by Ginny Glass
Padding toward the sink, careful to avoid the broken shards of the mug, he cleaned up a bit and returned to the table with a damp cloth for her.
“I think I owe you some cleaning help.” She motioned around the room. Between the broken dish by the sink and the papers littered around the table, it did look like a disaster area.
“I guess we’ll need to work on renegotiating some of our terms then.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“This time, in the bedroom.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, just scooped her up and started toward the stairs.
She kicked her legs in protest, but only for a second before leaning in and resting her head against his chest. “One condition.”
He paused, foot resting on the step.
“I’m on top.”
“I think that’s agreeable.” Better than that. He couldn’t wait to have her riding him, her breasts on display and ready to be loved and fondled.
“Play your cards right, cowboy, and maybe we can work out the rest,” she murmured as she snuggled into the crook of his neck.
He chuckled. “Keep treatin’ me like this and I’m going to start thinkin’ I should live in your mama’s old house.”
*
Jane felt him stir beside her, but couldn’t muster the energy to move. Pearly gray light from a cloud-covered moon seeped through the cracks in the drapes. The rain tapered off to a hypnotic tap-tap-tap against the roof. Clive’s breathing was slow and deep, but the thumb stroking the underside of her breast told her he was awake.
“Tell me about this guest ranch idea.”
His muscles tensed and his thumb stopped. Jane held her breath, just as she’d held it every time a set of foster parents sat her down for a talk. Those “talks” usually meant it was time for her to move on again, but at least they had the decency to tell her straight-out.
The silence stretched on and a fizzle of anger lit in her belly. She was asking about his business intentions, not if he had any of the personal variety. He wanted to buy the only scrap of permanence she might ever know out from under her. She’d just ridden the man six ways from Sunday. Surely she had a right to know his plans.
Bricking up her hurt, she ducked behind the wall of sarcasm she used as a shield. “You know, you just had your tongue in my pussy, Clive. You think a little pillow talk is asking too much?”
“I really liked having my tongue in your pussy. Like to do it again. Soon.”
The gruff admission startled a laugh from her. Before she could gather her anger again, he brushed it away with the pad of his thumb as he resumed his rhythmic caress. The gentle strokes teased sensitive skin but soothed her ruffled feathers. She opened her mouth to prompt him, but again he beat her to the punch. Her head cushioned on his biceps, Jane listened as he outlined his plans for converting barns and outbuildings, renovating the house and developing programming and activities.
Lulled by the rolling cadence of his voice, she drifted along, half listening to his concerns about liability insurance and building inspectors. She closed her eyes, and the soft-focus dreams of permanence she’d hugged close to her heart suddenly burst to life in high definition. A bubble of laughter burst from her lips, startling Clive into silence and propelling her from his lax embrace.
The tangled sheets pulled tight around her leg as she rolled to face him, but she didn’t care. Clive reared, tucking his chin to his chest. The frown that puckered his forehead was so comically perplexed, she laughed again.
“What?”
Jane planted one hand on his chest and pushed until he lay flat on his back. Peering down at him, she let her smile widen. “I’m not going to sell you my land.”
He blinked in surprise, but the corners of his mouth tightened as her meaning sank in. “You’re not.” Disappointment flattened his statement, but anger and hurt flared in his eyes. He swallowed and turned away for just a moment. When their gazes met again, his was cool and appraising. “Well, I guess I misread your intentions.” He tugged at the twisted sheets but soon gave up with a frustrated grunt. “Maybe I shoulda negotiated a trade.”
“Too late now,” she retorted, emboldened by the barely contained injury in his tone. “But maybe we can work out some kind of package deal.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sold on its own, my land is worth more than yours. I can negotiate my own deal.”
Jane smiled. There was nothing sexier than a naked man trying to recover his wounded dignity. Trailing her fingertips through the curling hair between his pecs, she shot him a coy glance from under her lashes. “I wasn’t talking about selling.”
