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Reckless for Cowboy Page 2


  A millisecond later, a car speeds through the intersection on a red light and I realize Cooper has just avoided what could have been a serious collision. “Holy,” I say out of breath. “That was close.”

  “Open the glove box. Find a pen and a piece of paper. Write this down.”

  I find a pen and an oil change receipt and he recites a license plate number. We’re silent for the next few blocks until he pulls into the Carriage House Inn parking lot, takes out his mobile and phones the cops.

  I’m watching all this with fascination. Most people I know don’t like getting involved in this kind of stuff. They’d just be happy they avoided an accident and walked away unscathed. But Cooper is all intense and exacting. He describes the car in detail, giving the location, street address, and time of the incident, like he’s a cop himself or something.

  Once he hangs up, he says, “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem,” I say, still trying to figure him out. He’s a typical cowboy in so many ways. Cocky, sure of himself, charming. But there’s something different about him too.

  He glances at me, “You don’t cuss, do you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t swear.”

  I’m startled by his statement. “No. I don’t.” Most people don’t notice my lack of swearing.

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.” I look up at the Carriage House sign wondering what he thinks we’re doing here. “Are you staying here?”

  “Yeah, it’s one of the sponsor hotels.”

  I clear my throat. “I’m not coming up to your room.”

  He nudges his hat back so I can see his face more clearly. “I’m not inviting you up to my room.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m inviting you for coffee. Then you can tell me why you don’t swear.”

  I consider his offer. What harm is there in a coffee? None. Plus I really don’t want to go back to work now.

  Right! Interrupts my louder and more obnoxious cynical side. First it’s coffee, then it’s kissing, next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with your legs in the air. Don’t do it, Brooke!

  “Oh be quiet,” I whisper beneath my breath.

  “Did you say something?”

  “No.” I say. “No, I was just about to say I’ll come for coffee but only if you tell me why you don’t drink.”

  “Deal.” He hops out of the truck and before I know it, he’s standing beside my door, opening it for me and offering his hand to help me down. The time for making other choices—probably better choices—has passed.

  The lounge is closed but the restaurant is open twenty-four hours—just for Stampede—so that’s where we head. We order coffee and pie and while we’re waiting, he looks over at me and says, “It’s rare to find a woman these days who doesn’t cuss.”

  I shrug.

  “So, what’s the deal?”

  “I don’t like the sound of it.” I lie and my lie sounds like a question.

  “What’s the real reason?”

  Sheesh. Am I that transparent?

  Our coffee and pie arrive and I’m freed from answering for a few minutes. But, once the server leaves, he says, “Come on. You’ve seen me bleed all over everything. The least you can do is tell me why you don’t swear.”

  I know it’s rude, but for some reason, I take a bite of pie and answer. Talking through a mouthful of food somehow makes it easier to tell him. “I just knew this guy who used to swear all the time.” I swallow and take a sip of coffee to wash it down. “I didn’t like it.” I shrug. “I didn’t like how it made me feel.”

  Through all of this he’s just watching me from underneath the brim of his hat. I think it’s a trick cowboys play so that their faces are always in shade and you can’t read their expression. I expect him to ask more. Like, who was the guy, maybe. But he doesn’t.

  “What about you,” I say turning the tables before he has the chance to ask me any more questions about it. “Why do you order hi-balls without the ‘hi’?”

  Cooper doesn’t speak through his pie like me. He looks me square in the eye and says, “My brother was killed by a drunk driver.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  His chest rises and falls and he shuts his eyes for a brief moment, like he’s reliving something.

  “I always drank rye and Coke. When I tended bar, I’d keep up with the regulars, drink for drink. I can’t tell you how many times I got into my truck, half-cut. Then Jason was killed and I realized it could have been me who did it. I’d been playing Russian roulette, not only with my life but with other’s too.”

