Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  Fritzi himself was dancing his I-gotta-pee dance at the door.

  “But right now, he needs to go out.” She hooked his leash to his collar.

  “I’ll go with you,” Cash said, and opened the door. “This puts a pin in the five minutes.”

  “Four minutes,” she corrected.

  The three of them walked back out into the nippy night air. Fritzi charged for the grass, yanking Paige behind him. Cash had to quicken his stride to catch up. They didn’t talk, just huddled in their coats, waiting on Fritzi. Paige let the dog sniff and explore and ten minutes passed before they were back inside the house. The poodle promptly curled up into a ball on his pillow and went to sleep. It was past his bedtime.

  Cash walked over to the tree, spun the Little Deuce Coupe, made it sing “Little Saint Nick.”

  “You’re a Beach Boys fan?” he asked.

  “My dad,” she said quietly, then quickly changed the subject. “Four minutes.”

  “It must have taken you days to do all this decorating.” He stepped to the snow village, studied the intricate details.

  “You didn’t notice the decorations when you were peeping in my window?”

  “I wasn’t peeping—” He shook his head, telegraphed her an enigmatic look she couldn’t read. “Look, I’m sorry about that too. It was boorish to stare. But I didn’t notice the surroundings because I was mesmerized by the floor show.”

  Her. Dancing. In pink underwear.

  A knot of heat balled up in her chest, pushed up her neck to her jaw and skidded to a stop at her cheeks, burned hot and bright. Briefly, she closed her eyes, fought off the blush, opened her eyes again, and found him staring at her with surprising compassion.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said.

  “No, but you do, mister.”

  “About that . . .” He came closer.

  She would have backed up, except there was no place to go. The cypress tree was behind her.

  The scent of his aftershave wrapped around her, nice and masculine, sage and sandalwood and soap. He smelled so good it was hard to remember why she’d been mad at him. Even though he was average height, he loomed over her. Those shoulders, thick as oak trees, crowded out the light.

  “Look,” he said. “Here’s the bottom line. I was really impressed when I saw you dancing this morning—”

  “You mean when you were spying on me.”

  “You had the blinds up. Not my fault. If you don’t want people to look, close the blinds.”

  He was right. She’d been careless. Had a secret part of her wanted him to look? It was an alarming thought.

  “Three minutes,” she said, holding up three fingers.

  “Here’s something else.” He took another step, eyes narrowed, hips loose. His body radiated so much heat she could feel it through her clothes. “I’m attracted to you and I think you’re attracted to me too.”

  Oh hells to the yeah, she was. But she wasn’t about to let him know that. She was too raw, too vulnerable, and he could shatter her into a million little pieces. She thought of Grammie and her feelings for Wayne Newton. Suddenly had a new understanding of her grandmother.

  He dipped his head, his nose inches from her.

  She sucked in a deep breath. Her chest rose sharply, causing her breasts to graze his arm.

  He smiled and, without another word, hooked a finger under her chin, tipped her face up, and sank his mouth down on hers.

  Startled, she hitched in another breath without letting go of the first one and her breasts rose even higher, coming into contact with his hard, muscled chest.

  “Exhale,” he whispered.

  She did, slowly letting the air leak out in one long, controlled hiss.

  Cash kissed her again. Taking over. Taking charge. Capturing her. Raiding her. It was a blistering kiss, hot and insistent. Inflammatory.

  One of his big hands slipped around her back to where her spine curved just above her butt. Every touch of his fingers was liquid fire. Igniting her in a blaze of sensation.

  She was aware of everything—the richness of his scent, the roughness of his fingertips, the scratch of his beard stubble, the sight of his mesmerizing gray eyes locked squarely on her.

  Hyperaware.

  It was as if she had sensory superpowers. Her cells zinged. She sat up and took full notice of this man.

  He was every fantasy come true. But that was just it, wasn’t it? He was a fantasy, a daydream, an illusion. He couldn’t be a serious boyfriend. Not for her. They were too different.