He tensed and his eyes narrowed. “Your mama used to use that same look on me when she had some chore she wanted me to do.”
“I’m hoping you won’t see my proposal as a chore.”
“Just what are you proposing?”
“A partnership,” she answered without missing a beat.
Pressing his head into the pillow, he fixed her with an appraising scowl. “Business or pleasure?”
“Either. Or. Both.” A hot blush rushed up her neck. Jane ducked her head, letting her hair curtain her flaming face. “Whatever you want.”
He brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. His palm smothered the flash fire burning in her cheek. “I want so many things.”
The raw honesty in his answer gave her courage. “I want a home.”
One eyebrow rose and his mouth twisted into a smirk, but pleasure lit his eyes. “One that’s not a whorehouse?”
“One that’s mine.” She wet her lips. “Forever.”
His smirk softened into a sly smile. “Those are some pretty steep terms.”
“I’m not saying you have to be the one to take them. I’m open to negotiation.”
“Better not be too damn open,” he growled. Long, strong fingers sank into her hair. He pulled her down until they were almost nose to nose and stared straight into her eyes. “I like the idea of a partnership.” Soft lips grazed the corner of her mouth. “But I’d want an exclusive until we can figure out where we’re going.”
Warm breath whispered over her skin. “I think I can concede that.”
He looked up at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his smile stretched. “And this time I get to be on top.”
Jane laughed as he rolled her under him. Smoothing his rumpled hair, she pulled him closer. “Mister, you drive a hard bargain.”
*
Y Is for Yearning
Christina Thacher
One look at the cowboy was all it took.
A punch to the gut, that was what it felt like. And didn’t Diana know that feeling already. The cute guy takes her breath away, she thinks, “oh, this could be the one,” and then he turns out to be shallow, an idiot, a moocher or just a waste of space.
Oh, but this guy was different, her gut said. That was what it always said. The tortured artist, the leather-clad bad boy, the heavily tattooed drummer—Diana’s gut did like the clichés. This time it was a cowboy.
Not happening this time. She had to wait for the Fairlane’s obscure gasket, and when it arrived, she’d find someone to sublet her sublet and she’d be back on the road. She’d missed the antique car show in Oregon, but if she headed down to California, there would be other rallies. Or maybe she’d just go back to Tennessee. What she wouldn’t do was swoon over a cowboy.
“Hey, Carrie, okay if you take Table Six for me?” Diana tried to keep her tone casual, like this was no big deal to her.
Carrie tucked her pad into her apron pocket. She looked at her station, then over at Diana’s table. “Why should I? He’s been in before—barely looks up. Never orders more than a sandwich and iced tea. No dessert. He’s a generous tipper, but you won’t get rich off that order. Relief to see him sitting on your side for once.”
Diana frowned. She was new—this was only her second week—but surely she’d have noticed him if he’d been in before.
“You sure?” Diana didn’t want to beg, so
she kept her voice level. She really wanted to avoid temptation. Even from here, his laser-light eyes seemed to be heating her up from the inside.
“He’s at your table, honey. Better take his order now if you want any tip at all.”
Diana rushed off to take Six’s order. Be professional, do your job, don’t notice how cute he is.
“Hi.” Diana took a deep breath, trying to slow down and not seem like an idiot. “What can I get you?”
He looked up. It was like he’d dressed to maximize his effect on her gut. Crisp blue chambray shirt, clean blue jeans and a shine to his boots. Tiny creases of paler skin radiated from the outside corners of his eyes, as though he squinted all the time he was outdoors. His oak-brown hair, cut short and neatly combed, glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window.
Diana was in danger of melting from the heat puddling inside her. He had broad shoulders, lean hips. Not too tall, but then she wasn’t large herself. If she squinted she could imagine him naked, with a tan line around his hips from going shirtless in loose jeans…
“BLT, whole wheat toast and a glass of iced tea. Thanks.” He waited for her to write that down. “What brings you to Laramie in March?”
