Chapter 3
“O h my god. Cock Ring ? It is you.”
Tilting my head to one side, I take in the sight of the cowboy I’d left standing on the sidewalk on my last visit.
He’s just as goddamn handsome—if anything, more so with his stupidly golden tan from obviously being outdoors so much, paired perfectly with unruly dark hair curling out from beneath his cap. To make matters worse, that mustache is also just as dreamy as when I first laid eyes on him.
Pity. The best ones are always fucking taken, aren’t they?
What he’s doing here, and why he’s clutching a placard with my name on it leaves me slowing to an almost stand-still.
“ Christ . Keep your voice down, would you?” His face is unreadable, but judging by the way his jaw just slammed shut, and he’s hissing at me through gritted teeth, I’m not sure this is a welcome reunion.
In fact, this man looks like he wants to shove me back through the doors I just emerged from.
“Do you work for Tessa—I mean, Mrs. Diaz, too?”
This guy is tall, towering over my short stature, as he gobbles up the distance between us and grabs hold of my luggage handle without asking. His strides outmatch mine as he yanks it to wheel along behind him.
“Apparently,” he snaps, without looking my way.
Well, hottie cowboy sure as hell is losing his luster now that I’m getting a chance to see his cold shoulder up close. This is miles away from the flirty conversation we exchanged while the guy helped gather my things and juggled my wearable, looking adorably flustered the whole time.
Yet again, I have to remind myself that none of that even matters because this dude is locked down, living in wedded bliss, hitched to his forever Mrs. Mustache.
Lucky bitch.
“You’re Miss Maloney... Sage Maloney ?” He doesn’t look back, but dips his chin and talks so low out of the corner of his mouth I feel like we’re in some sort of weird whispering game. What is his problem? Immediately my hackles start to prick up because it wouldn’t be the first time someone has been a judgmental asshole about a woman who has her own business, or doesn’t believe a young female to be capable enough.
“Problem? Is there something wrong with that?” I arch an eyebrow. This is really going to put the final nail in the coffin of any perceived attractiveness of this man if he doesn’t explain himself.
He tugs on the brim of his cap forcefully, pulling it lower over his brow, then glances side to side.
“No… of course not… it’s got nothing to do with you—or your name.” The man looks as if he’d gladly climb the walls in search of an escape hatch hidden in the roof of this airport.
“Then what?”
“It’s—I just—I wasn’t expecting you .”
“Ok, well, cool your jets… I wasn’t expecting you either, cowboy. I was preparing myself for Daddy Dentures and pureed TV dinners.”
That finally catches his attention, and he gives me a completely bemused look. One that makes me feel mighty pleased on the inside, because, yes, I intend on being as completely confounding as possible to get under this guy’s skin if this is how all our interactions are going to go down.
“Holy shit. It’s him—I mean, it’s you.” A voice cannons our way from across the expanse of polished concrete flooring, and for the briefest second, there’s a flicker I see in the blue-gray of his eyes. His expression tightens, the line of his brow furrows deeper, and then he turns with a forced smile toward the direction of the eager voice.
“Beau Heartford? Man, my dad is fully gonna kick himself that he ain’t here right now.” The golden-haired cowboy, who looks to be all of eighteen, stands rooted to the spot with hearts in his eyes and a breathlessness in his voice.
Cocking my head to one side, I look the man before me up and down, trying to figure out if there’s something I’m missing here.
“Do you mind?” He gestures at his phone clutched in one fist.
“Not at all.” Mystery cowboy— Cock Ring —keeps that forced smile tightly pinned to his face and poses for a selfie with the young buck, who flashes a broad grin and thumbs up at the camera.
“My old man watches replays of your championship year all the time. Says there’s never been a run to take the buckle like it.”
“Appreciate it. You want me to sign something for him?”
“Hell yes… I mean, thank you, sir.” He whips his trucker cap out of the back pocket of his jeans, and then looks crestfallen for a second.
With a sigh, I unzip the side pocket of my duffel and pull out a marker. “Here.”
“You’re a lifesaver, ma’am.” Blondie looks like he’s about to cry, or melt, or who knows, maybe piss himself with excitement, as he hands over the hat and the pen.
Who the fuck is this guy?
As the mystery man sent to collect me scribbles on the hat, I feel eyes dart in my direction, then linger.
“Is Mandy not traveling with you?” The young cat asks, but I can feel the way he’s side-eyeing my presence ever so subtly, or maybe not subtly, because it’s clear he’s wondering who I am and how I fit in the picture.
