All-American Cowboy

by Dylann Crush

  Beck in a hard hat. The thought made her grin.

  “What are you all smiles about?”

  “Just picturing you with a yellow hard hat on your head. I bet you’d look like a tall minion.”

  “A minion?” He wrinkled his brow. “Whose minion?”

  “You know, the little yellow guys. Despicable Me? Gru and Dr. Nefario?”

  Beck shook his head. “No. Not ringing a bell.”

  “Really? I can’t remember their actual names. Oh wait. Dave. The one you’d probably look the most like is Dave.”

  “Why Dave?”

  “Well, he has two eyes.”

  “Hey, if that’s all we have in common…” He shrugged.

  “It’s a kids’ movie.” Charlie landed a playful swat on his pec. No give there. “My nieces and nephews love it. You must not spend a lot of time around kids.”

  “Um, no. No minions or two-eyed Daves for me.” He tugged her closer.

  Charlie let him pull her in. She rested her cheek against the granite of his chest, relaxing against him, relishing the feel of something—no, someone—warm and solid.

  “So how about you, Miss Charlotte? What do you do for fun around here when all the work is done?” His voice reverberated through his upper body, a low, rich baritone that tugged at places deep within her.

  “Ha. That’s just it. All the work is never done.” He’d find out soon enough what she meant by that if he stuck around.

  “Well, now that I’m here, that will be my top priority.”

  “What? Making sure the work gets done? Because we don’t have the staff as it is to—”

  “No.” He pulled back to meet her gaze. “Making sure you have more fun.”

  His eyes held either a hint of a promise or a full-fledged challenge. Maybe a bit of both. But Charlie was too far out of her element to decipher it.

  She tucked her head back against his chest. “Fun’s overrated.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  She smiled into his neck. Where had this guy come from? He wasn’t anything like she’d imagined. She’d pictured Sully’s grandson to be some uptight, pencil-pushing yes-man who slicked his hair back and wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of ropers. Thank goodness she’d been wrong.

  The band continued to play while she and Beck slowly circled the dance floor. It had been so long since she hadn’t had to be in charge. It was nice to let him take the lead, if only for a song.

  A song she didn’t want to end.

  Beck turned as another couple bumped into them, shielding her from the impact. As he did, his foot slid between her boots. Their hips pressed together for the briefest of moments before his leg brushed against the apex of her thighs.

  They both moved forward at the same time, and the friction—the sweet, undeniable friction of his thigh on her—oh dear Lord—made her freeze. Her chest heaved. Her face ignited. Her whole body shuddered.

  “You okay, Charlie?” His expression changed from concern to surprise as he must have realized the terrible awkwardness of the moment. Mortified, she jerked away and made some flimsy excuse about having to check something in the back room.

  Beck released his grasp, and she forced her way across the crowded dance floor to seek refuge in her office. Finally, slumped in her chair, in the privacy of her own space, her breathing slowed. She tried to convince herself he hadn’t noticed. He’d been busy steering her around the dance floor. And they’d been bumped and jostled from every angle. He probably just thought she’d been pushed from behind. It would be her little secret.

  No one ever needed to know that she’d almost had her first orgasm in more than eight years on the thigh of a stranger in the middle of the Rambling Rose’s crowded dance floor.

  * * *

  By the time Charlie gathered her wits about her and ventured out of the office to start the closing routine, the band had wrapped up its set. While she cleared tables and swept peanut shells off the floor, the last few customers finished their beers, searched for their car keys, and said their goodbyes. Those horny enough to find a hookup ushered their one-night stands out the door. Charlie took a break to rest her feet and check in with her favorite, and only, sister-in-law.

  “You looked pretty darn cozy cuttin’ a rug out there tonight. How long did you say your New Yorker was staying in town?” Darby nudged Charlie with her hip, sending her sailing a few inches down the bench.