She shifted on her feet. Chatting with him just turned up the thermostat, made her nipples itchy and her clit ache a little. “Uh, my car broke down. I’m waiting on some parts before I can get going.”
He smiled at her, a supernova of a smile, and the temperature went into the red zone. Their eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity, but all he said was, “Well, good luck with that.” Finally, he went back to reading some electronic device.
Diana waited a bit too long to see if he’d say something more. She mumbled an apology. She’d better hang the order on the metal rack of clips so Denny would start Table Six’s BLT.
“Well, did he say anything?” Carrie asked as she joined Diana by the cooler where the pitchers of iced tea were kept.
“Nope.”
“So what’s the deal? Do you want him to notice you or not?” Carrie asked.
The residual effects of the cowboy’s gaze hadn’t quite worn off. “No. I don’t need the complication. Let’s hope he sits over in your station next time.”
“Which’ll be Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays he comes in. Has done for a couple weeks now. Mind you, he’s never even noticed me. And I’ve been here for nine years. Oh, the stories I could tell…” Carrie wandered away. She never rushed.
Nine years. Diana had been in Laramie for nine days. Well, more like two weeks, but it was a snap of the fingers compared to Carrie’s time. While Laramie seemed like a nice city with tidy streets, the university and a serious set of train tracks, Diana had no intention of staying once she got the Fairlane fixed.
When the order was ready, she took it back to Table Six. He thanked her as she placed his sandwich and drink down. “Which garage is working on your car? RBC or Thelan?”
Diana hugged her order pad to her chest. “Neither. When the part gets here, I’ll fix it myself.”
His eyebrows went up. Typical male reaction. Little woman can’t fix her own car.
“It’s a Ford Fairlane,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in town with the relevant Chilton’s.”
He cocked his head and a huge grin lit up the room, challenging even the sun’s power. “You do your own repairs? That is seriously badass.”
She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She put a hand on her hip and tried for a snarky expression. “I wouldn’t trust her to anyone else.”
“I’m sure you have the best hands for the job.” His look was innocent, but the flare of heat between her legs told her the cowboy was attracted to her.
“You going to want dessert?” She tried to keep her voice flat. No flirting with this guy. Fix the Fairlane and get out of Laramie. That was the plan.
“Nope, the sandwich will probably be enough.” Just like that, he was back to reading his tablet.
No more sunflare smiles, no more laser-beam eyes. Didn’t matter. The damage had been done. Despite her best efforts to keep cool, Diana was officially crushing on a Western cliché—the taciturn cowboy.
*
Table Six came in twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, rain or shine. She assumed he was a cowboy—he looked like a cowboy—but why wasn’t he busy during the day? Or maybe those were his days off.
Diana didn’t do anything with her hair or wear more makeup on Table Six’s days. She tried to keep her distance, but even the simple action of putting food in front of him was enough to fire all her nerve endings. He smelled nice, like hay and sunshine and a fresh tang of sweat. He made a little noise, like “mmm-hmm,” when she set the plate down. That noise never failed to arouse her. She’d stalk back to the kitchen, annoyed that she was so horny she’d fall for a cowboy in a town she had no interest staying in.
Didn’t matter what she told herself, though. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, Diana woke at five, eager to get in to work. Knowing she would see him made it a special day. She walked to the café from her apartment a bit faster, greeted Denny, Carrie and Ruth, who ran the cash register, with an extra happy smile, and glowed at her early-morning customers. Round about noon she started to watch the clock. At twelve-thirty, she’d glance out the windows, waiting for a glimpse of his silver pickup.
God, she had it bad.
Inevitably, she’d get busy and miss the moment when the door opened and he walked in. Then she’d turn and think how gorgeous he was. Her temperature would rise, she’d feel herself getting moist and prickly, nervous but also excited. She tried to keep it together. She took his order—which didn’t vary, so she just asked if he wanted his usual—and walked away before she made crazy cow eyes at him.