  He takes a scoop of pie and the fork jangles against the ceramic plate, his shaking hand the only indication of the emotional turmoil he must be feeling. I desperately want to reach across the table and cover his hand with mine.

  That’s when I notice his hands. Lord help me, they’re beautiful. Tanned. Strong. Dextrous. An image of his hands on my body flashes unbidden through my mind and I gasp at the immediate response in my nether regions.

  “You okay?” he asks and my eyes fly open because I’ve been sitting there with my eyes closed—for I don’t know how long—imagining his hands on me…his lips on me. Oh lord!

  “Fine.”

  We finish our pie and coffee and then talk for hours afterward. I ask about his family—his sister and parents. He talks mostly about his sister, he doesn’t mention his brother Jason again. Instead he bombards me with questions about my family. I tell him about my dad and how he died of cancer a couple of years ago. My mom, who’s now living in British Columbia. I don’t talk about Wes, my former stepfather. I’ve vowed never to mention the creep’s name again.

  We talk about Stampede. For some reason, I let slip how I used to be a member of the Young Canadians, a singing and dancing troupe that always performed at the evening grandstand show between other, much bigger-named acts and a host of fireworks.

  “No kidding,” he says with a smirk. “So that’s where I’ve seen you before.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I haven’t missed a grandstand show in ten years.”

  The thought of Cooper in the crowd while I was up on stage makes me tingle. Of course he’s just saying he recognizes me. I was only a chorus girl, one among many, there’s no way he could pick me out from the others, let alone remember me. But still, my stupid heart chooses to believe him.

  I clear my throat and ask about the rodeo.

  He must sense some kind of hesitation in me because he asks, “You don’t like the rodeo?”

  “No. I like it fine.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t. A lot of people don’t.”

  I know there are a lot of animal rights activists who are against the rodeo, but I’m not one of them. The problem isn’t that I don’t like it. It’s that I like it too much.

  He changes the subject and asks about law school about what I want to do when I’m done and it’s not until later that I realize I’ve spent the majority of the time talking about myself. Finally he drives me back to the now empty parking lot of the Cattlemen’s Saloon and the night sky is beginning to lighten around the eastern edge. Funny I don’t feel the least bit tired.

  We’re standing in the parking lot and he says, “Do you know, I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you.”

  “Shut-up,” I whisper.

  So he does.

  He doesn’t say a word. He reaches around the back of my neck, leans in and kisses me.

  Sweet Jesus. The guy’s an expert kisser. Hungry, commanding, sweet. I twist my fingers through his dark curls and hold on like his hair’s the rope and he’s the bronc. There’s a barely tamed wildness to his kiss and it thrills me. What would happen if he let go of the reins that are holding him back? What would that kind of kiss taste like?

  He pulls away and I’m panting like a puppy.

  “Damn, girl. You sure can kiss.”

  My hands are still on his chest and he covers them wit
h his. Then he slowly slides one lower until I’m cupping the front of his jeans. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” There’s an amazing ridge of solid flesh behind his fly.

  I groan. I can’t help it. I’m wet for him. Have been all night. The cocky smile, the jeans, the boots, the hat, the narrow hips, the broad shoulders, the hands that have seen hard work since they were a kid. Jesus Murphy, I’m such a cowboy groupie. And this man standing in front of me, holding my hand against his arousal? He’s pure cowboy.

  Oh, but I’ve been burned one too many times and something’s telling me Cooper could break my heart worse than even Brandt. I yank my hand away. “I gotta go.” I make my way to my car on wobbly legs.

  He catches up to me before I have a chance to unlock the door. “Need company?”

  “No, but thanks all the same.”

  “Can I see you again?”

  “No.”

  He cocks his head to one side. “Why not?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t do cowboys.”

  From the expression on his face, this is not the answer he expects. “Why?”

  “Long story.”

  “I’m different.”

  “No you’re not.” For some reason the blasted key won’t fit in the lock. Finally I manage it and open the car door. “Bye Cooper.”

