Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  “We ran into Paige on the way in,” Sam said casually, but there was nothing casual about the way he rested his hands on the table with a solid thunk, interlacing them tightly into a joined fist, a gesture of we-need-to-have-a-serious-talk.

  The easiness he and Sam normally shared around each other evaporated. He stared at Sam’s fisted hands, noticed a dog hair on the sleeve of his jacket. The vet was known for being laid-back, but Cash could feel tension radiating off him like hot coals.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you know that Paige is a cousin to Emma’s best friend Flynn?”

  Huh? That let the air out of his sails. He thought he was Emma’s best friend. Then again, it had been over three years since he’d seen her in person. Not since he hooked up with Simone. Emma hadn’t approved of her, and so he hadn’t reached out to Emma when Simone left him. They’d only reconnected because Emma had written to Deet asking if he knew how to get in touch with him. It had taken three weeks for her letter to reach Cash in the rain forest, but when he’d gotten it, asking him to headline her charity event in Twilight, he’d packed up his things, traveled to Lima, where he’d called her, accepted the gig, and they’d talked for hours.

  Of course, he should expect that now Emma’s best friend would be another married woman with kids who lived in the same town. He had no right to feel slighted.

  But he did. Emma was the one person he’d always been able to count on through thick and thin. Emma and his mentor, Freddie Frank, they had his back, even when he fell off the earth a bit and didn’t keep in touch.

  “In fact,” Sam went on, “Emma and Flynn are close as sisters. We’re all family. And by extension, so is Paige.”

  “She’s a lucky woman.”

  “Paige has a huge heart.” Sam’s serious expression intensified. “Too big, some might say. She trusts too easily. Or at least she did . . . She’s been through a whole lot lately. Last thing she needs is more heartbreak.”

  That pissed him off. What the hell was Sam eluding?

  “Did Emma put you up to this conversation?”

  “No,” Sam said. “But she stayed up until one this morning baking cookies and muttering about you and Paige. I don’t mind you being Emma’s friend, but when you keep her awake at night, that’s another story.”

  “Got it,” Cash said evenly, kept his tone conciliatory. He didn’t want to ripple the waters with his best friend’s husband. He might no longer be Emma’s best friend, but she was still his.

  They both looked off in opposite directions. Sam had done his duty, warned Cash off, and Cash had absorbed the message. Paige was a sweet small-town girl with small-town dreams. No rambling man need apply.

  Chapter 7

  Musette: A Baroque dance with a drone-bass.

  After breakfast, Cash walked back to the houseboat, his thoughts on Paige. She wasn’t a traditional beauty, but there was something about her that appealed to him more than the classic ideal.

  She was cute, and spunky, sassy, fascinating, and . . . oddly mysterious for the girl next door. It was surprising to him that he was falling so hard for someone who was not really his type, had never been his type.

  He admired her determination, her loyalty, and the way her smooth dark hair curled like a question mark at her chin. Liked those big hazel eyes that studied him warily from underneath a soft slash of dark eyebrows. Adored the perfect shape of her sweet, pink mouth.

  And that body! His hands tingled at the thought of touching her.

  On the walk back, he had to stop several times to speak to fans and admirers. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the attention. But that wasn’t why he’d gone into music. He hadn’t set out to be famous. Celebrity had a darker side. Whenever he found himself getting too caught up in the trappings of success, he always came back to the bottom line.

  Music.

  That’s what drove him. The unstoppable desire to make music that mattered. Music had saved his life. End of story. Everything else was icing on the cake.

  He moved down the dock.

  Music cranked up to maximum volume pulsed from Paige’s houseboat. Cash recognized the tune immediately. It was his song “Toasted,” about a man haunted by the inability to make love stay.

  Ironically, he’d written it six months before he learned Snake and Simone were carrying on behind his back. In some far alcove of his mind, had he suspected something? “Toasted” had been The Truthful Desperadoes’ last recording.

