Love With a Perfect Cowboy

by Lori Wilde

  She was going to be okay. She was a survivor. She would get a job with one of Tribalgate’s competitors and go head to head with her former employer and she would kick their asses. Temporary setback. Okay, so she was turning thirty at the end of the summer without having achieved her lifelong goal of becoming a creative director at a prestigious Madison Avenue ad agency, but oh well. She would make new goals.

  Yeah, uh-­huh, sure.

  She’d been a high school cheerleader, but she wasn’t buying the rah-­rah rallying cry going on inside her head. She had credentials, but it wasn’t as if ad executive jobs were low-­hanging fruit.

  She notched her chin up, but the pain in her heart was sharper than ever.

  Fired.

  She’d been fired. Never in her life had she been fired. She worked hard and achieved everything she ever dreamed of—­valedictorian of Cupid High, homecoming queen, head cheerleader, and 4.0 GPA at NYU. Why then did she feel like a complete and total failure?

  Why? Because she had failed.

  Setting her teeth, Melody hissed out a long breath. Yes, she’d achieved a lot, but in spite of that, life had been one long series of failing to live up to her mother’s edicts and expectations—­stand up straight and hold your shoulders back; when you gain three pounds immediately go on a diet; avoid carbs at all cost; a minute on the lips, forever on the hips; nice girls finish last; strive, strive, always strive to be the best you can be; keep up, keep up; no excuses; it’s all in the presentation; life is a contest; you have to play to win; grab the spotlight whenever you can; and whatever you do, never, ever, under any circumstances trust a Nielson.

  All those exhausting rules!

  A Latino family, consisting of a mom, dad, and four little girls with big white bows in their hair settled in the pew beside her. The parents knelt and began to pray. One of the little girls canted her head, and studied Melody intently.

  Once upon a time she’d been that age—­young, inquisitive, and full of dreams.

  Melody massaged her throbbing temple. Sometimes it felt as if she had baling wire wrapped around her chest. A memory flitted across her mind. She was four years old, and entered in her first beauty pageant.

  Backstage, her mother fussed with Melody’s hair, and accidentally spritzed hair spray in her eyes.

  “Momma! That burns.”

  “Don’t rub your eyes. You’re smearing your mascara.” Her mother licked the corner of a Kleenex and dabbed at Melody’s face. “Stop squirming and hold still.”

  That baling-­wire sensation had come over her then, squeezing her lungs so tightly that she couldn’t breathe. Body burning hot all over, she struggled from her mother’s arms and clawed at the cameo ribbon necklace clasped at her throat.

  Momma swatted Melody’s petticoat-­padded fanny. “Stop that behavior. Stop it right now,” she hissed. “There is no excuse for panic. You must uphold the family name by beating Carly Nielson. No Nielson has ever beaten either a Greenwood or a Fant in the Cutie Pie Valentine’s Day pageant.”

  But she liked Carly. At preschool, Carly had let her borrow crayons after Melody had left hers out in the sun and they melted in a pile of colorful goo. She didn’t understand why she was supposed to hate Carly just because her last name was Nielson.

  “I don’t care ’bout no stoopid booty pageant.” Melody folded her arms over her chest, pooched out her lower lip.

  “You paste a smile on your face, young lady, and get up on that stage and win that trophy or I’m going to paddle you so hard you won’t remember your own name,” her mother threatened.

  The baling wire tightened. “I can’t, I can’t—­”

  “You can and you will. Greenwood-­Fant blood flows through your veins. Your family runs this town and you will win this pageant. Now get up there and beat the pants off Carly Nielson. No excuses. Win.” Her mother glared and pinched her arm.

  Melody gulped, blinking back the sting of tears. Somehow, when they called her name, she got up on that stage and did exactly as her mother demanded, completing the routines they’d practiced over and over.

  And win she had.

  Not only won, but she also had the entire room erupting in a standing ovation.

  For her.

