Chapter 9
I t’s the worst realization possible that my boss has the mustache of my every teenage dream and fantasy. I have a crush the size of Jupiter, and bitchy little fluttering wings swarming my stomach every time I catch sight of him.
It’s the absolute pits.
How the hell did I end up stranded here in futile longing-ville, population one?
I’m notoriously the frozen-hearted, fun time, not a long time , gal. I’m your go-to for a spontaneous round of shots at two in the morning, and have a unique gift for sniffing out a karaoke bar where I can wail my lungs out in my best Stevie impression, clutching the microphone singing about dreams and a gold dust woman.
Now, I fear I’m chronically afflicted by a handsome cowboy, who I absolutely cannot fucking keep thinking about in the way that I have since arriving here. My mind has been in the gutter, and my vibrator has been getting a strenuous workout.
A girl has gotta be resourceful in the face of such trying times.
Thank god we’ve had a couple of days going about our own business since the man trapped me in his truck and chauffeured me around the ranch. All while damn near drowning me alive in the masculine, woodsy scent of him. He’s got this highly intoxicating hint of leather thing going on, too, that I did not anticipate finding so appealing.
Beau Heartford smells like hard-working cowboy, and horses, and I’m not at all equipped to handle being in close quarters with him while he grunts at me monosyllabically and fidgets with the brim of his cap. It’s endearing, damn him.
I’ve already caved and searched online for leather-scented candles for when I leave here, because there’s every chance I’m going to be worryingly addicted to how good this place and the cowboy who owns it smells.
Now that we’ve established the finer details I need to know for the work I’ll be doing—like how the business is going to operate, what the grand plans are for the coming twelve months—and I’ve been given the cowboy equivalent of ‘show and tell,’ I’ve had a few days with only my laptop for company.
My ovaries might be protesting at the lack of hottie mustache to fawn over, but it’s a welcome and necessary detox. Being around Beau is far too much of a temptation, luring me to ignore all the reasons for simply window shopping. Certainly not indulging in any illicit thoughts of touching .
Goddamn, do I want to run my nails up that man’s back and hear the kind of purr he might let out.
All of that thigh-clenching distraction is exactly why I’m currently strolling through the vacant main street of Crimson Ridge. I’m being an extremely good girl by putting some added distance between us. My rules of looking - only are being put into practice, as I exercise heroic restraint and leave the ranch for a few hours. A wonderful plan I came up with to distract myself by poking my nose into a few of the quaint local businesses, and generally settling into the vibe here in this picture-perfect mountain town.
Consider it a day spent compiling a little market research for my clients and refreshing my memory on what the sleepy row of heritage shop fronts have to offer. I’ve also been a dutiful daughter and checked in with my mom, confirming I am indeed alive and thriving, which should keep her off my back for a while. Instead of needing to find words to put to my strange circumstances, and dancing around the illicit crush I really need to figure out how to shake, I’ve been sending her photos of the main street.
Between the woodwork and hanging flower baskets, framed by lush trees casting dappled green sunlight beneath their branches, everything looks to be plucked straight off a movie set. I can’t help feeling like there’s every chance I’ll bump into a grumpy guy, dressed in flannel, slinging coffee and sarcasm at the one and only café in this town.
As I wander into the solitary clothing store, with walls racked and stacked ceiling-high with everything a cowboy could require—including boots, hats, shiny buckles, and a cut of jeans to flatter every derriere—my thoughts are still hovering around the first interaction I had with him on the footpath only a few feet from this very spot.
If there’s one thing I excel in, it’s picking up on the tiniest details of a person. My gut never steers me wrong. I’ve always been guaranteed to walk into any room and, without a word needing to be uttered, read the play.
My very married boss definitely flirted with me the day we first met, that much I know to be true.
And what about it, Sage Maloney? Who cares if he did? What does it matter that he hasn’t mentioned his dearly beloved, other than when I asked him directly about her?
Ultimately, I cannot feel any kind of way about Beau Heartford, because no matter if he’s attractive or not, why the hell would I want to go near a man with a ring on his finger? I’ve never felt drawn to a taken man or woman before. It’s absolutely not my style. And besides all that, I’m determined to remain single until the moment the perfect person comes along for me.