The air thickens instantly. If there was ever a moment to pull out your sashimi knife and slice away at the immediate tension, this would be it.
“Mandy’s currently touring for the latest album, but I’ll be sure to let her know you asked after her.” Cowboy looks ready to stuff the hat down blondie's throat. “How about you give your email to my assistant here, and she’ll organize tickets for you and your family to the next rodeo champs.”
“Oh, man, for real?” All of a sudden, I’ve got a bouncing puppy in front of me, and this time, I’m almost certain he’s going to pee all over my boots. All side-eyeing from a second ago has been forgotten in the face of receiving free shit.
Assistant? Jesus. Whatever, I’m not going to argue the point. But things aren’t looking particularly healthy in the feminine-empowerment department either if this is going to be a regular occurrence. I’m certainly not here to scratch around pandering to men who think the workplace pair of tits is only good for fetching coffee and running errands.
Fighting back the scowl that wants to come out to play, I bat my eyelashes and pull out my planner.
After taking down the guy’s details, we’re on the move, this time with far greater urgency. Beau Heartford, the cowboy apparently worthy of being called by both his first and last name, takes off like there’s a rocket under his ass. An ass that I am most certainly not looking at hugged by those wranglers. My luggage clatters behind him like a red flag waving in the wind as he hardly breaks stride between the terminal and the parking lot.
By the time we reach his enormous white truck, I’ve got an armory of questions locked, loaded, and ready to fire his way. Except, the cold shoulder treatment continues. After a brusque and efficient process of climbing into his large, gleaming-new vehicle and buckling up, we set off for Crimson Ridge.
He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight, I decide to zip my lips and not waste my breath. This guy has clearly got a problem with me, and I really don’t fucking care to understand why.
Hopefully we won’t have to work together much this summer. A fine ass doesn’t compensate for having the personality of a urine cake. His wife must be something else if she puts up with this kind of bullshit. I bet she’s gladly away doing whatever it is that she does touring .
My thumbs are literally itching to search his name and start snooping on who these people are. Unfortunately for my curiosity, I can’t exactly do that while entombed in stony silence the longer we’re in this vehicle.
After about ten minutes of deafening quiet and passing mountain scenery, he grunts.
“What did you do to my gym bag?”
I glance down at the duffel tucked at my feet. “Oh, that? I made it more fashionable.”
“It’s got weird shit stuck all over the place.”
“It’s bedazzled. Cute, huh? Do you want the bag back, by the way? Since this is a weird little moment of fate bringing our worlds back together again.”
“There are pink rhinestones on it.”
“And?”
I’m stonewalled once more. Apparently, Beau Heartford isn’t a man who appreciates a little bit of glamor being added to his boring old sports bag. His loss, really.
Puffing out my cheeks, I watch the familiar looming sight of mountains and the red ridge projecting into the skyline, kissed by late summer sunlight. Crimson Ridge graces us with a pretty bronze glow worthy of a San Tropez tan.
“So… Mandy?” I decide to approach the elephant in the room. Recalling the sight of the woman latched onto his arm, flashing her diamond in my face, she was certainly very pretty. A sweet little country-Barbie-doll package to match her dashing, dark-haired cowboy-Ken.
His knuckles blanch as he grips the steering wheel tighter. Christ, the urge to roll my eyes is almost overwhelming, except I really do need to keep this contract. So, for the sake of my new boss, I will put up with this man’s hot and cold behavior.
“Your wife?” I press.
This time, he exhales a long breath through his nose and holds up his ring finger, spinning the metal band around with a thumb. “Yep.”
There’s something in that single word that I can’t quite place. Regret? Anger? It’s not the response I was anticipating, and it throws me for a loop. I know absolutely nothing about being married, but the way he fidgets with that band seems as though the damn thing is burning his finger.
I give up on any more attempts to discover who this man is, or why he’s the one picking me up from the airport in this scenario. He’s like a turtle who has suffered a shock and whipped himself into his shell. I’m knocking on that rugged, roughened exterior, but to no avail. The charming cowboy I met a month ago, with a hint of a crooked smile, has disappeared.
Pushing him to the furthest edges of my mind, I settle back in my seat and focus on the view rushing by. This is just a job. I’ll knock it out of the park, scoring myself a stellar client testimonial with a glowing recommendation to build my portfolio while I’m at it. Not to mention I’ll do it all with a wink, a smile, and my bad bitch boots.
Crimson Ridge won’t know what has hit it.