  For a sad topic—lost love—the music had an upbeat, I-will-survive quality. Rolling Stone had dubbed it a male breakup anthem, saying it was Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” for men. At the time, he hadn’t cared for the corny comparison, but in the wake of his song’s overwhelming success, he’d warmed to it.

  So Paige was playing “Toasted.” Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

  And her houseboat was seriously rocking in the slip.

  Was she with someone? If the houseboat is rocking, don’t come knocking. But she’d told him there wasn’t anyone special in her life. Ah, but she had said she wasn’t in a relationship. She never said she didn’t take booty calls. It could be a short-term hookup.

  His smile stumbled into a frown as he walked onto the deck of his houseboat, stuck the key in the lock, and turned to push it open. From his peripheral vision, he caught a flash of movement, and swiveled for a better look.

  The window blinds were open on the houseboat next door and he could see straight into the main living area.

  And there, in pink cotton undies and matching bra, was Paige MacGregor dancing Risky Business–style to his song.

  Not just dancing, but flinging herself wildly around the room in an incredibly graceful ballet of pure joy. The woman had crazy-mad skills. Why wasn’t she a dancer or at least a dance instructor? He made a mental note to ask Emma why she had Paige working as a Santa’s helper when she should be onstage in dance numbers.

  Cash stood mesmerized, stunned by her performance, and . . . let’s face it . . . the fact she was in bikini underwear and a push-up bra the color of cotton candy. Her gorgeous full breasts bouncing and jiggling with every twist and turn.

  Entranced, he couldn’t have looked away if someone had yelled, “Bomb!”

  The new song, which had begun writing itself in his head the minute he’d met Paige, started up again, additional chords and new lyrics unfurling as if by magic. He realized he could make it into a second song, or keep it as one song with two distinct parts with changing tempo, pace, and cadence, something along the lines of “Bohemian Rhapsody” perhaps.

  Excitement churned his blood. Stirred his soul. Watching her, he felt inspired, gifted, blessed. His imagination sparkled and glowed. Rolled like a boulder down Mount Everest, picking up speed, gathering momentum, rushing gleeful and headlong to the bottom. Swallowing him up in the flow of creativity that had, for the past year, evaded him.

  Abruptly, she stopped dancing, turned down the music, and picked up her cell phone.

  He should have gone inside. The performance was over, but he didn’t move. A gentleman would avert his gaze, but no one had ever called Cash a gentleman.

  Okay, it was voyeuristic. Guilty as charged.

  He stared. Frankly. Appreciatively. Thank you, God, for your gift to the world that is Paige MacGregor’s body.

  What a figure! Beautiful bust, just beautiful, ample, but not overwhelming. Curvy waist and hips and a softly rounded belly that was a real turn-on. Generous thighs. Have mercy!

  And here she was. A woman with a goddess body, standing right in front of him, talking on the phone in her pink feminine underwear, sweat glistening on her skin. He felt like he’d won the lottery.

  Still on the phone, she bent over to pick something up off the floor. Giving him a fantastic view of her gorgeous butt.

  More pillowy softness. Full. Lush. Irresistible.

  His erection, which had been growing, lengthened and tightened against his zipper. His blood spewed hot as an overheated radiato
r, and his breath shot out in ragged chugs.

  Her fanny wriggled, and he finally noticed she was trying to take something away from Fritzi, but the poodle was intent on playing tug-of-war.

  His gaze traced from that sweet rump to the indention where it joined her thighs and tapered down to shapely legs. A backside like that could lead a man straight to hell and make him damn grateful to be there.

  His throat constricted. Cash wanted to touch her so badly he had to knot his hands into fists to keep them from quaking.

  She got whatever she’d been trying to wrestle away from Fritzi, and tossed it on the table. Straightened, cell phone still pressed to her ear, and glanced up.

  Their eyes met.

  Deadlocked.

  He was busted.

  She looked shocked, then mortified, and immediately jumped to the window. Snapped closed the blinds. Shutting him out. Shutting him down.

  He should have been ashamed of himself for spying on her. He wasn’t. Grinning, he went into the house, happily whistling, “Toasted.”