I’ve got to sweep these cobwebs from my brain and evict the slut who has set up camp inside my skull. She is Trouble with a capital T, likely to cost me this job and future client prospects the way she’s carrying on. The version of me who desperately wants to pry into his personal life, and dig around in the baggage that I’m beginning to suspect comes along with the Mrs. attached to his vows.
Which is an absolutely and resolutely terrible idea.
Would there be a worse way to launch your dream consultancy business than to chase after the man paying your wages, while ignoring the wedding band on his finger?
My all too perceptive brain insists on jumping up and down to make sure I remember he seems to only wear it when out in public.
Internally, I eye-roll my own damn self. The guy runs a whole dang ranch, Sage Maloney, get a grip, would you? It’s probably a health and safety thing. Not wearing a ring is sensible rancher type of thinking, he most likely doesn’t wear it around fencing or tools or machinery it could catch on.
Don’t go trying to paint a picture where there’s no canvas to begin with.
Behind me, a throat clears.
“That one looks like it has your name all over it, ma’am.” A gentleman sporting a head of silver hair, and an equally striking polished metal belt buckle, comes over to where I’m standing.
Apparently, it’s the perfect timing to interrupt my roaming thoughts. I blink and look down to discover that I am, in fact, clutching a black cowboy hat with a pale leather band around the middle, absentmindedly stroking the felt rim.
“Kinda seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“Gonna try it on? Let us get a good look at you?” He points toward the mirror set up by the dressing room for just the kind of peacock preening that is a necessity when choosing the perfect hat.
Setting it on my head, I hear him give a low whistle, and obligingly strike a pose. His gruff chuckle is kinda endearing, definitely not too in my face, just a guy who is in the trade of helping customers walk out that door feeling like a million bucks. He’s already cast a spell on me because there’s no chance I’m leaving without this particular addition to my wardrobe.
“I think I have to agree with you, cowboy.” I flash him a smile, and he gives me a friendly wink in return while re-folding a pair of wranglers.
“A lady with great taste. Nothing quite like the feeling when a hat finds its new home.”
“I’d say this one has already laid claim. No going back now, huh?” I brush my fingers over the brim and hear a deep hum in agreement. Looks like I’m already one step closer to being a true Crimson Ridge local. At least for the summer, anyway.
Who needs a cowboy to toss their hat on my head… when I can have my own?
* * *
Paging my mountain goddess.
I have an important message for a Layla Birch.
Could she please take a half-time break from riding her cowboy dreamboat to kingdom come and remember to message her best friend back?
Layla starts typing her response immediately.
I’ll have you know I’ve worked my ass off all day. If it just so happens my reward is multiple orgasms. I’d expect you to be the first to congratulate me on a job well done.
Bitch, you don’t have to lift a pinky finger, and you’d still be treated to a banquet of toe-curling O’s.
True. I’m not sorry either.
How are you settling in?
I can’t believe you’re here in my town, and I still haven’t had a chance to see you.
Sigh. Criminal really, isn’t it?
I’m currently designing a website to have prospective guests drooling and creaming their pants on sight.
Is that what you list in your portfolio as one of your package offerings?
“Graphic design so fabulous, it’ll make your customers jizz everywhere.”
Catchy, huh? I’m thinking of trademarking it.
We talk shit for a while longer, before Layla calls it quits on me for the night.
It’s late. Make sure you actually sleep, or you might achieve your final nocturnal gremlin form.
Pop some magnesium and turn that laptop off. I know you won’t be able to resist being hunched over your keyboard in the dark.
Also, this is your friendly reminder to eat a meal.
Proper dinner, too. Not snacking while working.
Yes, mom.
Hey… aren’t I supposed to be the irrepressibly bossy one?
Always, my Sergeant.
You’re still coming for the bonfire on the weekend, right? I will confiscate your devices and drag your ass up here by force if I have to.
Wouldn’t miss it. You know I desperately need to squeeze you and steal you away from your cowboy for some girl time.
Bring an overnight bag. You and Beau can drive up together, and I’ll drop you back after we’ve had a chance to work on those ideas for the Devil’s Peak branding.
Completely obsessed with that color scheme you sent over, by the way.
Knew you would be. My gifts are rare and coveted across all the realms.
As rare as your humility.
Love you, can’t wait to see you.
Bye, bitch.
Go get that D.
Layla leaves me with a middle finger emoji. To which I add a rapid-fire flurry of eggplants and water splashes. Girlfriend can deny it all she likes, but I know those two are busy getting busy at every possible opportunity.