  “First off, he’s not my New Yorker. Second, he’s staying with your parents. You know better than I do. Just through the weekend, right?” Aside from their unfortunate slow dance, the aftermath of which she was still trying to squeeze out of her system, Charlie had tried to pay as little attention to Beck as humanly possible. But even when only allowing herself to shoot an occasional glance his direction, she’d still felt his presence in the bar. He repelled and pulled her in, like a magnet that kept flipping polarity, and it had thrown her off all night. She hadn’t wanted to face him after their dance. Thank God he must have left while she hid out in her office.

  “He and Dwight sure seemed to hit it off.” Darby took a long draw on the striped straw sticking out of her tall lemonade.

  “Dwight could talk the ears off a chicken.”

  Darby giggled. “True. But I saw you checking Beck out.”

  “Hard not to. He’s at least half a head taller than anyone else in the bar. Almost had to duck under the doorway into the dance hall. Maybe we should lower it so he knocks himself out.” Maybe then he’d run back to New York, and she wouldn’t have to spend the next three months dousing herself in ice water.

  “Come on. Don’t you want him to keep the Rambling Rose in the family? You told me that’s what Sully asked.”

  Charlie cursed herself for confiding in Darby. She never should have told her about Sully’s dying wish. At least she hadn’t broken the stipulation of the will. Mr. Hill had made it clear that if she revealed the fact she’d inherit the Rambling Rose if Beck couldn’t hack it, she’d forfeit her claim as well.

  “I just don’t know if he’ll be able to pull it off. You should have seen the shoes he had on earlier today.”

  “He sure looked fine in those Levi’s.” Darby wiggled her eyebrows.

  Charlie’s cheeks heated at the thought of exactly how fine those jeans had been to her. “You aren’t supposed to be looking at anyone’s Levi’s, my friend. Don’t make me tell my big brother you were checking out Mr. Manhattan.”

  “Your big brother likes it when I come home from the bar all hot and bothered.”

  Charlie covered her ears with her hands. “La la la. I’m not listening. TMI, Darbs, TMI.”

  Darby slung her arm around Charlie’s shoulder and planted a smacking smooch on her cheek. “Love ya, babe.”

  “Love you, too, sweets. Now get on outta here before Waylon reads me the riot act for keeping you out past curfew.”

  “Big wimp. He didn’t even make it to ten o’clock. He’ll be sound asleep by the time I get home. Probably snoring like a freight train. At least until I wake him up for a little you know what.”

  “No more. My ears can’t take any more.”

  “Don’t work too hard.” Darby stood, keys in hand.

  “You’re still coming by tomorrow to help with Baby Back’s costume, right?”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to keep that contest going.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s a tradition. Besides, Baby Back has to defend her title. I think we’re a shoo-in.”

  “Does your New Yorker know he’s in charge of a pig beauty pageant?”

  Charlie smirked, imagining the look on Beck’s face when she broke the news. “Not yet, but he will.” Then the rest of what Darby had said sank in. Her smile morphed into a scowl. “And stop calling him my New Yorker. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. What kind of guy ignores hi
s dying grandfather’s calls for help?” She wasn’t ready to address the love/hate thing she had going for the man with the magic jeans. As far as she was concerned, tonight had proven one thing: he had turned into her personal kryptonite.

  Darby linked her arm with Charlie’s, and together they made their way to the back door. “Maybe the kind who didn’t know his grandfather was dying? I don’t know. He seems like a nice guy. I’m having a hard time believing he’s as coldhearted as you think.”

  Charlie screwed her lips into a puckered frown and pondered that thought for a moment, not wanting to admit that Darby’s assessment might match her own. At least so far. “Whatever. You don’t think he’ll actually move here, do you? Leave his family and friends in New York and settle in for the next few months?”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait and see. But I figure a lot of that will depend on you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Are you going to help him?”

  Charlie let out a long sigh. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “You’ve always got a choice, hon. It’s just that you’re so used to doing the right thing you don’t know how to say no to someone in need.”

