Curvy for Him: The Lawyer and the Cowboy

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Curvy for Him: The Lawyer and the Cowboy Page 2

by Winters, Annabelle


  “You need to respond or I’m firing your fat ass,” says SueAnn through gritted teeth. She grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin and almost drawing blood. I feel sick, like something weird is happening to me. Did I not eat enough before coming to court? No, wait. I did eat enough. Shit, did I eat too much? Damn those breakfast buffets at the Comfort Inn!

  “Why are you looking at him?” rasps SueAnn. “Ohmygod, do you know him? Oh, hell no! You’re working for him, aren’t you? You’re with him!”

  I blink as I turn to SueAnn, and I see the crazy in her eyes. Or maybe I’m crazy, I think as I smile and shake my head. I stopped drinking six months ago, and maybe this is one of those hallucinations that alcoholics get when they quit. Shit, I could use a drink now. Bourbon with a splash of lemon. Maybe a sugar cube dropped in there.

  “I need a new lawyer,” comes SueAnn’s voice through my hallucination, and I’m snapped back to reality so fast I almost choke. She’s addressing the judge, I realize, who just sighs and shakes his head.

  “Are you dismissing present counsel?” he says slowly, adjusting his glasses as he glances at me and then at SueAnn, who nods firmly and crosses her arms over her tight chest. “Very well,” he says. “We’ll reconvene in six weeks, once you’ve had time to find new counsel.”

  He taps his gavel and suddenly I realize it’s over. It’s all over. I just got fired in a damned courtroom. Fired because of him!

  I glare over at Cade, who’s sitting on his chair, a lazy, confident smile on his face as if he somehow orchestrated this entire thing. Of course, I know that’s impossible. If anything, me getting fired worked against him, didn’t it? Didn’t his lawyers ask for an outright dismissal? So why is he so calm? And why am I so calm?!

  Oh, wait, I’m not calm, I think as I grab my stuff with shaking hands, my lips moving as I curse under my breath. I haven’t lost my shit like this in over a year, and the last time it happened I was straight-up drunk. I thought it was the alcohol that was the problem, but maybe it’s me. Of course it’s me. There’s nothing else left to blame, is there? Nobody left to blame but myself. Why even bother. Self-control hasn’t done a thing for me, has it?

  “Not that I have any self-control,” I mutter as I remind myself that when I managed to control my drinking, I lost control of my eating. I’ve never been a small woman, but I’ve had to buy new skirt-suits over the past few months. I’m just sitting there muttering, still absentmindedly shuffling papers around. The courtroom is being cleared, and the bailiff clears his throat as if to remind me that the next case is coming up and I need to waddle my fat ass outta here.

  “Yeah, OK,” I snap at the poor bailiff, grabbing my shit and heading out as fast as I can. I’m breathing hard by the time I call an Uber and get in. This is definitely withdrawal from booze. Who am I kidding? I can’t do this! I don’t have that kind of control over my body. Sorry.

  I sit back in the car as we pull out of the parking lot. The lot is silent, still, motionless. Then something catches my eye as we pass a shining pick-up truck parked across the aisle. It’s an old truck, but impeccably maintained, not a scratch on its body, not a speck on the windshield. As we drive past I swear I see the outline of a man in a Stetson hat sitting behind the wheel, sitting silently, with the engine off, like a ghost, like something unreal.

  I turn my head to see if it’s him, if it’s Cade. But there’s glare reflecting off the windows of the truck and I can’t tell. Then we’ve out of the parking lot and into the street, and I just shake my head and sigh. I need to get away from this strange town. I’m a city girl, and even though the locals call this a city, it’s not. It’s some hick town in the Wild West, as far as I’m concerned.

  My stomach lurches as I see a pickup truck behind us on the road, and I almost lose my shit again.

  “Oh, God, it’s not him,” I mutter in relief when I see that it’s some bearded dude in a baseball cap behind the wheel. “Oh, shit, it’s not him,” I say again, but this time my voice is softer, almost like I’m disappointed it’s not him.

