Chapter 19
Coworking Space
Duke
“Oh, God, yes.”
Wheeler’s eyes practically roll to the back of her head as she bites into the biggest croissant I think I’ve ever seen. The thing is the size of a football.
I pop open my laptop, try not to pop a woody. “You and the enthusiastic sounds while you’re eating.”
“That was you.” She nods, chowing down on the croissant. “Although yeah. I kinda do everything with enthusiasm.”
Ain’t that the truth. The way this girl sucked my dick that morning in the U-Haul—
Yeah, can’t go there right now. Not while we’re in public, even if we are at a coffee shop named the Drip Drop.
It’s actually a cool little spot. Tucked into a corner in a hipster neighborhood that bustles with pedestrians and traffic, it’s a got a vibe that I’d say is part kooky French bistro, part cozy southern porch hangout.
There’s an actual porch with rocking chairs and a couple big porch swings, each one occupied by tattooed twentysomethings typing furiously on their phones.
Inside, groupings of cushy upholstered wingback chairs and a row of high-top tables occupy a space with beamed ceilings.
It smells like coffee and chocolate. It’s filled with the low hum of conversation, and as I sip my ridiculously priced latte, I decide I love it.
Almost as much as Wheeler loves her croissant.
“Some things have tasted really bad lately.” She takes another bite.
“But I’m just discovering that other things taste really good.
Like, I can’t remember the last time I had a plain croissant like this.
But the butter? And the flakiness? That little hit of salt too?
” She touches her fingertips to her lips. “Chef’s kiss.”
I discreetly adjust my jeans underneath the table. Seeing this girl smile—enjoy herself after last night’s tears—is definitely gonna get me hard.
What can I say? I like it when she’s happy.
“Guess pregnancy takes you back to basics.” I pull up my email in an effort to distract myself.
“In this moment, I don’t hate it.” She nods at my coffee. “How’s the lavender haze latte?”
“Amazing. I love me some good old drip coffee—”
“But you can be a fancy bitch on occasion.” Wheeler smiles at me over her laptop, and something catches in my chest. “Welcome to Dallas. I think you’ll fit in just fine here.”
Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.
I have mixed feelings about the conversation we had in my truck on the drive here.
On the one hand, we got the facts laid out, which needed to happen so we have a clear picture of the reality of our situation.
She’s building her business. I’m figuring out how to handle this sense of wanderlust, of boredom, I can’t seem to kick.
A baby does not fit into any of that.
Wheeler and I are also not together. We didn’t even need to mention marriage, because it’s so laughably far off the table.
Wheeler’s working through some tough stuff with her parents and their marriage, and I know she has no interest in following in their footsteps by having a shotgun wedding situation.
Gonna be honest, though—the thought of us pairing off in any way makes my heart skip a beat.
Marriage makes my heart skip another beat, and not in an entirely bad way.
Seeing Cash marry his best friend has shown me that a wife doesn’t tie you down.
She becomes your partner in crime. The person who’s by your side as you make your dreams come true together, whether those dreams mean traveling or making babies.
Why not both?
But that’s a road that leads nowhere with Wheeler. Girl won’t date me, much less let me put a ring on her finger.
Wheeler taps on her keyboard, then lets out a little yelp of delight.
“Good news?” I ask.
She nods, her fingers flying. “Because we still haven’t been able to reschedule our Aspen trunk show, the store there put our boots up on their website for preorder yesterday.” Her eyes flick to meet mine. “They sold out within minutes. Two hundred pairs!”
I hold up my hand for a high five. “Fuck yeah they did. Congrats.”
“Thank you. And you’ll appreciate this.” She slaps my hand. “Apparently the store got a zillion questions about our men’s boot collection. Which obviously doesn’t exist—”
“But it could. Clearly there’s interest. And imagine if you had a hot cowboy starring in your first marketing campaign? Y’all would sell out in seconds.” I hold out my arms. “I’m still available. I’ll take my shirt off and everything.”
Wheeler arches a brow, her gaze flicking down my body. “Pants too?”
“For you? Honey, I’d drop trou in a heartbeat.”
“How hilarious would it be if the whole ad was just you, naked, in a pair of Bellamy Brooks boots with you holding a cowboy hat over your—”
“Longhorn?”
She bursts out laughing. “See! Gross.”
“You’re still smiling.”
She purses her lips, clearly trying to fight the big old grin she’s wearing. “I like the idea of men’s boots. Mollie and I just need to clone ourselves to get it done.”
