The Bachelor Cowboy

by Jessica Clare

  “So when is tax time?”

  She’d go with a serious answer, not a funny one. “Not now.”

  Her answer was flat and unfriendly, and inwardly, Layla winced. Instead of sounding strong and confident, she just sounded like a jerk.

  Jack paused, then spoke again. “Is . . . this a bad time? We don’t have to talk about the date, if you’d prefer not to. It’s just a friendly sort of thing. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  Oh great. Now he thought she was trying to blow him off? This conversation was taking a rapid downhill turn. Layla cleared her throat delicately. “Can we start over? Hi, I’m Layla. I like long walks in the woods, bidding absurd amounts on random strangers at charity auctions, and hiding my feelings with humor.”

  There was a long, tense moment, and then he laughed again. “Hi, Layla,” he said, taking up the conversation where she’d left it. “I’m Jack. I like hanging out on stages holding puppies and meeting cute accountants, but I think we covered that part.”

  She smiled into her phone. “Hi, Jack. I guess it’s a good thing we met after hearing our common interests.”

  “Isn’t it?” he teased. “Speaking of the auction, can I ask you a quick question?”

  Oh no. Here was where he asked her about her virginity. Layla tensed, waiting for the worst. “Go ahead.”

  “Your mother . . . is she always like that?”

  Relief flooded through her. This was a question she could answer truthfully. “So one of the things with a narcissist is that they’ll use information like a bat and club you with it out of nowhere. My mother deliberately picks things to say that will garner attention for her and make people remember her. It’s kind of classic, really. I’ve gotten pretty used to her zingers.” Well, “used to” wasn’t the right term. Maybe “braced for disaster” was. The disappointment didn’t slap as hard when your expectations for someone were already incredibly low.

  He grunted.

  “But am I surprised she did it? No. She wasn’t the star of the moment so she did it to save face. I’m the nerdy, unsexy daughter and she reminds everyone that she’s the glamorous, beautiful one.”

  “Wait, wait.”

  “What?”

  There was a rustle of blankets on his end of the phone, and a disgruntled yap. “Oscar, hush. Here, chew on my finger.” A tiny growl, and then Jack sighed. “Okay, sorry. I think I must have flashed him a hand or something. Your mom always tears you down in front of others?”

  “Not always. Like I said, just when she feels threatened or overshadowed. She has to remind everyone who the hot one is.” Like Layla had ever forgotten. She had nightmares of school trips when her mom had showed up in short sequined miniskirts to take them to the museum. Of summers in the community pool and her mom in a red string bikini next to the other moms wearing floral, skirted swimwear to hide their thighs. Janet Schmidt made sure everyone was aware of her presence, and if she couldn’t get the attention she craved with flash, she’d do it in other ways.

  “I think that’s pretty fucked up,” he admitted.

  “It is—”

  “I mean, she’s clearly not the hot one.”

  Layla opened her mouth and then snapped it shut again. A half-strangled squeak came out of her throat instead of a clever answer.

  “Did I make you blush again?”

  “A little.”

  “You know you’re hot, right?”

  That threw Layla for a loop. “I am?”

  “Are you kidding me?” He gave another sultry laugh that made her toes curl. “I don’t know what your mom’s been filling your head with, but allow me to point out that you are absolutely in my spank bank and I would definitely touch unmentionable parts of myself to thoughts of you.”

  Well, now this conversation was making her squirm in all kinds of ways.

  “Before I list out all the ways I find you hot, I should probably point out this is not a conversation we should have in front of our bitey son or else he might remain an only child for life.”

  She chuckled at that mental image. “Thanks for sharing that. You should probably stop letting him chew on your finger.”

  “If he’s biting on my finger, I know the rest of me is safe. So . . . tomorrow? Or have I scared you off with my heavy-handed flirting?”

  “Please. You can’t scare me,” she bluffed.

  “Good. Because I want to see you.”

  And then she was blushing all over again. They set up a time and said an awkward good night, and then Layla put her phone down. She immediately picked up her crochet, just to give her restless, frantic fingers something to do.

  She had a date. Tomorrow.

  With a hot, flirty cowboy . . . that she’d paid for.

  Layla decided that she’d focus on the first part and not the latter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Did she think she was going to get any work done this weekend? Layla had clearly underestimated just how distracted she was going to be at the thought of going out with Jack. She poked at an amended tax return, filling in deposit information on the Schedule C. The problem was, she wasn’t really concentrating on the return and it wouldn’t balance. Instead, she googled Jack Watson. She googled what the name “Jack” could possibly be short for. She googled Alaska. She googled cowboys.

  She looked for Jack on Facebook. And Twitter. And Instagram.

  Eventually, she gave up on tax returns. She curled up with her phone and watched animal videos and thought about Jack and obsessed over her upcoming date.

  They were taking the dog for a walk.

  What exactly did one wear to take a dog for a walk? Layla went to bed pondering this, and it was the first thing she wondered when she woke up. Luckily, the weather saved her from having to consider dressy clothing. It was chilly, with a stiff breeze, so she pulled out her favorite Space Invaders sweatshirt and jeans. She put on a little bit of makeup, flat-ironed her hair so it was loose and wavy around her shoulders, and then sat on the couch and tried not to feel self-conscious. Did she look like she was putting too much effort into things? Or just enough? She wished she knew.

