Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  The side door of the theater opened again, this time ushering in a red-cheeked Emma carrying a giant basket of various white winter flowers. Emma was in her midthirties, and stood a full two inches shorter than Paige’s five-foot-two height, possessed flame-red naturally curly hair, peaches-and-cream skin, and an easy smile.

  Emma Parks Cheek had once been a Broadway actress, and occasionally starred in a movie or two, but mostly she kept busy running the Twilight Playhouse, and riding herd on her veterinarian husband, Sam, Sam’s teenage son, Charlie, from another marriage, and their seven-year-old daughter, Lauren.

  Emma stopped short and peered around the basket. “Where did the poinsettias go?”

  “I moved them to the closet to make room for the new flowers.”

  “Why, thank you, Paige. That was considerate.” Emma hefted the basket onto the marble counter, moving it this way and that, cocking her head to assess her handiwork, attempting to find the most strategic spot from all angles.

  “No problem.”

  “I should have taken care of the flowers sooner, but when I stopped by the clinic to drop off Sam’s lunch, he had a whole different kind of meal in mind.” She wriggled her auburn eyebrows. “Word to the wise, a quickie on an exam table is not as sexy as it sounds.”

  “I . . . um . . . never thought.” Paige pressed a palm to the back of her head. “Well . . . um, okay.”

  “Sorry, was that too much information?” Emma grinned as if she wasn’t the least bit sorry. Her husband was one smoking hottie and she didn’t mind letting everyone know they had a spicy sex life.

  In all honesty, it wasn’t Emma’s frank talk that gave Paige pause, rather it was the realization that she’d not ever done anything halfway intrepid as a quickie on an exam table.

  The bravest thing she’d ever done was to take up residence on a houseboat. And as far as sex went, well, she wasn’t exactly a femme fatale, never mind the skimpy Santa Baby costume.

  “Now if you want to talk sexy . . .” Emma lowered her voice.

  No, no, Paige did not want to talk sexy time with her employer.

  “Room nine at the Merry Cherub has a seven-foot jetted tub. Fun!” Emma paused, her face turning dreamy at a spicy memory. “Or try a midnight rendezvous underneath the Sweetheart Tree in Sweetheart Park. But do bring a blanket. And you might want to wait for summer.”

  “Um, doesn’t that violate public nudity laws?”

  Emma looked like a sly cat that had slurped up all the cream. “It’s amazing the things you can do with your clothes on. Plus, sometimes a girl has to let down her hair and take a walk on the wild side.”

  Wild side, huh? Yeah, well, about that . . . not her strong suit. Paige was more the look-both-ways-ten-times-before-crossing-the-street type. And her hair was cut in a short bob. Nothing to let down.

  “But I shouldn’t be standing here gabbing about sex,” Emma said. “Lots to do.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Guard the doors and do not let anyone in until one-thirty. The town council has been riding my butt about letting people in early.” Emma rolled her eyes as commentary on the meddlesome town council. “You’ll only have to monitor the side door. All the rest are locked. Unlock them exactly at one-thirty.”

  Keep guests out for twenty-five minutes? Sure, she could do that.

  Emma stopped on her way into the auditorium. “Oh, and, Paige.”

  “Yes?”

  “You have the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. Use it. And often.”

  “Thanks.” Her stomach tingled, fizzed. She smiled a grateful smile, wanting Emma to know just how much she appreciated the job.

  Emma disappeared. Leaving Paige more determined than ever to please her new boss.

  She marched over to monitor the side door at the exact moment a guy pushed his way in, bringing with him a bracing breath of cool December air.

  She was just about to reroute the intruder when their eyes met. Crash. Bam. Wham.

  Head-on collision.

  They both stilled instantly. Gazes fused.

  Man. O. Man.

  It felt as if the wand of fate had conjured him straight from a fairy tale about stalwart knights and fair damsels.

  Snow dusted his thick ebony curls and his broad shoulders were clad in a faded denim jacket over a red plaid flannel shirt. He was average height, five-ten or -eleven, but he had a presence about him that made him seem much larger.