  Not to mention that he was on the rebound from Simone Bishop. That’s what her mind said. But her body, oh holy kittens, her recalcitrant body . . .

  Her body was alive with information: salty-sweet lips that made her think of kettle corn, the firm planes of his abs pressed against her belly, the gentle way he cradled her in his arms and whispered her name like it was a mantra from heaven. “Paige, Paige, Paige.”

  A small sound slipped from her lips, half gasp, half moan. Oh, she was pathetic. Melting for him like rocky road ice cream in the August heat.

  He tasted like a fairy tale, like Prince Charming. She knew it was a trap, but she fell anyway. Surrendering to the moment. Knowing she was treading on risky territory. Knowing she was going down . . .

  His pelvis pressed against hers, surging and urgent.

  He wanted her. No doubt about that. He was big and hard and hungry. He was way too much for her.

  And yet, she wanted him so badly she couldn’t think straight, and that’s what finally sobered her.

  “Stop,” she said, pulling her mouth from his, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it was going to leap right out of her chest and run over her.

  “What?” he asked, his eyes dazed. He looked as flattened as she felt.

  “Your five minutes,” she said, trying her best to keep the quaver from her voice. Pointed at the door. “They’re up.”

  Cash staggered out of Paige’s houseboat, drunk on the taste of her lips. McDang, son, what the hell just happened?

  Was he turning into one of those entitled assholes who thought just because he played a guitar and made some money doing it that he could kiss a woman whenever the urge came over him?

  And when he’d kissed her the world had shifted. It was as if he’d been wearing a blindfold all his life and someone had yanked it off to reveal a lush, beautiful garden full of wondrous things.

  Her lips had sent his mind spinning, whirling, swirling with music. Filling him with songs and lyrics, harmony and melody, rhythm and cadence. Altering everything he thought he knew about music . . .

  . . . and women.

  He hadn’t gone there to kiss her. It hadn’t even been in his mind until he’d been in front of her, those sweet lips of hers pursed, and he’d gone pure Neanderthal. Damn his hide. He’d scared her.

  That cut him deep.

  Nauseated, he paused on the dock. Rested his forehead on the pole of the vapor lamp. Took several slow, deep breaths. He’d not ever pursued a woman the way he was pursuing her. He didn’t have to. Normally, women fell at his feet.

  But not this one.

  Was that the reason he wanted her so desperately? Was it because she didn’t fall at his feet? If so, that was messed up.

  Except for a second there, she’d sunk against him and opened her mouth wider and made a sweet sound of pleasure and . . .

  Unless he was deluding himself.

  Was he deluding himself? He’d been in South America for almost a year. Had he forgotten how to read the signs where women were concerned? How to play the game of polite society? Honestly, he’d been out of touch for so long, living in the land of the rich and famous, had he forgotten what it was like to be a regular person?

  He needed to stay away from her. That’s what he needed to do. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, even if she had kissed him back, however briefly.

  It sounded logical. Leave her be. Stay away.

  But she was liv
ing in the houseboat next door, and the taste of her was branded on his tongue. Seared into his brain.

  Didn’t matter. He was going to have to find a way to keep his distance and if that meant disappointing Emma and leaving town before Christmas, then so be it.

  Emma would forgive him.

  If he upset Paige again, Cash wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

  A few years back, a tornado had hit Twilight on Valentine’s Day. Paige had been in town visiting Grammie during the storm and she vividly recalled the violent winds spinning and churning across the sky as they ran for the storm cellar. The same kind of crazy storm whipped inside Paige all night long. No sleep. Not a wink. Just troubling thoughts.

  Cash had kissed her.

  And she’d liked it.

  A lot.

  Cash had liked it too. She’d felt his erection against her body. Felt the tremor in his hands. Tasted desire on his lips. A red-hot desire that matched her own.

