When Things Got Hot in Texas

by Lori Wilde

  “You’ve been engaged before?” That question slipped out.

  She hesitated. “Uh, three times. But I was referring to my ex-husband, Johnny.”

  A dozen questions lined up on his tongue, but he was not going to ask.

  “Johnny and I were married two years. He was my high-school sweetheart. We both had big ideas, goals, and a belief love could change the fact that we wanted completely opposite things in life.”

  And what did you want?

  “He wanted to go to Africa and help save the world. I wanted a family to make my world. You want that when you know what it is to have one. When you know what it is to lose one.”

  “I imagine you would.” Realizing the bucket he held was empty, he set it down at their feet. Banjo moved away. Bingo hung close. The sound of her tail swishing to keep away flies whispered in the summer air.

  Jennifer continued, “I loved Todd, too. Not as much as Johnny, but I did love him.”

  He just looked at her. He didn’t ask, but she must have seen the questions in his eyes.

  “Todd was my second fiancé.”

  She stared off for a few seconds before adding, “In the beginning, we weren’t totally in love. I think that’s why I was willing to bet that I’d fall in love with Charles. I wanted to believe it.” She said the latter as if it came with some kind of a realization.

  Bingo moved to stand in front of her. Then chancing it, the horse hung her head over the fence close to her, begging to be touched. Jennifer hesitantly reached out and ran a hand down the mare’s neck.

  After a couple of strokes, Bingo eased away. Clay and Jennifer stayed there, sipping coffee and watching the horses grazing. The silence slowly grew thick.

  “Want to help me feed the cows now?” he asked.

  She looked up at him. “Okay, but I’m not petting them.”

  He grinned. “Why not?”

  “Because I like steak, and I don’t believe in petting my food.”

  He laughed.

  The ringing of the home phone yanked Clay from a deep sleep. He wasn’t even sure where he was. The sofa spring poking him in the side brought it back. He and Jennifer had finished feeding the cows. She’d gone into the kitchen to start cooking a pecan pie. Clay had stretched out on the sofa. He must have fallen asleep. But for how long?

  Sitting up, he dropped his face into his hands. Then he realized the phone had stopped ringing. Listening, he didn’t hear Jennifer.

  He stood up, suddenly aware of the sweet smell of pecan pie. Inhaling, he savored the scent. Maybe he shouldn’t be upset at Pete for pushing her into baking it.

  “Smells good.” He eased into the kitchen, expecting to see her. She wasn’t there. He glanced at the bathroom. The door stood ajar.

  Another phone rang. His cell. He glanced over to the cabinet where he’d been charging it.

  He picked it up, checked the screen, and saw it was Jake. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” Jake said. “Where are you?”

  “At the house. What’s up?” He ran another hand over his face.

  “I called.”

  “Yeah, I just missed it.”

  “Look, Mark was planning on running over to check the house that was broken into. Savanna insisted on coming and stopping by to see Savanna. Obviously, when a nine-months pregnant woman insists on anything, she gets it.” Jake chuckled.

  Clay hid his yawn. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “Then Bethany insisted on coming. And Macy. So, I’m assuming it’s all okay.”

  “Sure,” he said, not really thinking he had a choice.

  “Have you guys had lunch yet?” Jake asked.

  Clay’s stomach growled. He hadn’t even had breakfast. He glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. He’d slept a little over an hour.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Well, Macy suggested we bring pizza and salad. Does that sound okay?”

  “Great.”

  “Good, because I’ve got the pizza, and we’ll be there in ten minutes.” Jake hung up.

  Clay put his phone down and walked back into the living room. Jennifer must have decided to take a nap, too. He should probably wake her up and let her know her friends were coming.

  As he neared the door, he noted it was open. He peered inside. The bed was made. And empty.

  Right then, he heard Devil bark outside. Followed by a scream. Jennifer’s scream. He tore out of the house barefoot. Bolted off the porch. He didn’t see her anywhere.

