Once Upon a Cowboy (Thatcher Ranch Cowboys #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Delilah

As much as I tried to stop it, fuzzy socks and a matching PJ set have become my daily work attire.

Warm, mid-morning light drifts across the wood floor of my apartment as I shuffle out of my bedroom, pulling said fuzzy socks on as I go. Rubbing my eyes, I make my way over to the coffee pot, pressing a button and then leaning against the counter with a yawn.

Yes, it’s 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. But as someone who works from home and sets their own hours, it’s my prerogative to get up at whatever time I want—despite how much my brother, Harrison, likes to mock me for it.

He’s an early riser—being a ranch hand and all that.

One of the many reasons we don’t share an apartment.

No, I’ve got the place, albeit a small one, all to myself.

I yelp as tiny, feline claws penetrate my fuzzy socks, shooting a glare down at Pickles. It only lasts about half a second, though, because he just so happens to be one of the cutest things on planet Earth. I scoop him up into my arms, pressing a kiss to his fuzzy, gray forehead as he purrs.

“Let me guess,” I say, walking him over to his food bowl a few feet away. “You’re starving.”

He mewls, leaping out of my arms and proceeding to scream at me while I grab a can of wet food and pry it open, dumping it into his bowl.

Pickles and I have been best friends ever since I found him as a shivering kitten on my front porch two years ago. And now the little bugger bosses me around like I’m a treat dispenser. Oh, well. Better than a roommate. Or my brother.

I resume my lean against the counter, scrolling through Instagram as my coffee brews. When the pot beeps, I pour a cup, adding some creamer while I shift to the email app on my phone.

My eyebrows rise when I notice a familiar name pop up, and I grin.

“Yes,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee and heading across the room to my desk. The apartment is small—very small—so the entire main living space is a kitchen, living room, and office all rolled into one. At least I’ve got a nice view of Montana mountains out my window.

I open my laptop, pulling up my email and seeing Jessica’s name, a project title in the subject line. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

While the aforementioned sleeping in is definitely a perk of working essentially for yourself, one of the cons would be …

instability, I suppose. I’m a ghostwriter.

I’ll write pretty much anything for anyone, but in order to write, I need to have clients—projects.

And most of those projects come through my literary agent, Jessica.

The last few weeks have been a bit of a dry spell. I just finished up the last book in a teen fantasy series I’d been working on over the last year, ghostwriting it for a TikTok influencer. And while the pay for a full book can be great, since then, the gigs have been zilch. Nothing.

It was enough to partially resurrect my childhood dreams of writing my own novel.

Partially. As in, I stared at a screen for a long time, brainstormed, and ended up what I can only describe as word vomit.

Thank God for Jessica and her email.

I click it, skimming the paragraph and then opening up the project proposal.

Full-length fiction novel—yes! That means a big payout.

Ghostwriting for an already established author with a big following and multiple subgenres. Yep, I can work with that. Study the voice, grasp the vibe, and churn out something similar. Easy peasy.

Romance. Okay, I’ve written some romance before.

High steam.

I halt my reading. Hmmm. My heartrate spikes, and I bite my lip. I take a deep breath … and read it again. Yeah, no, it’s still there. I read that right.

High steam. Meaning … sex scenes. Detailed, graphic sex scenes.

I suck a breath in through my teeth and lean back in my chair with a huff. Pickles, breath stinking slightly of his tuna-flavored wet food, hops into my lap and starts purring. I pet him absentmindedly, still staring at my laptop screen.

I’ve never been one to shy away from any new type of writing project.

I’ve tried my hand at almost everything out there—memoir, fiction, historical, articles, you name it.

And I have written romance before. Only, they’ve all been closed door.

Nothing more than a few passionate kisses happening on the page.

And I’m not a prude. Despite what kids back in high school—and maybe college—used to tease me about. Sex is … sex. It’s a thing people do, and I have no problem with it.

But I also have … no experience with it.

Which, at twenty-six, is somewhere between odd and humiliating. I just haven’t quite landed on the exact adjective. Mostly, I try not to dwell on it. Until something like this gets thrown in my face and I’m forced to reckon with it.

Who ever thought being a virgin would hinder one’s professional responsibilities? Certainly not me.

I get up, earning a disgruntled squeak from Pickles, so I can pace the room. I take a swig of coffee before heading back to my bedroom to find a slightly warmer lounge set to wear for the day.

“It’s just a sex scene, Delilah,” I mutter to myself. “Maybe two. Or three.” I’ve read smutty books before. They’re fun. I know what’s expected. But somehow writing them feels like a whole new ballgame. Foreign and strange and somehow, even, lying?

I grab an oversized sweatshirt from my drawer, then some leggings.

But wait a minute, it’s not like I’ve ever battled fantasy creatures, solved a crime, or experienced life in 1920’s Paris. And writing about those things weren’t lies.

Fear spikes through me, and I crinkle my nose, shedding my pajamas before donning underwear and my outfit for the day. Maybe I should just email Jessica back and decline. Tell her it’s not for me. It’s not like there would be hard feelings; I’ve turned down projects in the past before.

But I think of the last few weeks, the follow-up emails I’ve made, the rearranging of my website, my email signature, my desk. At the looming rent payment due next week …

Yeah, it’s not like I have the luxury of passing up a project right now.

“You’re an adult, Delilah,” I tell myself, striding back out into the living space and taking a seat at my desk.

I may be an adult who has never had sex, but I’m an adult nonetheless. One who has bills to pay, a job to do, and who can just suck it up. Yeah, it’ll be a weird job. Sometimes jobs are weird.

I take another deep breath before hitting reply on Jessica’s email.

Looks great! I write. Send over the contract and timeline details. Excited to get started.

Before I can overthink it, I hit send.