  But there’d also been an underlying tenderness that delighted and surprised and, frankly, worried her. She could resist his charming cockiness, but tenderness? After the way she’d been treated, tenderness was a huge turn-on.

  He moved her.

  In ways she’d never before been moved.

  She wasn’t ready for this emotionally, but oh how her body longed for him. She couldn’t reconcile the conflict.

  Just after dawn, she’d taken Fritzi out. When she got back, her boss from the day care center, Kiley Bullock, called and asked if she could come in a few minutes early.

  Paige’s mind jumped to worst-case scenarios. Had Kiley heard about her dancing onstage in a skimpy costume and was calling her on the carpet for behavior unbecoming a preschool teacher?

  She left the houseboat, casting a sideways glance over at the turquoise boat next door. The lights were out and Cash’s vehicle was in the marina parking lot. He must be sleeping in.

  Reaching up, she fingered her lips.

  She’d allowed it to happen. Let’s be honest, she’d wanted it to happen. Now that was behavior unbecoming a preschool teacher.

  Kiley was sanitizing the communal toy box when Paige got there, but she immediately stowed the antiseptic wipes and plunked down on the corner of a long squat folding table.

  “There you are,” she said so perkily that Paige relaxed. “Have a seat.”

  Paige perched on the edge of the table beside her, prayed the flimsy table meant for three-year-olds wouldn’t collapse under her weight.

  Kiley was in her early thirties with mahogany skin and deep-set dark eyes. She was tall and sporty, an almost carbon copy of her mother, Marva, who’d been the Twilight High School principal for almost two decades. She kept her coal-black hair cut short and lived in athletic wear. She’d been a kindergarten teacher in the Dallas ISD, but got burned out in the big-city rat race and came back home to start her own day care center. She’d given Paige the job almost solely because she was Flynn’s cousin. Kiley and Flynn had grown up together, and their mothers had been best friends.

  “I was at the benefit concert last night,” Kiley said. “Saw you up onstage.”

  Uh-oh. Paige held her breath. “Listen, I can explain—”

  “Clearly, you know Cash Colton.”

  “Not really.” She didn’t know him, know him, but she had kissed him, so maybe that counted as knowing him?

  “Oh come on now.” Kiley wagged a finger and lobbed her a sly expression. “You can’t fake chemistry. You two have got it going on.”

  “There’s not—”

  Kiley raised her palms. “But hey, if you aren’t ready to go public, I understand completely. He’s a celebrity. The media would be on it in a heartbeat.”

  “There’s nothing to go public with,” Paige protested.

  “Riiiight.” Kiley winked. “I can keep a secret.”

  “There’s no secret to keep.”

  “I need a big favor.”

  Paige hesitated. I need a favor. It was the siren’s call she couldn’t resist. Whenever anyone was in need, she was there. Her altruism had blown up in her face more times than she could count.

  “If I can,” she said.

  “Could you get Cash to come talk to the class for career day?”

  “Three-year-olds have a career day?”

  “They will if you get Cash to come.”

  Paige lifted her shoulders. “I don’t hold that kind of sway over him.”

  “C’mon. Women always know how to get their men to do things.”

  “He’s not my man.”

  “You could give him sex.” Kiley touched one index finger with the other. “Or withhold sex.” She ticked off her middle finger. “Promise him a blow—”

  “Kiley!”

  “I’m just saying . . .”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not dating. I’ve known him all of two days. He pulled me up onstage. That’s it.”

  “That’s not what Amy from the Twilight Bakery says.”

  “You’re listening to a girl who believes she was abducted by aliens?”

  Kiley twisted up her bottom lip. “You’ve got a point.”

  “I’ve had a couple of conversations with him.” And kissed him. “I had no idea he was going to pull me up onstage.”

  “But you do live next door to him.”

  Wow, the gossip had gotten around quickly. “Temporarily.”