  In the flush of victory, she should have been happy. Most anyone would have been happy. But as she stood there next to her preening mother, the gold-­plated trophy gleaming in the fluorescent lighting of the ballroom of the Alpine Holiday Inn, she caught sight of Carly’s crestfallen face and her heart sloshed into her patent leather Mary Janes.

  Poor Carly.

  The truth hit her. If she won, then someone else had to lose.

  Get over it.

  That was the first time she remembered the sharp lash of her internal taskmaster whipping her into compliance. Throughout the years that punishing voice had intensified until she devoured her inner Simon-­Legree-­on-­Benzedrine, chewed it, swallowed it, and internalized it, until finally that punishing voice had eclipsed her mother’s.

  Nothing she ever did was good enough. Nothing ever satisfied. The more she strived, the more there was to accomplish. She climbed and climbed and climbed and for a brief moment—­even though she hadn’t truly appreciated it—­she’d summited the top of the heap.

  Only to crash.

  Spectacularly.

  How could she tell her mother she’d been fired?

  Melody started to gnaw on a thumbnail, but then sat on her hands to make herself stop.

  Ah. That’s why she’d been parked in St. Pat’s all day even when her stomach grumbled and her mouth was bone dry and she needed to go to the bathroom. She couldn’t face calling her mother.

  Enough.

  Melody shook off her ennui. No more pity party. Get it in gear. Make plans for a comeback.

  She called Jean-­Claude for the fourth time that day to tell him she needed a shoulder to cry on, but his phone went to voice mail again, as it had the other three times. Dammit. She really needed to hear a sympathetic voice right now. Sighing, she finally sent him a text saying she was on her way home.

  She nibbled her bottom lip. Jean-­Claude had only known her as a winner. Would this shift in her status upset the balance of their relationship?

  Only one way to find out. See him face-­to-­face.

  She couldn’t emotionally handle the trip up to Seventy-­second Street on foot, nor could she see herself taking the subway with the pitiful box in her arms, so she splurged on a taxi. Maybe she should be concerned about saving money at this point, after all she didn’t know how long she would be out of work, but anything other than a cab ride felt too much like a walk of shame.

  The taxi dropped her off in front of the apartment. She stood on the sidewalk gathering her courage. Jean-­Claude should be packing for his trip to South Africa. How would he react to her news? Would he be supportive, disappointed, or, worse, disinterested? Why hadn’t he returned her calls or texts?

  An uneasy sensation rippled over her. Jean-­Claude could be a bit narcissistic at times—­honestly, his obsession with his art was part of his charm—­but he’d never outright ignored her. What if something was wrong?

  Resolutely, she squared her shoulders, hoisted the box higher up in her arms, and stepped toward the front door.

  “Hello, Parker,” she greeted the doorman and put a cheery, crooked-­tooth-­hiding smile on her face.

  Parker did not smile back. In fact, he did not automatically open the door for her either. “Ms. Spencer,” he said solemnly. “I must speak to you privately.”

  Alarm bells went off in her head. Had something terrible happened to Jean-­Claude? Was that why he hadn’t answered her calls and texts?

  “Now?”

  Parker nodded and opened the door. “Please come with me.”

  Heart in her throat, she followed him inside the building and glanced around. There were ­people in the lobby and some standing at the bank of elevators, but she barely noticed them as her pulse pounded harder and louder with
every step. A hundred horrible scenarios involving Jean-­Claude and some kind of terrible accident sprang into her head.

  Parker went to the other side of the check-­in counter, opened the door to the storage room, and crooked his finger for her to follow him.

  The female security guard on duty at the desk craned her neck around, peering curiously at her as she walked past.

  With each step, her chest squeezed tighter and tighter and she clung to the cardboard box as if it were a magical shield that could keep her safe. Wait a minute. Don’t freak. It is April Fool’s Day. Maybe Jean-­Claude is playing a joke.

  Yes, except while Jean-­Claude was beyond gorgeous and a talented photographer, he did not have much of a sense of humor. What if he was giving her an unexpected gift or throwing her a surprise party to celebrate her promotion?