  It had been Emma on the phone, asking Paige if she could work the charity fundraiser at the Brazos River Music Review instead of Santa’s helper at the playhouse that evening, although she would be wearing the same outfit. With a sellout crowd eager to see Cash Colton, they didn’t have enough ushers at the venue.

  “You’re a lifesaver, you know that?” Emma sighed with relief when Paige agreed to switch work assignments.

  Unfortunately, Paige had said yes before she’d caught Cash peeping in her window.

  Okay, he wasn’t exactly peeping. She’d had the blinds up. Her bad. But a gentleman would have politely gone inside his own fricking houseboat, not stood on the deck staring.

  She sank onto the couch, wondering how long he’d been standing there, and how much he’d seen. Had he seen her dancing? Had he heard her playing his music? Had he figured out she’d Googled him, discovered his discography, and ended up downloading several of his recordings because she really did like his sound?

  All that evidence, in the hour and a half since she’d seen him at the bakery, suggested she was obsessed with the man.

  She glanced down at her nearly naked body.

  Oh crap. He’d seen a lot.

  Groaning, she collapsed onto the couch cushion, covered her face with a pillow. Mortified didn’t begin to cover how she felt. Flaming shame was closer. Now, Cash not only knew that she liked him enough to dance to his music, but he also knew exactly what she looked like in pink underwear.

  God, why hadn’t she thought to close the blinds? She’d opened them before she’d left for breakfast because Fritzi liked looking out the window whenever she was gone.

  To top things off, now she was going to have to work the event where Cash was the headliner.

  What to do? What to do?

  Paige nibbled her bottom lip. Maybe she should call Emma and ask if there was someone she could swap places with and stay at the playhouse tonight instead of heading over to the music venue. Except Emma had so much on her plate coordinating both the theater and charity event, on top of playing Jovie in two productions of Elf today. She didn’t want to inconvenience her.

  One phone call. How inconvenient would that be?

  She picked up her phone, debated on whether to punch Emma’s number on the speed dial button or not.

  C’mon. It was only for a couple of hours. Cash would be onstage. She’d be helping audience members to their seats. He would probably never even know she was there.

  As for the embarrassment? Well, it wasn’t the first time she’d made a fool of herself and most likely it wouldn’t be the last.

  Fine. She would do it. Decision made, she put the phone in her purse, went to the bedroom to get dressed.

  While secretly, a small part of her—okay a medium-sized part of her—jumped like a gleeful antelope.

  She would get to see Cash perform.

  The Brazos River Music Review was a large white domed building made of Texas limestone and capped with a shiny tin roof that shielded it against hail season. The Music Review was five miles out of town down Highway 51, which ran from Twilight to the neighboring town of Jubilee.

  Emma had lured Cash to town with stories of some of the famous acts that had performed there—Willie Nelson, The Band Perry, the Tejas Brothers, Brent Amaker. She told him that his name would be added to the ring of honor lining the inside of the dome.

  He felt kind of weird about that, but if he could bring in money for the charity that helped underprivileged children, he was in.

  Cash arrived an hour and a half early, and the parking lot was already jam-packed. Fans were throwing tailgate parties waiting for the program to start, cowboys in Wranglers and Stetsons, cowgirls in stylish boots and tight-fitting jeans. The smell of hamburgers and hot dogs filled the air. Coolers full of iced beer and sodas provided both seating and portable refrigeration. A few people had guitars and were picking out tunes for singalongs. Kids played tag on a patch of grass beside the asphalt parking lot.

  Cash smiled. This was nice. Real nice.

  He parked around back like Emma had instructed and retrieved his guitar case from the backseat of his extended cab pickup truck.

  The evening air was cool and crisp, a typical early December day in North Central Texas.

  During the scheduled, three-hour afternoon rehearsal and sound check, he’d met the manager of the Music Review and the band with whom he would be performing. They weren’t the slick professionals he was used to, but they were competent enough and eager to please. He had enjoyed riffing with them.