  He was lean and narrow-hipped in a pair of well-worn Wranglers. Only the Patek Philippe watch at his left wrist and his handmade James Leddy cowboy boots said he was anything more than an ordinary cowboy.

  But his smile!

  Dazzling. White. Killer-diller.

  Oh, that smile was a dangerous thing! Sprung from full, angular lips that twitched irresistibly as he stared at her—into her—with laser beam focus.

  It was a dynamite, TNT, nitroglycerin kind of smile that detonated every nerve ending in Paige’s body. Rattling her foundation. Firing off round after round of tingly, breathtaking explosions.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Euphoric devastation.

  A surge of energy, a deep thrill that commenced in her belly, arced up through her heart and lungs, triggered a helpless smile of her own, and scrambled her nervous system. Tempting her to chase the feeling with a kite and key.

  “Hello, Santa Baby.” The last word dripped off his lips like liquid sex and she forgot that she was supposed to say, Doors don’t open until one-thirty.

  Instead, her jaw dropped and her tongue welded to the roof of her mouth, and she made a guttural sound. “Um . . . um . . .”

  His smile deepened, moved up to crinkle around his heart-stoppingly gorgeous gray eyes. No doubt about it, he was accustomed to twisting up tongues.

  He swaggered nearer, sauntering in an Old West gunslinger gait, the door closing behind him, the sound of his boots reverberating across the polished marble floor.

  And still she did not tell him to leave, mainly because she couldn’t find her voice. It had gotten tangled in his lasso smile.

  The way he moved, smooth and easy, slammed into her chest and kidnapped her breath. She couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was a fish on a hook. Well and truly caught.

  “I’m here for the performance,” he said.

  Wait outside, she should have said, but her tongue remained glued to the roof of her mouth, peanut butter stuck.

  Her first day on the job and she couldn’t complete one simple task—tell this red-hot stranger to wait outside with everyone else until the doors officially opened.

  Clearly, he was not a man accustomed to following the rules. What applied to regular folk didn’t apply to Greek gods in cowboy clothing, did it?

  C’mon. Snap out of it. Remember what happened the last time you went gaga over a guy?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning to sound firm, but somehow her words came out alarmingly shaky. “But we’ve got a strict schedule to keep and we’re not open to the public until one-thirty.”

  “It’s eight minutes after one.” He turned his wrist so she could see the face of his expensive watch. Showoff. “Not that early.”

  “Rules are rules.”

  “Even in my case?” He gave her a look that said, Are you kidding me right now? As if she should know who he was. As if he was somebody.

  Cocky. He was amazing and he knew it.

  His attitude rubbed her the wrong way. He wasn’t different than any of the other people lining up waiting to be let in. Peeved and vowing not to be swayed by his lively eyes and knowing grin, she pointed to the sidewalk. “Out, mister.”

  “But—”

  “No excuses.”

  “I’m—”

  “Go.” She snapped her fingers, sent him her fiercest scowl, even though her knees were gelatin. He didn’t need to know that.

  Instead of leaving, he strolled closer.

  Paige’s heart skipped some beats. Now what?

  The str
anger studied her with half-lidded eyes and intense interest as if she were the most fascinating creature he’d ever seen. Her. Plain old Paige MacGregor, the most ordinary girl, was being stared at as if she were the most extraordinary thing.

  The hair at the nape of her neck tickled. She curled her fingernails into her palms, and gulped.

  “No one has to know you let me in early,” he whispered. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  He was fully in control. He knew it. She knew it. They both knew she was melted wax in the heat of his sexy stare.

  Damn him.

  “Leave,” she said, and added unsteadily, “Please.”

  “What do I have to do to get you to bend the rules?” he coaxed, dipped his head, lowered his lips. “Let you kiss me?”

  He was teasing, trying to get her goat. She could see it in his eyes, but the joke tumbled into the pit of her anxiety, pinged off her every nerve ending.

  Standing here, smelling his stunning scent, feeling the heat from his rock-solid body radiate into her, she wanted more than anything on the face of the earth to turn tail and run.