  Her phone rang, and the screen said “unknown caller.” Could that be Jack? Did he have more than one number? Layla hesitated and then answered it. “Hello?”

  “So you’re not dead.”

  Her mom. Groan.

  “No, Mom. I’m not dead. I just didn’t feel like talking to you yesterday.”

  “Are you still mad at me?” Janet sounded utterly surprised. “Honestly, you’re so sensitive, Layla. You get upset over the tiniest things.”

  For a moment, she felt guilty; then she remembered that no, she wasn’t sensitive. It was just another one of her mother’s subtle attempts to make her question herself. “What’s up, Mom?”

  “Well. I was calling to see if you’d mail that paperwork back to me. I don’t feel like driving all the way over to Painted Barrel to get it.”

  “I’ll send it back to you, sure, but I’m not signing anything, and I’m sure not notarizing it.”

  “What? Why not?” Janet’s voice was shocked. “Is there a problem with them?”

  “You’re asking me to sign off stating that you told me that you’re completely unaware of any sort of flooding since the purchase of the land. We both know that’s not true.”

  “Oh, FEMA doesn’t care,” she said lightly. “It’s just a formality.”

  “It’s not a formality, and I’m not going to sign off on it so you can make your money back. I told you not to buy land unless you knew the market, but you didn’t listen to me, Mom. I’m not going to lie for you. Not when it could cause me to lose my notary license.”

  “Oh please. You’re such a worrywart.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be such a baby—”

  “If FEMA really doesn’t care if the land is in a
floodplain or not, why not just go to them directly? I’ll pay for you to get someone else to notarize these documents for you if money’s a problem.”

  “Oh, good lord. If you’re going to be like this, forget it. I have a friend that will help me out.”

  “Good!”

  “I just don’t see why you’re being so stubborn. You owe me one.”

  That made Layla sputter. “Excuse me? What on earth do I owe you for?”

  “Oh, how about the fact that I raised you?”

  Layla tried not to roll her eyes hard enough that she’d strain something. “It’s called parenting. I’m pretty sure most mothers don’t look at it as a favor to their child.”

  “How about that man I got you yesterday? You wouldn’t have stepped in and bid on him if I hadn’t nudged you in that direction.”

  Nudged her? Was she serious? “Yes, I would have.”

  “No, I know you, Layla-belle. You’d make some silly excuse and back out at the last moment, and then you’d be disappointed. I knew you wanted to buy yourself a boyfriend and so I showed up to help things along. Really, you should be thanking me.”

  It probably all sounded completely logical in Janet’s head, but it was utterly infuriating for Layla to hear. “You shouted to everyone in the room that I was a virgin, Mom.”

  “Well, I can see it’s clear that you’re going to hold a grudge.” Janet sniffed. “You won’t notarize the documents for me?”

  “Still no. Nice try, though.”

  Janet sighed. “Just FedEx them back to me, then. I know a guy. I’ll tell him my stubborn, ungrateful daughter wouldn’t do the tiniest of favors for her poor broke mother.”

  Tiniest of favors, her ass. More like break the law. Commit perjury. “Just sell the land like it is, Mom, floodplain and all.”

  “But then I won’t make my money back.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Can I just borrow your notary stamp—”

  “Goodbye, Mom. I have to go.”

  “Got a busy weekend of watching television—”

  She hung up. Sometimes Layla felt bad about hanging up on Janet, but sometimes her mom made it easy. Today, she didn’t feel a smidgen of guilt, just irritation. How much easier would her life be if she didn’t have Janet and her drama to deal with?

  Layla picked up her cross-stitch basket from the end table and glanced at the clock. Still several hours before she was scheduled to meet the cowboy, and she needed a distraction. She picked up her project from where she’d left off—this was a colorful, pretty wreath that looked like flowers from a distance, but when you looked closely, the flowers were actually dancing aliens and the phrase the truth is out there was artfully stitched in the middle. This was going to be a birthday gift for one of her gaming friends, provided she finished the project in time. Layla plucked out a few red stitches, trying not to think about the irritating phone call with her mother.

  You owe me. You know you wouldn’t have bid on him if I wasn’t there.

  The sad thing was, Janet had been right about that. How many times had Layla chickened out on dates that her mom wanted to set her up on? How many times had she pulled excuses out of her ass when she knew a “potential date” would be showing up at a family get-together? Layla was good at avoiding romantic conflict . . . probably because she’d spent so many years trying to extricate herself from her mom’s constant life of conflict.

  Maybe going out on this date with Jack was a mistake.

  She stabbed at the fabric. Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. This isn’t even a date. You’re walking the dog and discussing who’s going to take him for the week. He might just be trying to pawn the dog off on you. It’s probably not romantic, no matter what he said last night.

  After all, a guy as hot as Jack Watson? All he had to do was give her a smile and flutter those long, thick lashes at her, and she’d be putty in his hands. It was entirely possible that she was about to be played, and that made Layla anxious.

