by Lea Kinkade
The Chisholms of Texas 1
Are You Gonna Kiss Me or Not?
Xander Chisholm is the head of Chisholm Ranch, a huge ranch in Southern Texas. Ten years ago, Xander was devastated by the actions of a woman who was supposed to love him. Since that time, Xander has given up on love and has a well-earned love-'em-and-leave-'em reputation.
Jordan Prescott is a native New Yorker who loses everything in a fire. Her best friend since college, Jessie Chisholm, talks her into starting over in Deseo, Texas. Although not totally naive, Jordan is an innocent and has been waiting for the man who can ignite her passions with one touch.
Once Jordan meets Xander, she knows he is that man. Caught in a whirlwind affair, both are surprised when an unexpected complication occurs. This complication brings back painful memories for both of them. Will it bring them closer together, or will it tear them apart?
Genre: Contemporary, Western/Cowboys
Length: 58,938 words
ARE YOU GONNA KISS ME OR NOT?
The Chisholms of Texas 1
Lea Kinkade
EROTIC ROMANCE
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www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
ARE YOU GONNA KISS ME OR NOT?
Copyright © 2011 by Lea Kinkade
E-book ISBN: 1-61926-110-3
First E-book Publication: October 2011
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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DEDICATION
To my husband, Jim. Your unwavering support over the years humbles me. Thanks for going on this ride with me. To my kids who are so proud of mommy having a book published, even if they don’t really know what that means yet.
ARE YOU GONNA KISS ME OR NOT?
The Chisholms of Texas 1
LEA KINKADE
Copyright © 2011
Chapter 1
Jordan Preston leaned back in the cramped coach seat of the airplane taking her on the last leg of her journey from New York to Corpus Christi, Texas. She was soooo tired, and her head felt like crap. The past four days had been horrendous. The worst since her mother had died nearly four years ago.
It had all started early Sunday morning as she returned on the subway from her bartending job in Midtown Manhattan to her modest rent-controlled apartment on the Upper East Side. Jordan was a bartender at the chic and trendy hot spot called, appropriately enough, The Top. It was nearly 2:30 a.m. Jordan had been up at the crack of dawn the day before, throwing a couple of new pieces of pottery, forming some new clay pots from her old potter’s wheel. She was trying to get enough pieces completed to put together a picture portfolio to take around to some of the galleries around the city—the first step to getting her pottery shown and, hopefully, selling on more than a piece-by-piece basis. Jordan had a hellacious headache, and her sinuses felt like an elephant was sitting on her face.
She knew something was wrong from the moment she stepped off the subway car. With only a homeless man and a cop on the subway with her, the foot traffic at the stop was nearly non-existent. The cop had gotten off at the stop with her and, upon hearing the sirens on the street above, had dashed up the stairs to see what was going on. Jordan had swiftly followed, always cognizant that the subway was not the safest place to be at that time of the morning.
Thinking there had probably been a traffic accident—more than likely caused by a drunk driver, given the time of morning—or a robbery at one of the stores above, Jordan quickly followed the cop up the stairs. However, when she exited the subway and turned around toward her apartment building, Jordan was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted her eyes. Her entire apartment building was in flames. Jordan started to walk toward her building then found herself running toward the front door as she realized that absolutely everything she owned was going up in flames.
Just short of the yellow tape, someone grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back, holding her in place. She started to fight and looked up into the face of the cop that had exited the subway car with her. He was telling her that she couldn't go any closer and herded her to one side of the yellow tape where spectators were observing the progress of the blaze. Jordan recognized a few of her neighbors in the crowd. Many of the people were in various stages of dress and were huddled under blankets, for, although it was early May, the evenings were still chilly. Jordan shivered in her light jacket and bartender’s uniform of a long-sleeved white shirt, black dress pants, and black shoes.
Sometime near dawn, her ears perked up when a man with a commanding voice started addressing the crowd that remained, asking that all tenants of the now burned-out apartment building follow him to some vans that would take them to a shelter where they could “stay for a few nights until they got back on their feet.” Jordan, numb and having nowhere else to go, followed.