  And now I know I’ve seriously lost my shit. Maybe this is what happens after years of stress, years of trying, years of mistakes that just pile up until one day it all comes crashing down. I need an escape. I need to relax. I need a drink.

  Almost like the universe agrees with me, I see a bar coming up ahead. It doesn’t even have a name. The sign just says “SALOON” in big red neon that’s flickering like it hasn’t been fixed since the 70s. The 1870s.

  “Maybe I’ve travelled back in time,” I mutter as I tell my driver to drop me off. I walk in through the swinging doors, half expecting to see a bunch of rowdy cowboys at a poker table, six-guns hanging from their belts, sacks of gold by their feet.

  But no, it’s just another bar in middle America, and I sigh and walk past two drunk women in mom-jeans playing pool really badly while their pot-bellied husbands lurch over a foosball table. There’s a jukebox in the corner, but there’s no music playing. Other than that, the place is empty.

  “Double Jack with lemon,” I say to the bartender, my breath catching as I hear myself doing what I’d promised I’d never do again. “And a sugar cube.”

  The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, what?”

  “Jack, lemon, and sugar,” I say, sliding my ass onto the bar stool and almost sliding off the slick pleather. “You hard of hearing?”

  “Jeez, OK, I got it,” grumbles the bartender, immediately backing down. It annoys me somehow, the way he just backed down even when I was clearly rude. Men are such pussies these days, I think as he pours my drink and carefully places it on a napkin in front of me.

  I stare at the glass of whiskey, and it stares right back at me. I know this is a big decision. I know what it means for an alcoholic to have even a single drink. It’s all downhill from here if I take that shot. Down into a valley I might never come back from.

  “Fuck it,” I whisper, reaching for the glass and raising it to my lips. But suddenly I see a flash of movement reflected in the glass, and I gasp as a strong hand closes tight around my wrist.

  “No,” comes his voice from behind me, and I know it’s his voice, I know it’s him. I don’t remember hearing his voice in the courtroom, and he’s just said one word right now, but I know it’s him.

  “Excuse me?” I say, blinking in shock as Cade swivels me around on the barstool until I’m staring up at him, into his dark green eyes. Electricity is shooting through my body like I’ve been struck by lightning, and honestly I don’t even know how I’m talking.

  “I said no,” he says, his voice deep and low, with a commanding firmness that I can feel between my legs. “You hard of hearing?”

  I feel the bartender grin as he watches, and my anger comes to the rescue again, bringing me back to reality with a thud—the reality that Cade must have followed me here!

  “You hard of intelligence?” I demand, clenching my jaw as Cade forces me to put the drink back down. “Did you just follow me here?”

  “I tracked you here,” says Cade with the same cool confidence. He pries the glass from my fingers, the contact sending a tingle through me, making my body feel so at odds with my mind that it’s unnerving.

  “Tracked me here? What am I, an animal?”

  “We’re all animals at the end of the day,” he grunts. “The only thing that makes us human is control. Control which you’re about to give up if you take that drink.”

  I frown as I look up into Cade’s handsome face. I can see faint creases on his forehead, thin lines around those eyes. He’s older, but there’s a weird timelessness in his eyes, like he’s always been wise beyond his years.

  “You can’t stop me from having a drink!” I say, glaring up at him. I reach for the glass once again, but he slaps it away, sending it flying across the bar, whiskey spilling all over as the glass tumbles and turns, finally coming to a stop on its side.

>   The bartender opens his mouth to protest, but one look from Cade shuts him up. Then Cade’s attention is back on me. He’s got me by the wrists and he’s turned me to face him again. I’m sitting on my stool in my skirt-suit that’s riding up my thighs, and I gasp when Cade shamelessly glances down along my body, taking in every curve like he’s got a right to look at me that way.

  “I saw you hesitate,” says Cade softly, his green eyes meeting mine again, sending another tingle through me. “I know that look. I know what you are.”

  I feel my anger slowly melt away as I look up into Cade’s rugged face. “You know what I am?” I whisper, cocking my head as I wonder what he means. “An alcoholic?”

