Even so, she checked her phone repeatedly as she washed her makeup off and got into her pajamas. Her room was quiet and lonely, and she thought about the cute puppies out at the ranch. Even if this thing with Hank wasn’t more than a few fun dates, she wanted company of some kind. Maybe it was time to get a puppy so she’d have someone to come home to. With that thought on her mind, she turned on the television for some background noise, picked up her book, and started to read, checking her phone again, just in case.
Her phone chirped with an incoming text after a while. Becca jerked awake—she hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep, book in hand—and looked at the screen.
GREG: Hey, I’m swinging by the house tomorrow. Want to see how you’re doing and I have a few things to pick up. XOXO
Becca groaned and threw her phone to the foot of the bed.
Why was it that the only XOXO that showed up on her phone was from her rotten, no-good ex?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Becca didn’t come by that morning.
Hank thought that was odd. Caleb and Jack grumbled about the lack of doughnuts as if they didn’t know how to feed themselves. Hank ignored all of it, made Libby some peanut butter toast, and then hustled her over to Doc’s office at the far end of the building.
“You mind?” he asked, setting his daughter down.
Doc looked up from the puppy he had on the scale. He smiled down at Libby as she dropped to the floor and began to play with the black-and-brown bundles, little tails wagging. “You know I don’t. Did Becca not come by?”
“She’s a no-show.”
“Is she sick? It’s not like her.” Doc’s face wore a look of concern. “Her father always used to joke that Becca was more tenacious than a terrier. He had a lot of dogs, you know.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said abruptly, trying not to think too hard about how he’d more or less told her to buzz off days ago. Surely she realized he didn’t mean it? That he’d liked her coming around? But maybe he should have been clearer.
Hell, he was bad at this.
Hank kissed Libby’s head and then headed out to the barn to work.
By the time the sun was setting, he practically raced inside the house, hoping to see Becca there in the kitchen. Hell, he wouldn’t care if she was sitting in the living room or even in her car, just as long as she was at the ranch. But inside, all he found was Uncle Ennis with Libby and the five puppies, and Jack and Caleb scrounging through the back of the fridge looking for dinner.
Jack looked up at him as he entered, scowling. “Where’s your girlfriend? I’m starving.”
“She ain’t a short-order cook,” Hank told him, but he had to admit he liked the thought of Becca being seen as his girlfriend . . . or even just as “his.” “And what’s wrong with your two hands?”
“My hands have been working all day long shoveling horse shit and feeding cows. It was kinda nice to have someone cooking for us.” He pulled out a jar of pickles and opened it, staring morosely down at the contents. “And now all we got is this shit.”
Caleb—the quiet one—frowned at Hank. “She mad at you? What’d you do?”
“Nothing,” Hank said defensively.
“You must have done something,” Jack insisted, fishing a pickle out of the jar with a fork. “That girl’s been up here every day for the last month even though you did your best to ignore her.” He glanced over at Caleb. “You know he did something.”
Caleb nodded, taking the jar of pickles from his brother.
“I didn’t do anything,” Hank gritted. But . . . what if he had? What if he’d missed some subtle cue? What if he was supposed to tell her that he liked her coming around all the damn time? All he’d said was that they didn’t need her anymore . . . and then they’d left it at that. He started to sweat, heading up to his room to fish out his phone. He knew it was one of those things he needed to keep on him, but after living in the deep wilds of Alaska where phone service was iffy? You learned to not need it much.
But maybe he should have called her this morning. Checked in to see why she didn’t come by. Hell, he was still thinking like he was in the mountains half the time, with no one to check in on but Libby. Becca was different, though. She was a town girl . . . so maybe she needed more from him. And that made him sweat—not because she might need more, but because he might have already messed things up without realizing it.
Sure enough, his phone showed a message from late last night.
BECCA: I know you said you don’t check this often but I’m hoping you see this. Let me know if you need me to come by in the morning or if I should sleep in.
Well, shit. He fumbled with the tiny keypad on the phone to text her back.
HANK: hrku
HANK: here
HANK: imhrku
HANK: noimhere
Damn it, typing on the damn thing was harder than it looked. His big fingers fumbled all over the tiny digital keyboard, which was obviously made for people with hands half the size of his. Plus, he didn’t know how to type all that well so it took him forever just to type that out. She was gonna think he was a Grade A moron if he tried to type an apology.
He tried calling instead, but it went to voicemail. The moment her chirpy voice picked up, he growled in frustration and hung up. Storming down the stairs, he headed into the living area and scooped Libby up, then headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Jack called from the kitchen doorway, still eating pickles.
“Town. Gonna see Becca.”
“Pick up some food, will ya?” Jack asked.
“Burger,” Caleb suggested.
“You boys know how to take care of yourselves, don’t you?” Doc asked, amused. He didn’t get up from the couch.
The two pickle eaters stared at him for a moment. “Yeah,” Jack said slowly. “But after a month of someone else cooking for me, I’d rather eat anyone’s cooking but mine.”