  Shit!

  While debating whether to grab his gun before looking for her, he heard her again. This time it came with a word. “Stop.”

  Unable to wait, he tore around the house, stepping on thorns at every step.

  Ready to fight, he cut the corner around the house. And froze.

  Jennifer stood, hose in hand, by a very sudsy Devil. A bottle of shampoo was at her feet. The dog shook, and suds flew off him and onto Jennifer. In spite of knowing he’d be pulling splinters out of his feet for weeks, Clay laughed.

  She looked at him. Or did as soon as she swiped a beard-sized dollop of foam off her face. “It’s not funny.”

  He laughed harder.

  And he shouldn’t have done that.

  Devil saw it as an invitation. He bolted over and commenced to shaking in front of Clay.

  Now Jennifer laughed.

  He looked up. “I thought it wasn’t funny.”

  “I changed my mind.” She moved over.

  Devil shook again. Shampoo foam came at Clay from all directions.

  “Crap,” he called out.

  “Let me help you,” Jennifer said, still laughing.

  The next thing he knew he felt the spray of water.

  He looked up, and her blue eyes were bright with laughter as she squirted him.

  “That’s not nice.”

  He bolted after her. She turned to run, but wasn’t fast enough. He snagged the hose from her hands and turned it on her.

  And he shouldn’t have done that, either.

  Wet, that damn light-pink tank top and obviously thin bra, became almost transparent. Holy hell, she was beautiful.

  Standing there, stunned, he wasn’t prepared when she snagged the hose from him and turned it back on him. The water was cool, but not cool enough. He felt his body responding to the sight of her dark rose-colored nipples pebbled against the wet cotton.

  Then her laughter, that sweet sound and look of joy in her eyes became a challenge again. He wanted that. The fun. The flirting. Forgetting the past and just living.

  He shot forward to retrieve the weapon. She turned to run. He caught her around her waist. When he went to take his next step, the pain of thorns digging into his heel caused him to trip. Arms and legs tangled, and she came down with him.

  He pulled her against him, taking the blow of the ground. They rolled, and he ended up on top of her, but he held his weight on his elbows. The hose caught between them, and water squirting up between their close bodies sprayed their faces.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She spilled out happy sounds and yanked the hose free.

  Both still laughing, their gazes met, held, locked.

  He could swear she lifted her head, or hell, maybe he’d dipped his down. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the taste of her wet lips. The feel of her body under his. The fact that he wanted this more than he wanted to breathe just then.

  Chapter 9

  Jennifer wasn’t sure who’d started it, or who’d ended it. Both maybe?

  “I’m sorry,” they mumbled at the exact same second, leaving no doubt that both of them knew and accepted it’d been a mistake.

  A huge, amazing and wonderful mistake. His masculine weight on top of her had soft butterflies brushing against feel-good nerves from the tips of her toes to the tip of her nose.

  He rolled off her, and they lay there stretched out on the grass staring at the sky. She heard him catching his breath while she fought to find hers, certain one of th
ose butterflies had taken off with it.

  Slow, what-the-hell-just-happened seconds passed. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.

  One of them was going to have to say something.

  She sat up and stared straight ahead. From the corner of her eyes she saw he had done the same.

  In addition to speaking, sooner or later, they were going to have to look at each other.

  “It won’t happen again.” His words came out half-apologetic, half-gruff.

  He took the high road on speaking, so she took it by looking at him. She turned.

  “I think that’s best.” Her voice came out too soft, too vulnerable, too freshly kissed. Damn butterflies.

  He must have sensed her gaze because he glanced over at her. His eyes appeared bright. Intense. She couldn’t read his expression. Was it desire? Despair? Don’t-give-a-damn?

  “We can be friends,” she offered. “I’d like to be friends.”

  “Right.” The one word echoed with zero confidence.

  Devil came running and Clay stood up. He squirted the dog with the hose to get most of the shampoo off. Jennifer hoped he’d turn the hose back on her. That they could go back to the playful mode they’d found before things shot straight to pitifully awkward.