  “No,” he whispers back like he’s answering a different question. Or perhaps he’s answering the real question. The question my eyes are asking. The question my heart is asking. The question my body is asking.

  “Then what am I?” I whisper, inhaling deep as his scent comes to me for the first time, a masculine aroma with splashes of tobacco leaf and old leather, a hint of animal musk in the background that makes me think back to what he said about how we’re all animals at the end of the day.

  “What you are is mine,” he says, his voice quiet and controlled, the words coming out with a certainty that make me believe him. Of course, I can’t believe him. I shouldn’t believe him. He’s a backwoods madman. A psycho who stalked me, assaulted me, and is restraining me by the wrists! “You’re mine.”

  I open my mouth to protest, to remind him that he’s invading my space, violating my rights, breaking the goddamn law! But I just blink as the words refuse to come out, as if my body just won’t allow me to speak, like my body is straight-up overruling my mind, telling me that logic and reason and common sense don’t mean jack in this world, in his world!

  Again I get that feeling like I’m being transported through the ages, back to a time when a man made his own law, when a man took what he wanted, took what was his. I don’t know if I’m already drunk, if I’ve snapped, if something’s broken inside me. All I know is what I feel, what my body feels, what everything inside me is telling me even though it’s fucking crazy.

  I’m his.

  OMG, I’m his!

  And then, as the room fades away into the background, as the last bit of common sense disappears like smoke from a winter’s campfire, as Cade’s scent invades me like a drug, he kisses me.

  He holds my wrists firm by my sides, leans in, and kisses me. Hard, with the authority of the lawless history of this land, the confidence of a cowboy staking his claim, he kisses me.

  By God, he kisses me.

  3

  CADE

  I kiss her without thinking about it, without planning to do it, without caring about where I am, who’s watching, or what this means. She tastes like rain, I think as I press my lips against hers, inhale deep of her soft scent, feel her fingers clench as I hold her wrists firmly against her hips.

  My cock is straining as I kiss this woman I know is mine, and it takes all my willpower to draw back and control myself so I don’t take her right here, right now, with the fucking world as my witness. Even kissing her in public is crossing a line, but now the line’s been crossed and there’s nothing to do but proceed. That’s how it was in the old west, wasn’t it? You push onwards past the frontier, and there’s no going back. You stake your claim, and you damned well make it work.

  “Are you . . . are you crazy?” she stammers as I draw back from her and breathe deep, taking in her taste and scent all together. Her pretty round face is flushed with shock, and she’s trying to get herself to be angry. But she’s not angry. I can tell her body knows the truth just like mine does.

  And what a body it is, I think as I let my gaze drift over her curves, let my lonely eyes take in her peaks and valleys, her dips and rises, the swell of her full breasts, the majesty of her wide hips, the fullness of her ample waist. This woman was built for me, for my rough hands, for my hard—

  “Oh, God, you are crazy!” comes her voice, and when I look up into her eyes I can tell she’s glanced down between us and seen how hard I am, how badly I want her. “That’s just . . . it’s just . . .”

  “That’s just nature,” I say slowly, my jaw tightening as I feel her try to pull away from my grip. “And nature must take its course, just like a river flows to the sea.”

  She rolls her eyes, and I feel her relax under my grip. I loosen my grip until I’m gently holding her hands by her side, my eyes locked in with hers, my hard body close to her soft curves, my peak pointing straight at her valley.

  “Wow, that’s some deeply poetic language,” she says, rolling her eyes again. “Excuse me while I puke.”

  I grunt, feeling a grin break on my face. “And that’s some extremely un-ladylike language,” I shoot back.

  “Oh, really?” she says, a hint of indignation in her tone. “Well, since you’ve clearly been living under a rock for the past fifty years, here’s a quick lesson in how ladies in the real world talk: Get your fucking hands off me or I’m calling the police.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, releasing her and stepping back casually, narrowing my eyes as I respond to her challenge with a shrug. “Just make sure you get your story straight first.”

  She snorts. “My story? You just assaulted me, and I have witnesses.”