  He doesn’t say goodbye. He walks back to his truck, calling, “I’ll see you around,” before getting in and taking off.

  I hope to heaven he’s just saying it because I don’t think I can handle seeing him again.

  Chapter Two

  The next couple nights I look for him at the bar, but he doesn’t show. I hate that I’m looking. I hate that I can’t stop myself. For two straight nights I search for a black cowboy hat. For dark eyes following me. It’s driving me crazy and when he doesn’t show and I’m crushed, I recognize that I’m already sliding down a slippery slope where he’s concerned.

  That’s why when he shows up on the third night it throws me for such a loop that I give him the cold shoulder, like it’s his fault I’ve been stupidly on the lookout for him for the last few days. Worse than the way my heart spins a pirouette in my chest at the moment I see him, is the fact that he sits at the bar, drinking his whiskey-free drinks, talking to Denny all night long…about me

  “Brooke’s looking mighty fine in those Daisy Duke’s,” Denny says, making sure I can hear him.

  “Yep,” Cooper agrees, “but, I prefer the short, short jean skirt from the other night.”

  I ignore them and fill my latest order without making eye contact. But I can’t control the way my pulse zings through my veins and my heart pounds in time to the loud music.

  “She’s a great kisser. Definitely in my top ten list.” Denny pipes up.

  “Denny!” I spin around and make as if to kick him with the pointy toe of my cowboy boot. Just because we mess around sometimes doesn’t mean I want him swapping stories with the cowboy.

  “Hell, she’s number one for me.”

  Denny slaps the bar. “You two made out?”

  “Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

  Boom. I’m wet. Just like that.

  I march off with my drink order only half-filled. I can’t stand around listening to them a second longer or I’ll definitely be in danger of repeating something I’m trying hard to forget. Not that I can forget. That kiss has been playing on repeat in my brain for the last two days. Cooper’s lips, soft and sure. His tongue making a slow leisurely pass through my mouth. His hands directing me.

  Stop! Good lord, I need to get a grip!

  Next time I return, Cooper’s gone. The weird feeling that washes over me is not relief, like it should be. Denny’s busy making cocktails and filling pints, but I get his attention by shouting, “So the cowboy finally left, huh?”

  “Nah, just went to the men’s room.”

  Now the relief comes. Not good. I hurry around the edge of the bar right up to Denny.

  “What do you want?”

  “Lift your shirt. Show me your abs, quick.”

  Denny gets a funny little smirk on his face. “I knew it. You’re soaking wet for him, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  He playfully lifts a corner of his tight t-shirt and does this little hip twist like he’s a stripper or something.

  “Hurry up.”

  He pulls up his shirt, showing off his awesome six pack. It’s not just that he’s ripped. He’s hairless and smooth and beautiful. I run my hands over his warm skin to the hoots and hollers of the nearest patrons.

  “You are so weird,” he says. But he loves it. As long as someone’s admiring him, he’s happy as a cat with a bowl of cream.

  “I think I need a kiss too,” I say, a little out of breath.

  Denny wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me close, gyrating his hips against mine. He takes my right hand and kisses the back of my knuckles. “You wanna kiss someone?” His mouth is close to my ear as if whispering something naughty. “Kiss the cowboy.”

  “I can’t.”

  “This one’s different.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Before I’ve had my fill of hard male body pressed up against mine, Denny steps out of my embrace and turns to the people hanging around the bar. “Okay, show’s over.”

  That’s when I notice Cooper. His hat’s pulled down low but I can still see the glow from his irises. When I pass him, he says just loud enough for me to hear, “If that was meant to deter me, Miss Hamilton, it didn’t work.”

  Why does the use of my surname make me instantly moist? And, who told him my whole name anyway? I scowl at Denny, the obvious culprit.

  He winks at me and says to Cooper, “The reason she won’t go out with you is because she had her heart stomped on by a poor excuse for a man.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Rodeo boy.”