  “It’s not that. I promised Sully.”

  “Don’t get me started. You and your promises. I love you for them, but you make me crazy sometimes. Always putting everyone else first.”

  Charlie gave her best friend a gentle nudge. “Get on outta here.”

  “I’m going. Good night.”

  Darby unlocked her four-by-four truck with the key fob, and Charlie stood in the doorway, caught between the eerie quiet of the deserted honky-tonk and the almost musical barrage of thousands of cicadas, to make sure Darby got to the truck safely. It had been a long day. Just like the ones before it and the ones that would come after.

  She turned back into the Rambling Rose, picking up where she’d left off clearing the tables. That’s how she liked it—routine, predictable, safe. And no out-of-town city boy was going to sweep in and mess up her mojo.

  Not if she had anything to say about it.

  Chapter Five

  Beck pulled into the gas station and tossed the to-go cup of coffee into the tall metal trash can. The coffee they served at the bed-and-breakfast wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t his usual triple-dark espresso. And when he didn’t get his regular caffeine fix, his whole day was thrown off. Maybe the gas station had a commercial coffee machine—something that might be a tad bit closer to his preferred brew.

  He picked up the end of the hose, fiddling with the pump as Dwight came out of the small convenience store and ambled over to the SUV. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning.” Beck held the handle in one hand and his credit card in the other. “Where’s the slot to pay at the pump?”

  Dwight took the handle from him, then shoved it into the opening of the gas tank. “We do things the old-fashioned way around here. You gotta come inside to pay.”

  “Oh, sure.” Beck swept his gaze around the small gas station. He should have been able to figure that out—it was just that he hadn’t actually filled a car with gas in quite a while. Unless he was traveling outside of Manhattan, he usually kept his two-door sports car garaged and used his dad’s driver or a town car service. He decided not to share that information with Dwight. No sense in letting him think Beck was even more out of place than he already felt.

  “Ya have fun last night?” Dwight tucked his thumbs through his belt loops, studying Beck from under the brim of his ball cap.

  “Yeah. I didn’t realize how busy the bar would be. Seems to do a good business.”

  “The Rambling Rose is about the only big draw we got. Well, that and all the freakin’ festivals. People around here want to have a party for the damndest stuff. Charlie’s been doing a good job keeping things going.” He popped a toothpick in his mouth and moved it to the corner of his lips.

  Beck nodded and glanced up the street. Few people were out and about this morning. Was it the threat of rain or just a typical Saturday morning in June in a place like Holiday? If he’d been at home, he would have already hit the gym and the shower and either be heading into the office or reading the paper at the coffee bar on the ground floor of his building.

  “So have you got any coffee shops around here?” Dwight would probably know.

  “What, like a place that just sells coffee?” Dwight shook his head and fingered the toothpick. “Nah. But I can make you a pot of Folgers if you want.”

  The pump ground to a stop and clicked off, the crabby machinery mimicking the groan Beck stuffed down inside. “No, that’s okay. I can probably get something at the bar.”

  The ball cap bobbed in agreement. “Yeah, Charlie makes a mean cup of coffee. A good breakfast, too. Course, she likes to eat early in the morning. Sometimes even before the darn roosters start crowing. She’s an early riser.” Dwight’s eyes narrowed as if checking to see if Beck was buying into what that implied.

  “Great.” He screwed the gas cap back in place, ignoring Dwight’s claim. If there was anything going on, Beck had no doubt it was strictly one-sided. “So should I come in so you can run my card?”

  “Yeah.” Dwight turned toward the store, and Beck followed. “So, man to man, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I started to ask you last night. What are you gonna do with the Rambling Rose? Everybody in town knows about Sully’s will.”

  “They do?”

  Dwight snorted. “Before you’d even left Hill’s office, word was on the street that you don’t get a darn thing until you spend three months here.”