  She suppressed a groan. Oh great, just what she needed. A surprise party when she’d gotten fired instead of promoted. Still, it was better than the thought that something terrible had happened to him.

  Melody stepped over to the open door and peered into the storage room. No friends gathered to yell, “Surprise.” No grinning Jean-­Claude to give her a kiss. No brightly colored packages. No ribbons. No bows. No balloons. No confetti.

  Good, right?

  Except there sat her suitcases and several cardboard boxes closed with masking tape, her name scrawled across them with a black Sharpie in Jean-­Claude’s distinctive handwriting.

  She shifted her gaze to meet Parker’s eyes. “What is this?”

  “Your belongings.”

  “Why are they down here?” She didn’t mean to ask the question. It made her look like a complete dumbass, but her world had been knocked off kilter and her mind couldn’t fully absorb what she was seeing.

  Parker cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and looked at her like she was the saddest thing he’d ever encountered. “Mr. Laurent requested that your things be made available to you on the first floor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Parker lifted his doorman’s cap and scratched his bald head. “He changed the access code to his apartment and he requested that you not be allowed onto the floor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s evicting you.”

  Melody blinked. “Jean-­Claude is breaking up with me?”

  Parker shifted his feet, coughed lightly, politely. “Ahem. So it appears.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “I’m just the doorman.”

  “I heard him muttering something about an ugly crooked tooth,” volunteered the security guard. “But maybe that had nothing to do with you.”

  She didn’t recall dropping it, but the box in her hands hit the ground with a loud smack and she put a palm to her mouth.

  ­People jumped and looked around.

  The Clio statuette flew from the box and skidded over the polished marble. The ball that the statuette was holding broke off and rolled across the floor.

  It stopped at her feet.

  Broken.

  Just like her career. Just like her relationship with Jean-­Claude. Just like her life.

  “Jean-­Claude is not getting away with this. He can’t simply dump my stuff and forbid me to go up onto his floor. I demand an explanation, dammit.”

  “Do not put up a fight,” Parker said sternly. “Go quietly. It’s for the best.”

  “Best for whom? Jean-­Claude?” The bastard. “I deserve better than this.” Melody spun on her heel and stalked toward the elevator.

  Both Parker and the security guard charged after her.

  She reached the elevator first, and frantically punched the up button.

  Gawking tenants and visitors to the building stopped, stared, and whispered.

  “It won’t do any good to throw a fit.” Parker closed his hand around her wrist as the security guard moved to block her entry to the elevator door that opened up. “Mr. Laurent has already left for South Africa.”

  It was all too much to be fired and dumped by her boyfriend in the same day.

  Melody pulled from Parker’s grasp, flung her arms overhead, and stepped backward until she ran into the cool marble wall behind her. Nowhere else to go.

  “Please, Ms. Spencer,” Parker said. “I know it’s a shock, but you are a woman of dignity. “Please …” He sounded desperate now. “Get your things and go.”

  The security guard reached for the Taser clipped to her utility belt. “I won’t hesitate to use this,” she threatened.

  “Don’t make us call the police,” Parker bargained, in a kinder tone.

  Her legs trembled. No. Do not collapse. Her knees gave way.

  Slowly, she slid down the wall until she landed on her butt, not giving a damn that she was in a skirt and heels. Numbly, she stared down at the polished marble. How did they keep it so spotless in here? She could see her pathetic reflection in the brilliant shine.

  “Ms. Spencer,” Parker murmured. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Parker. Was that his first name or his last? She had no idea.

  “We’ll give you a minute to pull yourself together,” the security guard added, and steered Parker back to the check-­in desk. “But only a minute.”

  A muscle in her left eye jumped. The cursed tic she got when she was overstressed. She nodded blindly, trying to make the tic go away, but never glanced up. She should snap out of it. This wasn’t she. She was an achiever, a survivor, a doer. Get up.

  “Show’s over, folks,” the security guard announced to the lobby at large and shooed them off like Central Park pigeons. “Go about your day.”

  Feet scuffled. The elevator dinged. Voices murmured.

