss and his mind reeled from the pleasure.
With a groan, he pulled her close, winding an arm around her. Her hands fluttered up his chest, touching, caressing, landing on his shoulders as she stood on tiptoe, pressing into him. “Ah, Lydia,” he sighed as he peppered kisses along her jawline. “Let me make you feel good. Let me show you how good it can be.”
She stiffened in his embrace and pushed on him.
Disappointment crashed through him as he dropped his hands and took a step back, hands raised in surrender. “What? What’d I do?”
With a heavy sigh, she pressed her hands to the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. Flashing her palms, she spoke. “Business. We can’t–”
A ringtone sounded in her purse.
“Ignore it,” he rumbled.
She shook her head as she rooted in her bag. “I can’t. That’s Lex. She only calls if it’s super important.” She glanced back with a guilty expression. “I’m sorry. It’ll just be a second. Hey,” she said into the phone.
He fisted his hands on his hips, letting out a ragged breath. Cockblocked by the sister. The Grace sisters had an uncanny ability to show up at the most inconvenient times.
Lydia’s face paled, and she covered her mouth with a gasp. “Noo. Oh poor Caro.”
“What?” he growled, protective instincts arising from someplace deep within. “What is it?”
She looked at him wide-eyed, shaking her head. “When?” she asked her sister. Lydia’s face crumpled at whatever Lexi told her.
Dread pooled in his stomach. Had something happened to Dottie? Whatever it was, by God, if he could, he’d help her.
“I’m on my way,” she said quietly and disconnected. “Carolina’s fiancé was killed a few hours ago. I have to go.”
His feet were already moving to his suitcase. “I’ll take you to the airport.”
CHAPTER 11
Colt stood and shook hands with the two ad-execs who’d flown in from L.A. with his boxer-brief sponsorship contract.
“We’re looking forward to working with you Mr. Kincaid,” the young woman Maria, obviously fresh out of college, said with a hint of star-struck awe. “C. Klein is thrilled to add a rodeo star to its athletic wear lineup.”
�
��Please. Call me Colt. I’m not much for formality.”
“Of course,” her boss, Alan answered smoothly. “Anything you need before we schedule the shoot, you let us know.”
He had half a mind to ask if they’d shoot him in Lydia’s boots.
“Thanks for the rodeo tickets last night,” Maria gushed. “I’ve never been to a rodeo before.”
Colt smiled benignly. “Well, if you’re gonna go to a rodeo, the National Western’s one of the best around. I’m just sorry I didn’t perform so well last night.”
Alan clapped him on the back. “We were impressed, and our photographer got some great shots of you coming out of the chute.”
He wasn’t impressed with his performance last night. He’d drawn a bad horse and had a poor bareback ride. Then, adding insult to injury, he’d drawn the meanest bull of the lot, and had lasted only six seconds. But what he thought didn’t matter so long as the sponsors were happy and the checks kept coming.
Again, his thoughts drifted to Lydia. He hadn’t talked to her since Vegas. All the Graces, even Dottie, were in Chicago when he arrived home Christmas Eve, rallying around Carolina, the youngest of the Grace sisters. And Lydia had been so distraught as he drove her to the airport, his only thought had been helping her keep it together. Asking for her number had been the furthest thing from his mind. Something he kicked himself for, now.
Tipping his Stetson, he said goodbye and stepped outside the Cattlemen’s Clubhouse into the bright January sun. Reaching for his aviators, he wove through the participant’s lot on the backside of the National Western complex with a spring in his step. He might not have pocketed the prize money he’d hoped for during the National Western run, but he’d more than made up for it in endorsements. And every cowboy knew, there were ups and downs on the rodeo circuit. As long as he had more ups in the coming year, he’d finish out on top next December.
The truck rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the lot and onto I-70. But instead of heading west toward his ranch in Steamboat, he turned east. Toward Prairie. He questioned his motives for the next thirteen miles. Travis was due home any day now from a six-hundred-fifty-mile trek to Santa Fe along the historic trail of the same name. And he had souvenirs for Dax. He slid a glance over to the box that took up the passenger seat. Of course, if Lydia was home, he’d pay a visit to the Graces. Offer his condolences in person.
It still disturbed him she’d offered him fifty-one percent of her venture. It made no sense. And it raised his hackles that she thought to entice him into being a hands-off investor. Was he really so awful that she wanted nothing to do with him? That didn’t reconcile with the mind-bending kisses they’d shared. He chewed on that thought for another seven miles.
Maybe he was looking at it all wrong. Maybe she’d offered so much because she wanted to get his attention? That would be exactly the kind of reckless action he’d take if not for his financial advisor. Lydia certainly had his attention. Although it didn’t take offering up more than half her company to get it. Her plan was solid. Measured, and well thought-out. He’d looked it over so often since Vegas, he had most of the details memorized. Protectiveness for her surfaced again. What if she’d offered that to someone else? Someone more… nefarious? He clenched the wheel. If anyone dared take advantage of her…
He pressed the gas closer to the floor. If he pushed it, he could be in Prairie shortly after dinner. Maybe, just maybe, luck would be with him, and he’d find Lydia at the Trading Post. An ache settled low in his belly just thinking of her. Maybe this time the fates would conspire on their behalf instead of placing more obstacles between them. He’d give his left kidney to spend a day having slow, dirty sex with her. Someplace quiet with no phones, no interruptions. No dying in-laws or free booze. He fisted his hand against the steering wheel, punching out a rhythm in an effort to calm down his overeager cock. This was the longest dry spell he’d ever endured, his dick reminded him painfully. Nothing except a few stolen kisses with Lydia for more than six months. And the more he thought about those kisses, the more he wanted another.