  “So you could ask him, neighbor to neighbor? Please, please, please, please.” Kiley clasped her hands together over her heart. “I love his music.”

  “We’re really not that chummy.”

  Kiley played her trump card. “I gave you a job when no one else would.”

  Zing. There it was. She owed Kiley. “Okay, okay, stop with the pouty fan girl face. I’ll ask.”

  “Yay!” Kiley clapped like she was thirteen instead of thirty-three. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “I’m not promising anything.”

  “He’ll do it,” Kiley said confidently.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “What’s with you, girl? Even my legally blind granny can see that man’s crazy ’bout you.”

  Chapter 10

  Rhythm: The element of music pertaining to time, played as a grouping of notes into accented and unaccented beats.

  “You’re not going to catch anything,” Paige said to Cash when she got home from work at four-thirty.

  Cash was sitting on a deck chair, fishing off his houseboat, a cane pole in the water, watching the sunset, and nibbling what looked like one of Emma’s caramel apple Christmas cookies.

  “I thought you were mad at me,” he said.

  His feet were propped on a blue and white Igloo cooler. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a thick blue flannel shirt. His hair was tousled and windblown. The tops of his ears and the apples of his cheeks were red, letting her know he’d been out here for a while.

  Waiting.

  For her? Her heart, the treacherous thing, did a merry little jig.

  “Fool’s mission.” She came closer, but not too close.

  “What?” He grinned, spreading happiness like rainbows. “I’m too sexy for you to stay mad at me?”

  Paige rolled her eyes. “No. Fishing off the houseboat is the fool’s mission.”

  “Why’s that?” He sent her a lazy look that strolled up and down her body, taking in the faded jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and thick woolen sweater she’d worn to work.

  “One,” she explained. “The water’s not really deep enough.”

  “Deep enough to float a boat,” he drawled, his gaze hanging on her mouth. It was all she could do not to touch her lips.

  “Two,” she went on. “The churning of boat engines coming in and out of the marina tends to chase the fish away. Although I suppose you might luck into a small perch or two.”

  “That’ll do. I’m a catch and release fisherman anyway.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “Get to sit outside and watch the world go
by.”

  “In forty degree weather?”

  “I’m not a hothouse orchid.” He finished off the cookie, dusted his palms together, crumbs tumbling into the water. Minnows swarmed after the crumbs.

  Eyes alight, he met her gaze. No man had ever looked at her in quite that way. Like she was a precious treasure he’d unearthed while digging in his backyard. “And you said there weren’t any fish in here.”

  “So have you been doing this all day?”

  “Feeding cookies to the minnows? Yup, pretty much.” He cocked his head, studied her a long moment, grinned infuriatingly. “How about you? How was your day?”

  “Busy chasing a dozen three-year-olds.” She inhaled sharply, drawing in cool air, trying to figure how to pose the question.

  Amusement marked the press of his lips. “You’re here to ask me a favor.”

  “Says who?” How had he known?

  “You.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in the way you hem-haw around. I might have only known you since Saturday, but you don’t strike me as a hem-hawer.”

  “How do you know? I might be a hem-hawer of the highest order.”

  “Are you?” He picked up his Stetson from the dock, cocked it on his head at a rakish slant.

  “No.”

  “So spit it out.” His smile was a wheel turning up the heat brewing inside her. “What do you need? Autograph? Head shot? Autographed head shot?”

  “You do know that ‘head shot’ has a completely different meaning here in Non-Celebrityville.”

  “And you’re imagining taking a head shot at me right now?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I like that about you. Barely sheathed aggression.”

  “I’m not aggressive, dammit.”

  “Well, except for the cursing.”

  “You bring out the worst in me. I hardly ever swear.” Out loud anyway.

  “Or conversely, I bring out the best in you. We all need to let loose and cuss now and again. You’re welcome.”

  “Look it,” she said, restraining herself from stamping her foot. She wasn’t about to let him know how much he could irk her. “Be serious for a second.”