The officials took the apartment residents to a city shelter with three rooms, one for women and childr
en, and one for men, both set up with rows and rows of army-style cots. The third room that they entered first was empty except for the folding chairs and tables that leaned up against the walls.
The officials took down each person’s name and former address and questioned whether or not anyone needed medical assistance. They also asked whether or not anyone had family or friends that they wanted to call to go stay with. Having no one, and having been awake now for nearly twenty four hours, Jordan fell into the first available cot, pulled her bag-style purse under her head as a pillow, and promptly fell asleep.
Waking up later that morning, Jordan felt strangely detached as she watched her neighbors, most of whom she didn’t know very well, milling about the common room where chairs and tables had been set up. There was a table set up with what appeared to be the dregs of a continental-style breakfast. She must have missed it. However, there was a restaurant-style coffeemaker on the table along with Styrofoam cups. Jordan, desperately needing the caffeine and with nary a Starbucks in sight, poured herself a cup of the potent brew. She could really go for a tall, skinny, double-shot mocha with whipped cream about now. Oh, well. This would have to do. In the end, caffeine was caffeine.
Over to one side of the room, there was a table set up where two women were sitting. One had a placard identifying her as being with the Red Cross while the other was with social services. Next to them were two tables set up with phones available to make calls and computers with Internet access. Also on the tables were listings someone had put together of vacant apartments in the greater New York City area.
“Do you have any relatives or friends in the area that you would like to call, dear?” asked one of the women.
“I have my cell phone if I need to call anyone, although I will need to find a store and buy a new charger for it today or tomorrow.” She didn't have anyone to call anyway. Jordan was alone in the world. She had never known her father, and her mother had died nearly four years ago of a brain tumor. Jordan was an only child and didn't have any other family that she knew of.
There were a couple of tables set up on the opposite side of the room with various items of donated clothing available for the displaced residents. Jordan looked through the clothing and found two pairs of jeans close to her size, two shirts that would work for now, and a package each of panties and socks. The volunteers were attempting to get shoes for the residents, some of whom had none at all, and were taking names and sizes from the people wanting them. Since Jordan only had her black dress shoes from work, she gave them her name and size. The volunteers also gave Jordan a plastic grocery bag to carry all of her new stuff in. Great! She was officially a bag lady.
Jordan knew she was probably in better financial shape than most of her neighbors. She had money in the bank. However, most of her money was from her mother’s life insurance policy and was in a trust. It would take some time to access that money. Thanks to her mother’s frugal ways, Jordan did have several thousand dollars in savings and could go to a hotel if she needed to. It couldn’t be The Ritz, but it didn’t have to be a hovel either.
However, given her thrifty upbringing, Jordan was reluctant to waste money on a hotel room when she should be out finding herself a new place to live. Steeling herself, she sat down at one of the tables and wrote out her budget. She knew it by heart. Seeing it on paper didn't make it any easier. Jordan knew she would never get a comparable apartment like the one that was now cinders and ash. That apartment she had lived in with her mother since she was born had been rent-controlled. Any apartment she would be able to get now would not be.
After breaking for a quick lunch of a turkey sandwich, a bag of chips, and a canned soda, Jordan spent the next five hours combing through the lists of vacant apartments and surfing the Internet. Going on countless virtual tours, she came to the inevitable conclusion that she would have to live in a one-room hovel to make it on her salary alone. Jordan made a good salary as head bartender at The Top. However, in order to live in a comparable apartment, she would have to dip into her inheritance just to make it month to month, especially if she wanted to continue with her pottery. Otherwise, she was going to be living in a one-room studio apartment with some furry creatures as roommates.
As she sat there dejectedly, dinner was set out and served. Jordan ate without really tasting. Just as she was finishing her meal of lukewarm lasagna, her cell phone rang, which immediately reminded her to call the club manager and tell him what happened and request a few nights off. Jordan found herself smiling in spite of everything when she heard the distinctive ringtone of her BFF, Jessica Chisholm, or Jessie.