  But she wouldn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  For one thing, she’d promised Emma she’d guard the door. For another, if she took off running in the stilettoes she’d certainly fall and bust her ass.

  Not. Going. To happen.

  He must have seen something on her face, in her body language, because he stepped back. “Only eighteen more minutes now.”

  “And that’s when you can come in.” She pointed, surprised by how forceful and commanding her words shot out.

  He grinned devilishly, frankly amused, and latched on to her gaze with eyes the color of San Francisco fog. Not that Paige knew firsthand what San Francisco fog looked like. She’d never been out of Texas.

  His dusky eyes held the promise of landscapes she yearned for—windswept moors and craggy mountains, foamy ocean waves and rocky deserts, stony castles and petal-strewn gardens.

  He’d been around. Seen the world. And his magnificent, experienced eyes left her winded and wondering and wanting.

  Wanting so much more than she had a right to claim.

  Dear Lord. She clicked the lock on that pitch of desire. Slammed it shut. Spun the tumbler. Steeled her gaze. Offered him nothing.

  His eyes gentled, no longer filled with daring mischief. Nonchalantly, he shifted his attention to the door.

  Which she was grateful for because it meant he was going.

  Plus, when he turned, she had an unobstructed view of his backside cupped so enticingly in those faded Levi’s. A cowboy’s butt—firm, muscular, built for endurance—a masculine butt that dared her to touch.

  She sucked in a short, shallow breath, and ignored her tingling fingers.

  The sleeves of his denim jacket were pushed up enough to reveal tanned wrists roped with strong veins. Long, calloused fingers took hold of the doorknob.

  No adornment on those hands. No rings or tattoos. Plain. Durable. Bare. Simple but not simplistic, he was a man of rugged style and surprising grace.

  He opened the door.

  Going.

  Leaving.

  Yay!

  So why did she want to throw herself onto the marble tile floor, fling her arms around his ankles, and beg him to stay?

  “One more thing . . .” He turned back.

  Yes? Yes? Yes?

  Eyes twinkling like stardust, he studied her a long moment without saying a word. But his mouth, oh his knowing mouth, quirked up at the corners as if to say, You’re as intrigued by me as I am by you.

  She gave him a polite, noncommittal smile in return. He might be interested right now, but he wouldn’t be if he knew her.

  “What’s this sweetheart legend I’ve been hearing about?” His voice was low and cozy as a fleece blanket in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter evening. There was a lazy lilt to his tone, and his words stretched out slow and sultry.

  But there was something steely in there as well. A warning.

  It was in the way his tongue hit the back of his teeth hard on the “t” sounds. Determined. Stubborn. A quality and hue that said when this man set his mind to a goal, come hell or high water, he would never, ever give up.

  Paige shivered. Just a little.

  But he noticed. His eyes darkened and narrowed, taking measure of her.

  “Huh?” she said because she was so distracted by his potent sexuality she couldn’t remember what he’d just asked.

  “The wishing well, the old tree with lovers’ names carved in it, the statue of a hugging couple in the park. What’s that all about?”

  “Uh,” she said, and spouted off a condensed version of the town’s well-known lore. “Rebekka Nash and Jon Grant, childhood sweethearts from Missouri. They were separated by the Civil War. She was a Southern Belle and he turned Yankee soldier. But they never stopped loving each other. Fifteen years later they met accidentally on the banks of the Brazos River at twilight, and they were reunited.”

  “Twilight, huh? Hence the name of the town?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Ah.” He laughed. A beautiful sound that sent her heart thumping. “There’s nothing like a good romantic legend. Bet it stirs tourism.”

  “You got it.”

  His stare drilled into her one last time and then he left without another word. Opened the door. Walked out. Disappeared into the crowd.

  Gone forever.

  Good-bye.

  Good riddance.

  She was glad he left. Well, not glad, really. Relieved. Yes. Relieved she’d never have to see him again.

  Yes, relief. That was the emotion.

  Then why did it feel so much like disappointment?