  Maybe not, though? Just because her mother was a raging jerk didn’t mean that everyone was . . . did it? Layla wasn’t sure if she had a special knack for just finding them. She sure hoped not.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Layla showed up at the bakery early. To be fair, she’d left her house a few minutes ahead of schedule to get gas, but even with a pit stop, she was still ten minutes earlier than their meeting time and feeling a little overeager.

  The bakery was empty, at least, so that was something. Painted Barrel was too small to have a fancy coffee chain set up here, so the local bakery had tables and served as the latte and snack shop of choice. Layla came in far too often for a nice brisk espresso, and usually on weekdays, there was someone sitting inside with a laptop.

  “Did you want to order?” Megan, the teenager behind the counter, asked her.

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  She grinned at Layla. “Girls’ lunch?”

  “Something like that.” Oh god, did no one think she’d date a man? Was she that pathetic? Why didn’t she say it was a date? Or would that seem like bragging? Layla kept smiling even as she watched Megan swipe the counters clean. Even to a teenager, Layla was perpetually single. That was . . . painful.

  The urge to sit down and text—so at least she’d look busy—was overwhelming, so Layla headed for one of the tables and shrugged off her jacket. She sat down on one of the tall chairs. Immediately, she knew it was a mistake. Something cold and wet was seeping through her pants. With a feeling of horror, she got back up again and immediately headed for the bathroom.

  Sure enough, the remains of someone’s iced latte was soaking through the pale denim of her jeans, because of course it was. With a frustrated sound, she glanced around the small bathroom. One stall. Okay, then. Layla glanced at the door and saw it had a lock on it. She locked the door, then stripped off her jeans and began to scrub the wet spot.

  As she did, she grumbled to herself. Good thing she was early, or she’d have had to turn around and go home to change. She also might have grumbled about the job Megan was doing keeping the café clean, but it was fine. It was fine.

  Everything was fine.

  She was able to clean off most of the brownish stain, but it meant a much larger wet spot covered the backside of her jeans, along with a pink tinge from the cheap hand soap. It was getting worse the more she fucked with it, and so Layla gave up. She turned on the hand dryer and held her jeans under it, but it didn’t seem to be doing much drying.

  Her phone rang.

  Shit. That had to be Jack. Layla groaned and let it go to voicemail. If he asked, she’d just say she was freshening up or something. She cranked the dryer again, smacking the button, and when it finally turned itself off, the wet spot looked no smaller than before. Crap.

  Why was this happening to her?

  A hysterical giggle escaped her. Was this the universe telling her that dating was a bad idea? It was entirely possible.

  Best to just accept defeat, wear her jacket over the stains, and laugh about it . . . someday. She put her jeans back on, grimaced over the sensation of the wet denim against her butt, and slipped her shoes back on. When she grabbed the door, though, it didn’t budge.

  Layla frowned to herself, tested the lock, and tried again. Sure enough, she’d unlocked it but the door still didn’t budge. She knelt down by the locking mechanism and flipped it again. The lock “moved” to unlocked, but there was no click of the mechanism inside. Something was stuck. She pressed her face against the handle, smothering the hysterical laughter bubbling in her throat.

  Okay, she had a wet diaper, and she was now locked in the bathroom. What else could possibly go wrong?

  Her phone pinged with a text message. Because of course it did.

  JACK: Here.

  She set it back down and stared at the door. Okay. Did she confess to he
r hot date that she’d somehow locked herself in the bathroom after she’d sat in a drink? Or did that all sound incredibly stupid and fake? It was utterly humiliating, but she also didn’t know what to do. Call a locksmith and ask him to spring her from the can?

  The thought made her snort with more panicked laughter.

  Megan’s voice drifted through the door. “. . . can’t . . . dog in here . . .”

  Jack’s rich voice rumbled through the bakery, but she couldn’t make out what he said. She could hear him chuckling, though.

  Fuuuuuck because of course he’d come in looking for her. Megan was probably flirting with him, too. Layla groaned and grabbed the door in a panic, shaking it. Didn’t budge. Didn’t even make enough noise to get anyone’s attention, because she could hear Megan’s high-pitched giggle in the other room as she talked to Jack.

  After a few more moments of fiddling with the lock, she came to the realization that she could either stay trapped in the bathroom until Megan noticed she was here . . . and Jack would probably think she’d flaked . . . or she could suck it up and point out where she was.

  CHAPTER TEN

  With a sigh of defeat, she scooped up her phone and texted.

  LAYLA: So you’re not going to believe this

  LAYLA: I have locked myself in the bathroom

  LAYLA: Can you please let Megan know so she can let me out?

  There was no answer, but it did show the message as read. She tugged on the door again, fretting. Had he already left? Was he embarrassed at her dorkiness and changed his mind about the date?

  A knock came at the door. “It’s Megan,” chirped the too-happy voice on the other side. “Did you lock yourself in?”

  “Yes!” Layla tugged on the door again. “It won’t open.”

  “Yeah, the building’s settled and the lock sticks. Let me get a knife and I’ll jimmy it for you.”

  “Sorry,” Layla called out, wanting to wring her hands. She clutched her phone tightly, imagining what Jack must think of her.