  Instead, he dropped the hose, took one step, cursed, and then limped two steps.

  She popped up. “Are you hurt?”

  “Stepped on some thorns.”

  Baffled, she looked down at his bare feet and then up. “You shouldn’t go barefoot.”

  “I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t screamed and scared the . . .”

  He started toward the house, even his gimpy walk appeared pissed off.

  “You thought I was . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . Devil . . .”

  He swung around, then glanced off to his right. “I’m not blaming you.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re pissed. I can tell.”

  He exhaled. “I’m not pissed. I’m uncomfortable about . . . what happened, and it feels as if I have a half a dozen inch-long stickers digging into my heel.” Still without looking at her, he continued gimping toward the house.

  She caught up with him. “Let me get a needle, and I’ll help you get them out.”

  “No, I’m fine.” The gruffness in his tone lessened.

  “I want to. We’re friends, remember? Besides, unless you’re double jointed, digging a splinter out of your own foot is impossible.”

  He muttered something she didn’t understand, and his eyes didn’t meet hers.

  “Sit here,” she said as they got to the porch. “The light’s better here.” She moved to the door then stopped. “Do you know where a needle would be?”

  He frowned. “In the kitchen, top drawer beside the fridge. I saw some thread in there, so there might be one. But . . . you might want to get out of your wet clothes.”

  “I’m fine.” She went in search of a needle, hoping it wasn’t lost in a haystack. “Got it,” she called out. Then she went into the bathroom, grabbed two washcloths, and dampened one. Then she found some alcohol in the medicine cabinet.

  It wasn’t until she was about to walk out when she smelled it.

  “My pie!” She bolted back into the kitchen, snatched a towel, and pulled it out.

  Oh, hell! The crust was dark brown, bordering on black. And she had really wanted to impress Pete with her pie.

  Pushing that frustration aside, she headed outside to play nurse.

  Clay sat on the edge of the porch, his foot in his lap, trying to see his heel. He looked up. “You’re right. I can’t do this.”

  She got situated on the bottom step. He scooted over and held out his foot.

  He had big feet. Nice-looking big feet. She’d always heard big feet meant big . . . And yeah, since she’d seen him naked, she could confirm it. Then she castigated herself for that thought.

  “I’m going to wash it off first.” Knowing it’d hurt if she rubbed too hard, she carefully cleaned the foot. When she saw the culprits, she let out a low, “Yikes. There’re four of them, and they appear to be in deep.” She looked up. “You got a bullet to bite?” She smiled to let him know she was half joking.

  “I’m fine.” He quickly looked away. Not smiling.

  She poured alcohol on the needle, doused his foot with it then went to work.

  “Where’s Pete?” she asked to fill the silence.

  “Went into town.”

  She got the first thorn out no problem. With the second one, he let go of a hiss.

  “Sorry.” Looking up, she found his gaze was on her, but then he glanced away again.

  She thought of the kiss. Of all of the reasons it shouldn’t have happened. As in, no more playing the odds. No more giving her precious time to men who either didn’t intend to commit, or who would commit but chances were they’d bail. She wanted more than hot kisses and great orgasms. She wanted a family. A life partner.

  The alcohol-scented silence thickened.

  “Have you always wanted to run a junkyard?” The question came from the tiniest pocket of hope.

  “No,” he muttered.

  She paused from digging out the splinter. “So, it’s not your chosen profession?”

  “It might end up being,” he said.

  “Might?”

  “I know enough about cars. I can do it while I run the ranch.”

  “You don’t see ranching as your career?” Ranchers actually had a low divorce rate.

  “Not really. It isn’t enough.”

  “Hmm.” Her mind continued to race. “Besides being a cop, what else have you done?” Police officers weren’t in the top fifty percent, but they reported less than grand marriages.

  “Worked a feed store.”

  What was the divorce average of feed-store worker?