His phone rang from its spot on the console. Activating the Bluetooth, he answered. “Colt, here.”
“Colt, son. Glad we reached you,” a booming voice spoke jovially.
Hal and Harrison Carter, and Colton could tell from Hal’s tone of voice, something wasn’t right with his largest sponsor. His pulse fluttered at the base of his neck. Carter Holdings owned half of his brand endorsements and accounted for two-thirds of his income last year. He couldn’t afford to piss-off his bread and butter. At least not now, not with so much of his cash tied up in Travis’s Resolution Ranch.
Colt smiled before he spoke, infusing his voice with an enthusiasm that felt far from genuine. “What can I do for you, Hal?”
Hal cleared his throat. “We’ve been fielding some complaints from our brands.”
“Oh?” Colton’s stomach dropped. This was not good. Hal only called and did things like clear his throat when his brother Harrison, forced him to have uncomfortable conversations. Like dropping someone. Colton had seen it play out a few years previously, and it hadn’t been pretty. Hal cleared his throat again. “Some of the brand owners are disappointed in your performance recently.”
What??!?
Colt’s temper got the best of him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he bellowed, foot jamming on the gas as he flew down the highway. “I just won second in the all-arounds at the NFR’s, and you’re disappointed? Did any of your other cowboys come close to that? Who’s disappointed?” he demanded.
“We’re a family company,” Hal reminded Colt. “And a few of our brands are speculating that your love of the ladies is getting in the way of you taking top honors.”
White hot anger zapped through him, fusing his hands to the steering wheel. He knew exactly where this was coming from. And it wasn’t some random brand exec. Nope. This was from Satan herself, Samantha Jo Carter, head of Vanguard Chaps and Leather, and one-thousand-percent daddy’s little girl.
Taking a steadying breath, Colt tried to speak as evenly as possible. Hal and Harrison both had a blind spot where Sammy Jo was concerned. He’d give her credit, he’d never met a woman as fierce as her, but not in a way that garnered respect. Sammy Jo was a shark through and through, and only wanted a man she could boss the way she did her daddy and her uncle. Worst? She’d take you down with a smile on her face if she felt you’d crossed her. And evidently, he’d crossed her. It wouldn’t take much. They’d tangoed off and on over the years, but they tended to mix like oil and water. And the last time, when she’d ended it, Colt had insisted it be for good.
“Maybe the ladies are my good luck charm,” he countered. “I’ve made the NFR five years running, each year placing higher and higher.”
Hal coughed. “And that’s done a great deal to elevate our brand. But,” he paused to clear his throat again. “We think it’s time you settle down and become a family man.”
Oh. Hell. No.
That was code for marry Sammy JO It wasn’t the first time they’d hinted at that possibility. And each time, he’d firmly sidestepped them.
“Or what?” Colton asked tersely, mind spinning. Losing the Carters’ endorsements would be catastrophic. For starters, a move like that would brand him as bad business, and the rest of his endorsements would follow suit like a stack of dominoes. He knew. He’d seen it happen before. If Carter Holdings pulled, he’d be back to square one overnight. Not only would he have to liquidate, he’d have to go back on his word to Travis. The thought churned his stomach like a meat grinder.
Hal’s voice became firm. “We’re tired of the bad-boy image. Of all the party shots on your social media–”
“I can’t help it if my name has become a hashtag,” Colt snapped bitterly. “And I certainly can’t help it if people wanna take their pictures with me.”
“This isn’t just about photos, son. And you know it. How many women were you with the night before the NFR finals? How much liquor did y
ou pour down your gullet?”
Colton clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together so hard that for a second, he missed his competition mouth guard.
“That’s what I thought.”
So Hal had assumed his silence was an admission of guilt? Fuck that. It wasn’t the party ladies that had thrown him off his game the next day, it had been Lydia. And his concern for her and her family in the wake of her sister’s heartbreak. He’d own he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she kissed him, either. He’d been so distracted, he hadn’t set his rope right when he’d been in the chute. His saddle bronc ride had been pathetic, he’d barely hung on, rode more like a rookie. The bull he’d drawn tossed him clean off less than three seconds into his ride. To be honest, he hadn’t slept well since he’d taken Lydia to the airport. But he’d never admit any of that to the likes of Hal Carter. Or any other Carter.
Hal continued. “We want to be able to tell our brand managers that you’re settling down. You know, polishing your image. Becoming more… er… respectable. You know… like Jude Lawson.”
Colt rolled his eyes. Be like Jude Lawson who beat him out for best all-around cowboy by only ten grand, and who’d married his high school sweetheart several years ago. His wife had pretty much been pregnant the entire time. Hal’s meaning was loud and clear.
“Let me get this straight,” Colt ground out. “You’re telling me I need to find a wife and start popping out babies or you’re going to drop me?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well lucky for you I’m halfway there. I got engaged over Christmas.” The lie popped out before he could stop it. Screw Hal for trying to meddle this way.
“And you were going to tell us, when?”
“When I was good and ready. We’re still working out the details.”