  “Who?”

  “Hello?” I interrupt. “This is my personal life you’re talking about.” I flick a half-melted ice cube at Denny. “Not to be divulged to perfect strangers.”

  “Strangers are the best people to divulge secrets to. I know. I’m a bartender.”

  I growl at him but I have no time to argue because my tray is loaded and people are thirsty. When I come back ten minutes later, Cooper’s looking at me weird.

  “Brandt Thompson?” he says, his voice higher than I’ve ever heard it. “You were with Brandt Thompson the bull rider?”

  Oh to have a very sharp implement that I could impale Denny with. “You told him?”

  Denny ignores me and speaks directly to Cooper. “Yep. Fell for him hard. He charmed the boots right off of her and strung her along for six months. Inviting her on the road, talking marriage, kids, the whole nine-yards.”

  I am going to die. I swear. I am going to die. But not before I kill Denny first. How am I supposed to forget the biggest mistake of my life when Denny keeps bringing it up all the time?

  “Brandt Thompson is a dick.” Cooper removes his hat and swipes a hand through his dark hair.

  It is completely unfair that he should look even hotter with his hair all messed up and all I can do is picture him looking exactly as he looks now, except naked and in my bed.

  “No wonder she hates cowboys,” he says.

  “Yep. Won’t touch them. Well, except for Simon Billings, Cody Shelton….I think there was one other.”

  “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” I hiss. I cannot believe he’s gone and mentioned those other two losers.

  “It’s not like she slept with them,” Denny adds, totally ignoring me. “The minute she said no, the guys tucked tail and ran. Assholes. But if you want to know what I think—”

  “No, we do not want to know what you think,” I interrupt through gritted teeth.

  “The girl needs to get back in the saddle, with a real man. You know what I’m talking about.” Denny waggles his brows and then fills a couple more drink orders.


  With an exasperated grunt, I pick up my tray and leave again. I’m furious, but I still have a job to do. I can’t concentrate, though, because I know the minute I return to the bar they’re going to pick up the conversation where they left off.

  The next time I’m up there, Denny calls over to Cooper, “How’s your arm?”

  “A little tender. But fine.”

  “I’m glad Brooke took care of you. Maybe, if you ask nice, she’ll take care of you again tonight.”

  I mouth the words, “Stop it,” to Denny. No luck.

  “I hope so,” Cooper says. “Hey Brooke, what are you doing after work tonight?” Even though my back is to him, I know he’s smiling because I can hear it in his voice.

  “Going home, taking a shower and going to bed.” I try to sound as off-hand as possible.

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll join you.”

  Instead of glaring at Cooper, I throw my irritation Denny’s way. “Would you please stop encouraging him?”

  “Well, he isn’t going for me—though I’ve tried—so I thought I’d do the next best thing. Then I can live vicariously through you.”

  Cooper leans on the bar. “How do you know I wouldn’t go for you?” He’s got a playful smile twitching at the corners of his lips and I hate how much I like it.

  “Oh, umm, let’s see.” Denny ticks his fingers. “A. You’re a cowboy and B. You’re a straight cowboy. I’ve spent too much money on my smile to have my teeth knocked out because of some homophobe.”

  “You think I’m homophobic because I’m a cowboy?” Cooper places a hand on his heart. “I’m hurt.”

  Picking up my next tray of drinks, I say in parting, “Sounds like you boys have a lot in common. A little man on man action might do you both some good. Have fun.”

  For the next hour or so, Denny’s too busy to talk and Cooper just sits at the bar, not saying a word, watching my every move. It’s worse than before. I can feel his eyes on me, sweeping over my exposed skin and, though the bar is smoking hot, I’m covered in goose bumps. His constant stare unnerves me so much my hands shake and I end up tipping over a bottle of beer. His hand whips out, fast and steady, and he grabs the bottle before it can smash on the floor.