I shrug, grabbing my phone to open my banking app. “Or you could hire that hot cowboy as a consultant. I got ideas.”
“Well, by all means, share them.” She sets her elbows on the table, her hair falling over her shoulders. “To be fair, you are kind of an expert in this area, so I’m all ears.”
My chest lifts at her openness. Her confidence in me.
I like that she’s as jazzed by new ideas as I am.
I lift my leg and give my Wranglers a tug, revealing the pair of Ariats I’m wearing. “Y’all would make what we call ‘indoor boots’—the ones you wear when you’re feelin’ a little fancy. Seems to be your wheelhouse.”
“As opposed to work boots?”
“Barn boots, yes. I think making everyday boots would bore y’all, and plenty of other companies make excellent boots for cowboying. But Bellamy Brooks—you make boots for special occasions.”
Wheeler nods, her brown eyes lighting up. “First date boots.”
“Boots you wear to prom.”
“Right! Boots you wear when you wanna get laid. Also, boots you wear on your wedding day. Sexy and sweet.” She glances down at her laptop and runs her fingers over the mouse pad. “I like this, Duke. I’m gonna take some notes.”
“My hourly rate is one viewing of Titanic, front to back.”
Wheeler looks up and grins. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”
“You got plans tonight?”
“Guess I do now.”
My pulse leaps. For a day that began with a trip to an ob-gyn’s office to confirm an unexpected pregnancy, today is actually turning out to be…not all that sucky.
I don’t know what that means. Am I being reckless—or just plain stupid—to allow myself to have some fun right now, to allow myself to enjoy Wheeler’s company?
Shouldn’t we be discussing what the next few weeks will look like?
Should we feel, I don’t know, some kinda shame for the pickle we got ourselves into?
But here we are, talking business ideas over some really fucking delicious treats in a really pretty spot.
“Deal.” I tilt my foot one way, then the other. “I like the idea of doing two versions. One square-toed for the honky-tonk. The other a little more timeless for the altar.”
Wheeler holds up a finger. “Classic round toe. Yes. Maybe in a goatskin leather, with a riff on classic stitching—tone on tone, so it’s subtle but still very Texas.”
“Could be cool to stitch the state flag on the heel, since that’s where y’all make the boots?”
Wheeler claps. “Sexy! Yes. You think we do a tall shaft? Midcalf? Or shorties?”
I hold my hands about a foot apart. “Seems about right, yeah?”
“Not that big.” Her lips twitch.
“Everything’s bigger in Texas, Blue.” I snap my fingers. “There’s your tagline for the marketing campaign.”
She cuts me a glance. “It’s so bad it’s almost good.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, chest swelling. “I say you do both—midcalf and short. Winter and summer.”
“And then we keep the designs simple. Offer two shaft heights—”
“Okay, you gotta stop saying ‘shaft.’”
“What’s wrong with the word ‘shaft,’ Duke?”
“You know what’s wrong with the word ‘shaft,’ Wheeler.”
She’s smirking. “Am I making you uncomfortable with my talk of shafts in all different shapes and sizes?”
“Don’t make me answer that.” I drop my leg, my half-hard dick catching on the fly of my jeans.
I bite back a wince. “One design’s gotta be ridiculous.
Ostrich or alligator or some shit. The other is the goatskin.
Hardworking but nice. Your ideal customer is a guy’s guy who appreciates craftsmanship but isn’t flashy.
He’s got money, but he ain’t gonna shove that fact in your face.
I wonder if it wouldn’t be a smart idea to host some trunk shows at country clubs. Hunt clubs too.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed.”
“They do, and y’all definitely wanna hit those up.
” I rub my hands together. “You pitch your boots as heirlooms—the kind you pass from one generation to the next. Maybe you offer free refurbishment services every, I don’t know, five years or whatever.
Resole the boots, give the leather a polish.
I know that’s how Garrett kept his boots in such great shape. ”
Wheeler’s fingers slow to a stop as she looks up at me thoughtfully. “Cash wears those boots nonstop.”
“Well, yeah. They’re boots with meaning. There’s a story there. And I think it’s a sign of respect to wear the boots of a man you admired.”
“Were y’all close? You and Garrett?”
I tip back what’s left of my latte. Even lukewarm, it’s delicious. “We were. He came into our lives when we really needed a father figure. If it wasn’t for him…” I shake my head. “Well, you’d like me, but you wouldn’t like me.”
“I like you?”