  I snort right back at her. “I don’t think so. Nobody saw nothing. Ain’t that right?” I shoot a glance over at the bartender, who doesn’t even make eye contact with me, he’s so fucking scared. It’s been years since I’ve been around town, and I don’t know if the guy knows who I am or not. Either way, he’s scared—as he should be.

  But she isn’t scared of me, I think as I turn back to this curvy woman who I know is mine, whether she wants to believe it or not. Nope. That isn’t fear in her eyes. It’s a challenge. This woman is strong, and a strong woman needs a strong man. That’s how nature works.

  “What’s your name?” I say, putting my hands on my hips and squaring my shoulders.

  She’s got her phone in her hand, her finger poised like she’s really going to call someone. The next moment the phone is in my hand, and I just grin as she gasps in shock at my quickness.

  “Quickest draw in the West,” I whisper, holding the phone up above my head as she reaches for it. “Sit back down, please. I asked you a question. Answer, and you get your phone back.”

  She’s standing before me, hands on her own hips, and it’s everything I can do to maintain my composure when I see her strong hourglass shape highlighted in the yellow light of this bar. Her skirt has ridden up her thighs from the way she’s been sitting, and I almost groan out loud when I imagine my face between those thick legs, my tongue tasting her feminine sweetness as she spreads wide for me.

  She blinks, and somehow I know the same thought has just passed through her mind. Now I know that my body was right, my Grandpa was right, this woman is right. Right for me.

  “Cassandra,” she says softly, blinking again like she’s shocked that she backed down, that she gave in, submitted. “Cass.”

  “Cade,” I say, nodding my head once.

  “I know,” she says, glancing up at her phone and then back into my eyes. “Now may I have my phone back, please?”

  I hand her the phone slowly and smile when I see her hold it down by her side. She looks up at me hesitantly, and I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking, “Now what?”

  I shoot a glance over at her whiskey glass lying on its side on the bar, and I take a breath. “You’re coming with me,” I say softly.

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  “I can’t leave you on your own,” I say calmly. “I’m obliged to make sure you don’t regress, don’t lose control, don’t go back to that place.”

  She glances at the spilled whiskey and blinks like she’s ashamed, like she hates herself for almost giving in
, almost surrendering, almost losing the battle that all of us fight every day.

  “I’m not in AA, and you’re not my sponsor,” she says hesitantly. “I’ll do what I want, when I want, thank you very much.”

  “Is this what you want?” I say.

  Her beautiful red lips part as if she’s about to say something, but she stays quiet. When I said, “Is this what you want,” I wasn’t asking about the booze, and somehow she knows that. Somehow I know she knows that. But she can’t answer. She can’t let herself answer. She’s too much of a lady to answer. She’s strong as the earth, smart as a whip, confident at her core. But she’s also missing something, just like I am. She’s looking for something, just like I am.

  I know what you’re looking for, Cass.

  “Looking for something?” comes a voice from behind me just as I see Cass’s eyelids flutter, her lips move as if she’s about to answer the question—the question I’m really asking. “Or maybe you’re just lost. Nobody’s seen you in ten years! Is it really you? Yeah. Hell, Cade the Cowpoke himself makin’ an appearance in our fine town! And back on the booze, I see.”

  I turn at the sound of the voice—a voice I haven’t heard in almost ten years. My body is stiff and rigid as my hands drop to my side, where my gun should be. Of course, I’m not wearing my gun. I have an open-carry permit, but I found out years ago that it doesn’t help my reputation to be seen around town with a six-gun and a Stetson.

  “Emmitt,” I drawl, nodding once as I look directly into his gray eyes, cold as stone, narrow like a snake’s. “I’m as surprised to see you here. Isn’t this place a bit below your class?”

  Emmitt runs his hand through his thinning hair and grins. He looks around at the shabby bar and shrugs. “I own this place,” he says. Then he slowly turns, holding his arms out wide. “I own most of this town now, Cade. Bought it all on the cheap over the years. Property values have been dropping in the city on account of the young folk movin’ out to the coasts. They say the town is dying.” He grins again. “And I say, when there’s blood in the streets, buy property.”

 

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