  “What else?” She doused his foot with more alcohol.

  He hissed again. “When I was going to college, I did a lot of different things.”

  She stopped. “Like what?” She wondered if she could average out his different careers. But then he already had other things going against him. His broken home life. His own divorce. His height. His build. His . . . size?

  “I bartended for about a year.”

  Well, shit. That was the career with the highest divorce rate. Followed by massage therapists and roofers. “And?”

  “Construction. Mostly roofing.”

  That sealed the deal. The risk was too high.

  One by one, she got out his splinters. He started to pull his foot away. “Let me put some more alcohol on it.”

  “Thank you.” The soft breeze brought with it the sound of an engine. She looked up. A car moved down the long drive. “Is that…?”

  “It’s Jake and everyone.” He pulled his foot off her lap. “They called right before. . .” He glanced at her. “You should change your clothes.”

  “Everyone? Are the girls with him?” She bolted up.

  “Jennifer,” he repeated in a firmer tone.

  “What?”

  He frowned up at her. “Your shirt is practically transparent. Unless you’re okay with--”

  She let out a squeal when she saw her nipples were visible. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried . . . to tell you. And I didn’t . . . look.”

  “Really?” Accusation gave the one word color, and she swung for the door.

  “I tried . . . not to look. Tried . . . real hard.” His words reached her ears as she entered the house. “And failed.”

  “You brought pizza?” Jennifer stepped out of the bedroom with a dry bra and shirt on just as everyone moved inside.

  Macy glanced at her husband. “Jake said he told you.”

  “Jake told me,” Clay spoke up, and his gaze met Jennifer’s. “I forgot to tell her about the pizza.”

  He’d also forgotten to tell her he could see her boobs. “I tried to,” she recalled him saying, and damn if she didn’t remember him suggesting she change clothes. Yet he’d neglected to add the pertinent i
nformation about being able to see her breasts.

  “Oh, my!” Devil moved in, and Macy took a cautious step back.

  “He’s friendly,” Jennifer assured her. “He should even smell good. He just had a bath.” She glanced at Clay, and he was staring at her.

  “He’s kind of cute,” Savanna said.

  “No, he’s not.” Bethany laughed. “He’s ugly.”

  “Speaking of smell. Is something burning?” Savanna asked.

  “My pie.” Jennifer frowned. “I already pulled it out of the oven.”

  “You baked a pie?” Bethany asked.

  “Yes,” Jennifer said.

  “I didn’t know you baked.”

  “You don’t know everything about me.” Jennifer hugged her support group gals as Jake and Clay took the pizzas and the boxed salads to the table.

  “You baked a pie?” Bethany repeated. “Are you okay?”

  “Just peachy.” Her tone lacked credibility. She hadn’t recovered from the kiss. Or from the fact that she’d accidently participated in a wet t-shirt contest.

  “What does everyone want to drink?” Clay stepped between the kitchen and living room door.

  “You got some sweet tea?” Savanna asked.

  “Uhh.” Clay’s gaze met hers. She read it to mean he didn’t know how to make tea. “We have some tea bags.”

  “Let me help,” Jennifer said. Everyone walked into the small kitchen. It wasn’t exactly crowded, just extra cozy, with all her friends. Yet an odd awkwardness hung on.

  While she set some water to boil on the stove to make tea, Clay found some paper plates.

  “Where’s Mark?” Jennifer asked.

  “He went to check on the house that was burglarized up the street.”

  “A house was burglarized?” She glanced at Clay.

  “He didn’t tell you that either?” Bethany asked.

  Clay, standing on the other side of the kitchen, flinched ever so slightly. “She slept late. We’ve barely talked.” He walked out of the kitchen.

  Her friends huddled around. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just strange,” she answered, and when Clay returned with metal folding chairs, she looked back at the stove.

  Macy leaned in. “If it’s that strange, you could come back with us.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She added sugar to the boiling water then looked at Clay. “Do you have a pitcher for tea?”