One thing I do have to reluctantly admit—as I un-pretzel myself from the contorted position I’ve sat in for far too many hours back to back—is that I’m in need of something to eat.
With a lengthy stretch and a pause to triple-check all my work has been backed up, I patter my way into the enormous stainless-steel-clad kitchen. It’s like an episode of MasterChef vomited in here. All the appliances are sparklingly new, oversized, positively commercial in scale.
This is no homely ranch kitchen. It’s a rocket ship, ready to launch and set course for Mars on autopilot.
I’m no slouch in the cooking department. I’m just not a fan. There are a million things I’d prefer to spend my time doing. However, I was practically still in nappies when Mom had me perched beside her on a chair, cubing vegetables and learning to cook perfectly fluffy rice. Blowing out a breath, I survey the expanse of high-end whiteware and pristine surfaces, assessing the best course of conquest.
Thoughts of Mom bring on a sudden wave of gnawing desire for home-cooked comfort food. I’m lucky to be super close with my family; not everyone is so fortunate. Especially with my mom being so young when she had me, we’ve felt like sisters at times more so than a parent-child dynamic.
For a while there, before my dad came along and delivered the sort of fairytale marriage and love my mother deserves, it was just the two of us against the world. That’s why the biggest piece of my heart will always be reserved for the strongest and most inspiring woman I know.
Even if it does leave me feeling like I’ll never live up to the example she set me at times.
Before I know it, I’ve piled ingredients on the enormous kitchen island, with my favorite masala firmly in my sights. It’s an easy chicken and potato-filled dish which requires minimal effort on my part.
Until now, I’ve mostly only slunk in to throw together a quick plate of something here and there, painfully aware of Beau’s presence and trying to stay out of his way. Though, the man certainly lives up to his sister’s description of what to expect.
He truly does seem to spend every daylight hour outside, appearing like a fleeting mirage on the odd occasion I’ve heard him come in while I’ve been working.
Or, more accurately, I’ve noticed him out of the corner of my eye while keeping my noise-canceling headphones firmly affixed to my head. Somehow, it feels easier to be here in his house, occupying half his dining table, if I’m squirreled away in a bubble of my own making.
I chop and prep and let myself get lost in the familiar rhythm of cooking. Living on your own certainly leaves a girl equipped to step up to the plate in the kitchen as and when required. I’ll begrudgingly whip something together, but take out, leftovers, and snacks are my best friends the majority of the time. I’m pretty sure I can’t be the only one-woman empire out there who wants nothing more than to get lost in following after the whims and desires of her creative muse, in preference to flapping around in the kitchen.
Don’t even get me started on baking. That is something I avoid, like the plague. At least with cooking, you can pinch and dash and eyeball ingredients, somewhat making it up as you go. Baking is a dark art, the kind of sorceress-given gift I do not possess a single ounce of.
The stove top is gas-powered, forceful, and sleek, filling one wall. In the blink of an eye, my diced onion and garlic are sizzling, an aromatic cloud filling my nose as they start to brown. Turning to grab my chopping board piled with roughly cut vegetables, I lean over, and searing pain shoots up my forearm.
Fuck. Fuck .
The metal handle is a red-hot poker, a horseshoe plucked straight from the fire pit, a lump of glowing coal. The exposed skin of my arm feels like it’s aflame, and I can’t help the violent yell that bursts out of me.
The board clatters to the ground, scattering cubes of potato and carrot like confetti. The speed at which I whip my scalded arm back tosses the pan and its sizzling contents everywhere, showering all surfaces in a spray of searing oil while boiling hot metal crashes to the ground.
I cradle the burn against my front like a dove with a tattered wing. Just as I’m trying not to scream with agony at the same time as fumbling to turn the gas off, I feel the rush of a figure appearing at my side.
“What the hell?” Beau barks.
A strong, tanned arm dives across my blurry, pain-smeared vision, cutting the flames.
As I blink away the tears building at the corners of my eyes with how much this fucking hurts, I notice the man towering over me with a furrowed brow has cheeks and a jawline covered in shaving foam. In his free hand, he clutches an electric shaver, and it’s too weird of a combination for my screeching brain to take in.
His blue-gray eyes flare as he takes in the sight of me set against the backdrop of the absolute dumpster fire I’ve turned his kitchen into.
He looks furious with me.
To top it all off, he’s half naked.