  “Paige?”

  She turned, spied Emma standing in the doorway between the lobby and the auditorium. “Yes?”

  Emma ticked her head to one side in her effervescent way. “I forgot to mention that a VIP will be dropping by.”

  “Um.” A sick feeling washed over her. “What does your VIP look like?”

  “Handsome cowboy, stunning gray eyes. Saunters like he owns the world. You can’t miss him.”

  Chapter 2

  Carol: A song or hymn celebrating Christmas.

  Feeling naked without his trademark Stetson, beard, and shaggy shoulder-length locks, Cash Colton moved through the crowd decked out in Dickensian-era costumes.

  He’d shed the outlaw image that had been his trademark, and he had to keep reminding himself that clean-cut was his new smokescreen. Without it, he’d be mobbed.

  Even so, people were noticing.

  Heads turned, especially feminine heads. Although he was used to that. He’d been born with the ability to command female attention. Part of the appeal that had made his music career . . .

  . . . and thoroughly crashed it.

  Although the square was packed with tourists, the town itself was small. Seven thousand, according to the population sign on Highway 377. He could hide out from the wide world in Twilight, but once people figured out who and where he was, the news would swell like wildfire.

  Cash knew about the reality of small towns. He had been born in a place half the size of this one. Tarred and feathered there too. Small towns could look enticing on the surface, but beneath often lurked a dark underbelly of intolerance, ignorance, and harsh judgment.

  Been there. Done that. Got the hell out.

  So why was he here?

  Oh yeah, he was doing a favor for his best friend, Emma Cheek—who he’d met when they were both young and starting their careers—while at the same time keeping a low profile, hiding out from the paparazzi, and searching for his creative mojo.

  The last one was damn elusive. He felt as if he’d spent the past year roaming a barren emotional desert, empty, aimless, lost.

  On the street, people nodded and smiled at each other in the way of longtime neighbors. Smiles full of acceptance and respect. There was a deep-seated trust here you didn’t often find in bi
g cities. Nostalgia washed over him.

  Don’t fall for it.

  He was not going to trip for gorgeous, daydream-hazel eyes, cute freckles sprinkled like cinnamon over a pert little nose, short dark brown hair that curled into question marks at her chin, and a sexy Santa Baby outfit.

  Hell, why was he even thinking about the adorable elf who had thrown him out of the theater? She certainly was not his type. She was too girl next door. Not even those do-me stiletto boots could hide that fact.

  Not that there was anything wrong with girl next door. She just wasn’t for him. All he had to offer was a hot night in his bed, and she was too sweet for that. Still it didn’t stop his imagination from unbuttoning her blouse, slipping it off her creamy shoulder, and burying his face against her soft, sweet skin.

  McDang, son. He heard his musical career mentor Freddie Frank’s voice in his head. Straighten up and fly right. If it hadn’t been for Freddie, his life could have taken a serious wrong turn, and he respected the man’s advice, but his wicked mind kept going.

  He liked her refined grit and the way her round chin hardened to stone when she took a stand. Contrast that with her eager grin, acquiescent voice, and optimistic body language. She was a people-pleaser with a determined spine. The spunky kid, tenderhearted, but no pushover.

  Something, or someone, had toughened her up.

  That bothered him. The idea of someone hurting her didn’t set well. What son of a bitch would mistreat a woman with wide Bambi eyes and a dazzling smile that sparked up Texas?

  It was all he could do not to walk back into that theater, gather her in his arms, pull her against his chest, and assure her that everything was going to be all right.

  Yeah, as if she’d go for that. When he teasingly suggested she kiss him, she looked as if she was going to haul off and slug him in the gut instead.

  Not everyone understood his sense of humor. His ex-girlfriend, Simone, claimed he used teasing as a shield against deeper feelings. Hell, who knew? Maybe she was right.

  But he couldn’t deny something had passed between him and Miss Spunky Kid.

  From the moment their eyes met, he heard chords in his head, his right brain skipping around, playing with sound and images, tickled by the flood of musical fodder rushing in.