  So Jean-­Claude had thrown her out. The ass hat. Okay, fine. What next?

  She couldn’t stay here. But where could she go? Her best friend, Bethany, was married with three kids and lived out in Brooklyn. Her other best friend, Amy, shared a one-­bedroom with her boyfriend in Soho. Both would willingly put her up for a night, but she couldn’t impose on them for longer than that and what was she going to do with her things?

  It was all too much to process.

  She dropped her head in her hands and shut her jumpy eyes. Heard footsteps come closer. Was it Parker returning to roust her?

  Blowing out her breath, she opened her eyes, and spied a pair of cowboy boots in front of her.

  A shiver ran through her, although she didn’t know why. Slowly, following the lines of those boots up to firm muscular legs encased in tight-­fitting jeans and on up farther to the big gold rodeo belt buckle positioned above the zipper of snug Wranglers, she raised her head …

  … and gulped.

  “Melody,” he said her name soft and low.

  She tipped her chin all the way up and gazed into familiar hazel eyes swimming with sympathy, surprised to realize her eye tic had gone away.

  Luke Nielson.

  And from the tender, rueful expression on his face, he’d apparently heard the entire exchange between her and the doorman.

  Oh God, she even had a Nielson feeling sorry for her. That was some kind of pathetic. Earlier that day all she’d wanted to do was avoid him, now she had an overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms, bury her face against his broad chest, and sob her heart out.

  He was taller than he’d been in high school, having sprouted a good two inches over the almost six feet he’d been then. Even though she was tall for a woman, five-­seven and a half, he made her feel petite. His hair was a shade darker and his eyes were a deeper shade of hazel. Or maybe it was just a trick of lighting. He reached down a hand to help her up just as the afternoon sunlight cut through the window casting him in a halo glow. In that heartbeat of a moment, he looked like a knight in shining Stetson. The only thing missing was the white horse.

  “Sounds like you’ve been having a rough day, darlin’,” he drawled.

  “To say the least,” she mumbled.

  “C’mon with me and I’ll treat you to
supper.”

  Supper.

  One of those words she’d dropped from her vocabulary. Since Cupid was a ranching community, back home they called lunch “dinner” and dinner “supper,” because dinner was when the hands ate their biggest meal of the day.

  Melody didn’t know why she sank her small, smooth palm into Luke’s big, calloused one. Back home, Nielson and Fant descendants got along like Hatfields and McCoys, but here in the asphalt jungle, well, all bets were off, weren’t they?

  In New York City, they could be unexpected allies, and it was an oddly pleasant feeling.

  He led her by the hand, stopping at the desk long enough to peel a hundred-­dollar bill from his money clip and pass it to Parker. “Keep her belongings here overnight.”

  “Yes sir.” Parker snapped his heels together. “But I can’t keep them past tomorrow evening.”

  “That’s long enough,” Luke said, and slipped his hand to the small of her back.

  Any other time, she probably would have bristled at the overly familiar gesture, but today? Well, the warmth of his palm radiating through her clothes felt good and she allowed him to sweep her out of the building.

  Her phone dinged, telling her that she had a text. She was so accustomed to living her life tethered to electronics that she didn’t even think about what she was doing, simply took her phone from her pocket right there on the street and read the text.

  It was a reminder from Bernadette’s about her five-­thirty dinner reservation.

  “You’ve already got supper plans,” Luke said, reading over her shoulder.

  “I don’t want to keep them.” She moved out of the flow of foot traffic, leaned one shoulder against the outside of the building, and stowed her phone into her purse.

  “Why not? You’ve got reservations and I’m hungry. Let’s go.” He took her elbow.

  She pulled back. “It’s not your kind of place.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? No sawdust and peanut hulls on the floor? No cigarette smoke circling the ceiling fan? No stuffed animal heads on the wall?”

  “That’s not what I meant at all,” she said. “The restaurant is pretentious.”

  “So it’s your kind of place.”

  “My boyfriend’s kind of place,” she corrected.