Caleb nodded. “Burger,” he reiterated, and then took another bite of pickle.
Hank just glared at the two idiots and went out the door.
“Daddy, where are we going?” Libby asked, patting his arm with a small hand.
“We’re gonna go visit Miss Becca,” he told her in a gentle voice, changing his tone for his daughter. “You want to go say hello to her?”
“Yes!” Libby agreed emphatically. “I missed her today.”
He had, too.
* * *
* * *
Becca’s phone buzzed in her pocket with incoming texts, but she ignored it. Not because she was in a bad mood—she’d been too busy for that. Because her hands were gloved and covered in cherry-red dye for Mrs. Dilhauser. The woman was eighty if she was a day, but she loved her bright red hair—and she tipped well—so Becca always squeezed her in, even if it was late. Plus, she loved the woman’s stories about her husband, who had passed away last fall. They’d been wildly in love for sixty years, and she adored hearing even the smallest of details about it, because she’d always wanted a love like that.
For the longest time, she’d thought it was Greg, despite how wrong they were for each other. Then after they’d broken up, she’d worried she’d be alone forever.
Now, though, she was thinking of Hank.
Of the way he kissed her. The way he held his little daughter so tenderly.
She’d missed seeing him this morning, which was stupid, and needy. Some of it was the first flush of infatuation, of course, but some of it was her problem of getting attached quickly. She was lonely, and she knew that, and just because she loved his daughter and loved kissing him, it didn’t mean happy ever after was in the works. Ten years with Greg had taught her that. So she needed to slow it down. She needed to remember that a kiss was just a kiss, a date didn’t mean much, and Hank was moving back to Alaska soon.
This
wasn’t a fairy tale, she reminded herself. She could enjoy kissing him and taking things casually. As long as her expectations were reasonable, she wouldn’t get her heart broken. It was that whole “reasonable expectations” thing that was challenging for her, but Becca resolved to do better. Hank had never promised her anything, after all.
Best not to dwell on it. So she focused on Mrs. Dilhauser, on the cut and color, and by the time the woman’s hair was in a fiery red puff around her face, it was getting late. She’d managed to squeeze her in at the end of the day, and now there was nothing to do except clean up and go to her empty house and do the same.
She was just closing the salon when a car pulled up in front and gave her a honk.
Ugh, she recognized that shrill little beep. That was Greg’s car. It seemed he’d made good on his promise to drop by. She’d been hoping to avoid that. Mentally bracing herself, she resisted the urge to lock the door on him and instead stepped out onto the front porch to meet him. “Hi, Greg.”
To her surprise, he leaned in and tried to kiss her. She sidled away, giving him a curious look. What the heck was that?
“Long time no see,” Greg said, giving her his famously charming smile. It was bizarre to see it, because once upon a time she’d melted at the sight of that smile, and now it just irritated her. Greg was everything that Hank wasn’t. He was trim and always dressed in a neat casual suit or a button-down. His hair always looked fantastic—or it had in the past thanks to her—and he was slick and dashing and knew he could charm his way through life.
Hank’s hair always looked like it needed a trim. He scowled. He wore plaid.
Yet somehow that seemed far more appealing now, far more real. She no longer trusted Greg’s easy smiles, because he smiled when he wanted something from you. And while she didn’t hate the man, she still resented that he’d wasted years of her life when she’d wanted to settle down and start a family. He’d dangled marriage in front of her like a prize, made her pay for it, and then abandoned her two days before the wedding.
Okay, she was still a bit resentful.
“You didn’t text me back,” Greg told her, still grinning. He reached out and touched her shoulder, then rubbed her arm. “I hope it’s okay I stopped by.”
“Does it matter?” she said tightly.
“Becca,” he said, mock groaning. “We were friends for so long. Don’t keep shutting me out. Can’t we go back to being friends?”
“Not yet.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You hurt me, badly. I’m allowed to take my time to get over it.”
“I just . . . miss you.” He leaned in, resting his hand on the doorjamb. It meant he was also leaning perilously close to her, because she refused to budge an inch. “I miss having you in my bed. I miss being with you.”
She watched him cynically. She’d fallen for this act before, when she’d given him a quiet ultimatum or two. They’d break up for two days or so, he’d confess how much he missed her, and then they’d end back up in bed together and a couple once more. He’d been so good at playing her.
Now she just felt . . . annoyed. Did he think she was still this stupid? “Dating pool run dry? You not getting laid?”
Greg drew back in surprise at her words. “Wow. That’s harsh. You don’t sound like you. I’m shocked.”
No, it didn’t sound much like her . . . but, gosh, it felt good to call him on his bullshit. “Greg, we’ve been broken up for two years now. Our longest breakup ever. This one’s sticking. I don’t care how blue your balls turn, but you’re not coming back into my life.”
He looked stung for a moment, then gave her another charming smile and leaned in, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Ugh. But, no, he only moved close and whispered, “You don’t think I realize I made a mistake? That I realize what I lost? I—”
A car door slammed and both of them jumped.