  It reminded him of the old days when he’d first started in the business. When all that mattered was the music. It dawned on him that was part of the reason he’d come here. Not just because he couldn’t refuse Emma anything. This was an opportunity to get back to his roots. A chance to recapture his youth.

  An assistant, hired to wrangle the musical talent, ushered him backstage where the band was tuning up. They greeted him jovially.

  “Yo, Cash Register.” Kenny Wilson, the string-bean drummer, grinned. He had long blond cornrows that accentuated his sharp straight nose.

  By day Kenny was a welder, and when Cash had asked him during rehearsal how he did his job without his hairstyle getting in the way, Kenny had said, with another rampant grin, “Panty hose, man, panty hose.”

  “How’s it hangin’?” quipped the bass guitarist who was so tall his head almost touched the papier-mâché reindeer dangling from the ceiling. His name was Igor Bunch and he worked as a short-order cook at Froggy’s restaurant.

  “Looking sharp,” the tambourine girl said breathlessly, and gave him a saucy wink. She was just out of high school and the daughter of one of Sam’s friends.

  The red-haired keyboardist, nicknamed Rojo, was dressed all in black. He simply nodded and tipped his hat. The strong silent type. Rojo was the only one of the group who eked out a living as a musician, performing at county fairs, honky-tonks, and roadhouses. Cash had been there, done that, knew how hard it was. But damn if a part of him didn’t miss it.

  He greeted the band members, gathered them together, and gave a rousing pep talk. “I’m going to do another sound check.”

  “That’s the third time,” Kenny pointed out with a flip of his head, his braids whacking against each other.

  “OCD much?” Igor asked.

  Rojo bobbed his head once, a stoic man’s yes.

  “Be right back.” Cash pushed through the split in the black curtain, went to the apron of the stage, hopped off into the auditorium, and went in search of the sound engineer.

  Even though this was just a small-town charity event, Cash was determined to put on a good show. His biggest fear was disappointing his audience. Call him a control freak, he’d wear the label with pride, but when it came to his music Cash always gave one hundred and ten percent.

  Tonight, he had two stumbling blocks. One, the inexperienced band, and two, the fact that he hadn’t performed in
over a year. Had barely even picked up a guitar since Simone left him for Snake and broke up the band and someone had stolen his favorite guitar, Lorena.

  Familiar anxiety crept over him. Jittery stomach. Sweaty palms. The critical voice in his head yelling, You’re gonna screw this up, you’re gonna suck! That was his greatest fear. Sucking onstage.

  A side door opened, letting in a glow of outside light, along with a shapely young woman in a sexy Santa Baby costume.

  Paige!

  His pulse jumped, galloped. A grin stole over his face and he sidled up behind her. “I’m sorry,” he said, repeating what she’d said to him the previous afternoon. “But we’ve got a strict schedule to keep and we’re not opening to the public until seven.”

  Her face dissolved into a helpless grin. “I’m an usher.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Rules are rules.”

  “Even in my case?” she asked in a voice so sexy his head buzzed.

  Was she enjoying this as much as he was? “Out, lady.”

  “But—”

  “No excuses.”

  “I’m—”

  “Go.” He snapped his fingers and sent her his fiercest scowl.

  She turned to leave.

  “No, wait.” He grabbed her elbow. “Come back. I was only kidding.”

  She faced him again, looked impish. “Gotcha.”

  God, he liked her. It washed over him, strong and overwhelming. He really liked her. He was still holding on to her elbow and enjoying the hell out of it, but he didn’t want to appear pushy.

  He dropped his hand.

  She dropped her gaze.

  Her chestnut bangs were brushed back off her forehead and held in place with a candy cane barrette, showing off a bewitching widow’s peak. The ends of her hair curled at her chin, framing her face and calling attention to her hazel eyes that were an arresting mix of brown and green.

  The Santa Baby costume was as sexy as he remembered. The bodice fit snuggly around her breasts, nipped in at her waist, the short green skirt flared out over sturdy, shapely legs. What would it feel like to run his hands up one of those thighs, feel the heat of her body, the softness of her skin?