The third week of this, Carrie stopped her by the pass-through. “You’re going to have to talk to him.”
Diana made a show of double-checking an order. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Carrie, no—”
Too late. Carrie went straight to Table Six, said something, gesturing in Diana’s direction. Diana wanted to look away but she couldn’t manage it. Table Six looked up, right at her, his expression intense and unreadable. Diana’s cheeks were burning.
He said something to Carrie, then went back to his ereader. Diana rushed off to check on her other customers. Not their fault that she was a complete idiot. Carrie rolled her eyes at Diana’s evasive maneuvers, then got busy herself. Whatever Table Six had said—I’m married, or She’s not my type—Diana wasn’t going to get to hear it before she had to deliver his food.
“Here you go,” she said as she slid his BLT and fries in front of him. Her cheeks had to be scarlet. “I’m sorry about Carrie. She shouldn’t have said anything.”
Table Six looked up at that, his eyes assessing her. “Why not? You just wanted to know about my tablet.” His chin dipped, indicating his device.
Diana’s eyebrows rose. Thank God Carrie had given her an out. “Yeah, we don’t see many of those around here.”
He started to rattle off information about the device. Diana could barely follow his explanations, she was so entranced by his slow drawl. His voice mesmerized her. She nodded when he asked if she understood. Every few sentences, he’d look up at her. Those blue eyes with their outrageous eyelashes. She wanted to dive in, extinguish two weeks’ worth of overheating and never surface again.
“Any questions?” From his tone, he must have asked at least once before.
She shook her head. Standing too close to him gave her ideas. Ideas in which she was naked, he was naked, his tongue was on her—”No. Thanks. I—I hadn’t seen that model before.” She smiled, a crooked effort that wouldn’t convince a blind man, and backed away.
That night, she checked again, but the online source hadn’t found her part yet. It was a bitch locating a gasket that would mate the heads and the intake with the engine block, given that all three were used and from slightly differ
ent Fairlanes. She logged into her Tennessee checking account. Unless she dipped into savings, she was stuck in Laramie for a while longer.
Which meant she had to see Table Six twice a week for a while longer. And that might just push her over the edge. She fell back onto the bed. As soon as her head hit the bedspread, she imagined him in her apartment, strolling toward her in his boots, jeans, plaid shirt and a cowboy hat tipped to the back of his head. He had that slumbering embers smile, the one that burst into flames when she smiled back.
“Well, now, darlin’, looks like you got started without me,” her fantasy cowboy said. She didn’t have to say anything, he went straight for the bed and put a knee on the mattress next to her hip. She could feel the give in the springs as he leaned over her. Magically her clothes disappeared, then he went to work on her nipples, her belly button—when he did it, it didn’t tickle—and down to her clit. He knew what she wanted better than she did herself and he made sure she got in the zone and stayed there until she came. God, he was good.
*
On Thursday, she couldn’t even look at him. He had to think she was an idiot, and he wouldn’t be far wrong. After he left—five days before she’d see him again—Ruth shouted “Diane!” from the cash register. Ruth prided herself on getting everyone’s name wrong. When Diana asked, “Carla” had just shrugged and pointed out that as Ruth was the owner’s sister, there wasn’t much anyone could say about it.
“Yes, ma’am.” Diana walked over. “Did I get something wrong?”
“I’d say you got something right. Did you see what Table Six wrote on his check?” Ruth handed over the piece of paper, ridged with Diana’s tidy notes on his order.
Diana turned it over. There, in pencil, was a telephone number. She looked up at Ruth, who shrugged.
“Call it. Can’t hurt.” The older woman went back to her Find-a-Word puzzle. “Oh, and I’m going to need that check back.”
With Carrie watching her do it, Diana copied the number into her phone, then handed the check back to Ruth. She wasn’t going to call him. She could delete the number as soon as she left the cafe.