Across the street, Becca saw Hank’s big body as he glared at the two of them, storming his way around to the far side of his truck. He opened the door, gently picked up his daughter from the back seat, and then stormed toward them on the porch. He had a black scowl on his face, his expression like a thundercloud.
Oh. Had he come into town to talk to her? Something fluttered in her chest. It might be hope.
Hank scowled at Greg, one hand on his daughter’s back, the other arm under her legs as he walked up to the porch of Becca’s salon. Becca noticed that his glares were entirely for Greg, and when he looked at Becca, his expression turned downright protective. He loomed over Greg, stepping so close that Greg took a few steps backward. That seemed to satisfy Hank, and he put his back to the man, turning toward Becca.
“Can you take Libby inside, please?” Hank’s voice was strangely pleasant.
She tilted her head at him, curious. “Is everything okay?”
“Libby wants to go inside,” he said, oh so nicely again, and gave her a pointed look. “So Daddy can take care of business on the porch.”
And he turned and shot Greg a look of pure hatred.
Oh.
It took Becca a moment to realize that Hank had positioned himself between her and Greg, and that his stance was one of protectiveness. His voice was sweet because he didn’t want Libby to realize there was a problem, the little girl sucking her thumb and looking at Becca with sleepy eyes. Hank shot her another meaningful look and she realized he wanted her to take Libby inside because he was going to . . . do something to Greg. Beat him up? Scare him? She didn’t know, but it was clear he was feeling very protective of Becca, and for some reason, she loved the hell out of it.
“Hank,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “I’m not taking Libby from you. But . . . you are going to come inside with me. Greg was just leaving.”
Now Greg was the one who frowned at her. “Becca, I came to talk to you.”
“I don’t think I have anything to say to you.”
He paused for a minute. “Don’t you miss me?” There was real hurt in his tone, as if he was genuinely shocked that she didn’t care for him anymore.
And for a moment, she felt guilty. Because she didn’t miss him. She still felt foolish over all the years she’d spent on him. She missed her hopes and dreams of having a family and a husband she doted on. But did she miss Greg? No. She didn’t miss their tepid lovemaking or the fact that he never had time for her. She didn’t miss the way he always made her feel like she was the problem. He’d never cheated on her, but he’d also never made her feel particularly special.
He’d also abandoned her two days before their wedding.She couldn’t forget that.
But for some reason, he was really good at making her feel guilty. Becca opened her mouth and then closed it again. She wasn’t sure what to say.
For some reason, she looked up at Hank. He was watching her with a steady gaze, as if waiting to see what she wanted.
“Do you miss him?” Hank asked after a long moment.
Becca tensed, then shook her head.
“Good.” He shot a vicious look at Greg and then stepped in front of her again, silently protecting her with his body. “You can leave now,” he said to her ex.
“I—I came to pick up some stuff—”
“You can pick it up from the salon during the daytime. Not right now. Becca has a date with me.”
She did, did she? She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
“But—” Greg began.
“Goodbye,” Hank said in a hard voice. He took a step forward, still managing to look intimidating despite the fact that he had a toddler in his arms.
Greg shot her a wounded look. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He glanced at Hank one more time, then hastily left the porch, returning to his car.
She had no doubt her phone was going to be filled with angry texts from him by the morning, but she couldn’t find it in her to care at the
moment. Hank was here. He’d come to see her. He’d “protected” her from her ex. It made her feel surprisingly good.
Wanted.
Dear lord, how long had it been since she’d felt so wanted? Hank acted like she was the only woman in town and it was necessary for him to stake his claim on her. She knew that wasn’t the truth, but, lord, it felt good.
Hank looked at her, waiting patiently. When she said nothing for a long moment, he leaned in. “Did I fuck up?”
Libby popped her thumb out of her mouth. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”
He nodded gravely at his daughter. “I did. I’m sorry.” He glanced over at Becca again, waiting.
“No, you didn’t mess up.” She locked the salon door and then headed over to the door to her house. “Come on inside.” Even if it wasn’t a date like he’d said, they probably still needed to talk.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Once inside the house, she was distracted by Libby, who wanted to help her make dinner. Her stomach was in knots, and the last thing she wanted to do was make a big dinner. Her phone pinged in her pocket, and pinged again with incoming texts.
“Daddy’s going to make dinner,” Hank declared, taking his daughter into her living room. “Why don’t you sit and watch Nemo?”
Once the little girl was settled, her gaze rapt on the screen, Hank touched Becca’s arm and steered her toward her kitchen. He searched her face, gazing down at her for so long that she wondered what he was possibly thinking. Finally, he spoke. “Hungry?”
She bit her lip. “Not really.”
He grimaced. “I should probably make something anyhow. You mind pancakes again?” He went to her pantry and opened it.
“You’re . . . cooking again?”
Hank glanced at her from over his shoulder. “I wasn’t demanding that you cook for me and my kid, no.”
Ironic, considering she’d spent the last month doing just that without a word of thanks from him. But she didn’t point that out. She just silently handed him the butter as he put a skillet on the stove.
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 11