As soon as she connected the call, she heard the usually soothing sound of her best friend’s voice. However, the voice was not in soothing-mode as it exclaimed sharply, “Jordan! Jordan, are you okay? I heard on the news that there was an apartment fire near your neighborhood. Are you okay?” As soon as she heard the familiar voice and those words, Jordan burst into tears.
After crying for several minutes, Jordan calmed down enough to tell Jessie that the fire had not been in her neighborhood but had been her neighborhood. Jordan told her best friend about everything—all of her things being destroyed, her financial situation, and her emotional state. Jessie immediately extended the same invitation that she had extended in almost every conversation they had had since Jordan’s mother had died. Move to Deseo, Texas and be her roommate again. Unlike in past attempts, Jessie had shot down every one of Jordan’s reasons for staying in New York. There were bartending jobs in Deseo. In fact, her twin brothers owned the biggest and nicest club within fifty miles of Deseo. Jordan could create her pottery anywhere, and photo portfolios could be circulated just as easily through the Internet. Corpus Christi and other larger cities were no more than a couple of hours away. There were both nice houses and apartments to rent in Deseo for a fraction of the cost of a dump in New York. Jordan would have friends in Deseo, not just acquaintances or coworkers. The cost of living was less in Deseo. Finally, running out of arguments against such a move, Jordan let herself be talked into purchasing a plane ticket to Corpus Christi, Texas, where Jessie would pick her up and take her to her house at the Chisholm Ranch. Or, as Jessie always referred to it, just “the Ranch.” This was Jessie’s name for the family’s huge and sprawling ranch just outside of the town of Deseo.
It was agreed that Jordan would stay with Jessie until she found her own place. Jessie would talk to her brothers, Ryan and Ryder, the twins, and sound them out about hiring Jordan on as a bartender at their popular club, Chaps & Spurs.
Four days later, Jordan found herself on a plane with nothing but a duffel bag containing two pairs of jeans, two tops, some underwear and socks, and a few personal hygiene products. She had an insurance check from her renter’s insurance and the contents of her purse. Jordan was starting over.
Jordan couldn't wait to see Jessie. She'd missed her best friend fiercely over the past four years. The visit they had had when Jordan's mother had died hadn't been enough. Jessie was right when she said that Jordan didn't have anyone she was leaving behind. Jordan didn't really have any friends in New York. She had acquaintances. Hopefully she would be able to make some lasting friendships in Deseo, Texas.
Chapter 2
Jordan heard Jessie’s squeal before she saw her. Walking into the baggage claim area—the designated meeting place, even though Jordan only had a carry-on bag—Jordan found herself tugged into the arms of her BFF and college roommate. Jessie, a good half-foot taller than Jordan, simply enveloped Jordan in her arms and squeezed tightly. It had been more than three years since she had seen Jessie in person. Her friend had come to New York to be with Jordan for her mother’s funeral after a short fight against terminal brain cancer. The women kept in close touch and talked weekly, but it wasn't the same.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally in Texas,” gushed Jessie. “It took forever to talk you into moving, but I’m so glad you’re here now. I’m just sorry you had to lose everything in a
fire in order to get you to Texas.”
* * * *
Jessie took a good look at her friend. Now, Jessie was not gay. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but she definitely liked men. Preferably long, lanky dark-haired cowboys. Yet even she thought Jordan was beautiful. Jordan was five feet two and weighed 110 pounds dripping wet. She had rounded hips and great boobs, with raven-black hair that fell in waves down to the middle of her ass. Add to that beautiful moss-green eyes and an air of sensuality that was tempered with a distinct air of innocence, and you had a woman that Jessie knew men always gave a second look. Jessie knew that Jordan had been a virgin throughout college. Judging by the conversations they'd had over the intervening years, Jessie would bet that she still was. Not as innocent as she used to be, maybe, because she couldn't have fended off horny GQ guys at an elite club for years without losing some of that naiveté. Jordan had also had her eyesight corrected and no longer needed to wear glasses or contacts. The resulting change helped take away some of that look of innocence.
“I’m glad to be here. Thank you so much for wanting me to come. I think this move will be good for me. I’m sorry I took so long to let you talk me into it. I just want to be independent. I want you to know that I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can find an apartment,” promised Jordan.