  “Word travels fast, I guess.” So much for attorney–client confidentiality.

  “Might be the only thing that moves fast around here.”

  Beck made it a point to file that piece of information away to ponder later—one more thing to take into consideration. If he moved to Holiday, he’d be giving up the cloak of anonymity that living in a huge metropolis like New York provided. He’d never been overly concerned about his privacy; spending half his life as the sidekick of his outspoken father had cured him of that. But what would it be like to have his business spread from stranger to stranger before he even knew about it himself? That wasn’t something he necessarily wanted to experience firsthand.

  “I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet. The news hasn’t quite sunk in, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I make up my mind.”

  Dwight handed him his credit card along with a receipt for his signature. “Hill tell you what happens if you don’t stick around?”

  “You mean what happens to Sully’s inheritance?”

  “Yeah, the old blowhard fill you in on that?”

  “No, I’m afraid he said he wasn’t at liberty to share that information.”

  “I bet. He ain’t very good at keeping secrets though. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  The drawer of the cash register dinged when Dwight opened it to slide the credit card slip inside. “You take care now, ya hear?”

  “See you around.” Beck passed through the door, causing the bells above to jangle. Maybe Dwight wasn’t so bad. Beck could benefit from having someone looking out for him around town. He’d have to comp Dwight a few rounds next time he came to the bar. He seemed like the kind of guy who would appreciate a few free beers. And if it kept Beck in his good graces, all the better.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Beck cringed as his SUV approached the Rambling Rose. Last night, set against a red-and-orange sky, the building had taken on an almost romantic, glowing tone. Now, under the unforgiving bright light of day, the rosy-pink-clapboard building showed its age. A hundred-plus years of sitting in the dusty, blistering-hot Texas heat had caused the paint job to fade in spots. What crazy-ass ancestor had insisted on painting
the whole building Pepto-Bismol pink?

  “More like Pepto Dismal,” he muttered under his breath. The heat must have been getting to him. Had he actually said that out loud? But the building stuck out like a giant eyesore among the other old-fashioned storefronts with their small-town-Americana vibe. Why hadn’t someone updated it over the years?

  The marketing team in New York would have a blast reworking the honky-tonk concept, bringing the bar into the current century. He took a turn around the building, cringing as his gaze ran over the peeling paint, rusty hinges, and sparse landscaping efforts. Even he could take a stab at sprucing the place up. He’d been involved in a nightclub project a couple of years before. When he got back to New York, he’d make sure to pull the files and see if any of those concepts would transfer from the Meatpacking District of Manhattan to the backwater town of Holiday. Not likely, but he might get lucky and come up with a few ideas.

  He walked under a banner promoting the oyster festival. Since he’d opted for his slip-on loafers that morning, his footsteps landed on the wood-plank entrance ramp with a soft thunk. Much better than the loud clatter when he’d been wearing those new boots. The guy at the western wear place had assured him they’d loosen up once he’d worn them for a bit, but the blisters on his heel and pinky toe had made him hesitate to slide them back on this morning. It wasn’t like he was required to wear boots…was he?

  The screen door squeaked as he yanked it open. Didn’t anyone know how to use a can of WD-40? Charlie and another woman looked up as he entered the nearly empty dance hall. A giant pile of pink fabric and a sewing machine sat in front of them.

  “Oh, hey, didn’t expect you until later on today.” Charlie turned her attention back to the machine.

  “What’s going on?” Shiny ribbon, beads, and silvery sparkly stuff covered half of the long table.

  “I don’t think we’ve met.” The other woman swung her legs over the bench and stood. “I’m Darby, Charlie’s sister-in-law. So nice to meet you, Beckett.”

  “Please, call me Beck.” Something about the friendly brunette put him at ease. Could have been the warm brown eyes. Or maybe it was the fact that she actually smiled at him as opposed to Charlie’s distinct disinterest this morning. “Sister-in-law, you said?”