Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Cowboy (Wrong Number, Right Grump)

Chapter One

At four forty-seven, the mayor’s-office air-conditioning raised goose bumps beneath my short-sleeved peach wrap dress.

Outside the windows, late-June sun bleached the courthouse square.

Cicadas screamed from the live oaks, and the flag above city hall hung limp in air too thick to stir.

Mayor Roscoe Luttrell stood beside my desk, broad and heavyset in pressed gray slacks, polished boots, and a white shirt that hadn’t surrendered a crease all day.

His dark-brown hair had gone silver at the temples, and his complexion was ruddy from years in the Texas sun.

“Move the chamber breakfast to Thursday,” he said. “Your brother can’t make Wednesday.”

Garrett was my older brother and President of Luttrell Oil & Land Holdings, which meant Daddy treated his schedule as more important than everyone else’s.

I changed the event, notified twelve people, and rescued the caterer from serving biscuits to an empty room.

“It’s handled.”

“And before you leave, confirm with Titus Calhoun.”

My fingers paused over the keyboard. “The meeting’s already confirmed.”

“I mean confirm that he understands what we need.”

My boot heel stopped tapping beneath the desk.

I leaned back, and my gold bracelets slid toward my elbow. “A resident complained about the music. Sin & Tonic is operating within its approved hours.”

“I know what the permit says, sugar.” Daddy’s voice stayed warm, which made the pressure behind it more obvious. “I’m asking him to be neighborly and shut the live music down at nine.”

“On Friday and Saturday?”

“I mean every night.”

“That’s not being neighborly. That’s changing how he runs his business.”

His brows lifted. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to handle it.”

That was Daddy. He wrapped an order in a compliment and expected me to admire the bow.

“If Titus wants smooth sailing when those permits come around again,” he continued, “he’ll listen.”

The vent blew cold against my neck.

“Daddy, that’s a threat.”

“What?” He spread both hands. “You know how the Calhouns are.”

I knew exactly how my family described the Calhouns.

And now Daddy expected me to carry one of his threats across town with a smile.

He gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze before he left, as if we’d agreed on anything beyond the fact that I’d go. His office door shut, and the building settled into the hollow quiet that came at the end of a long municipal day.

I looked at the text thread I’d started that morning.

SHAY: Mr. Calhoun, this is Shay Luttrell from the mayor’s office. I’m confirming our meeting at Sin & Tonic today at five thirty.

TITUS: I’ll be there.

He’d skipped the greeting and the sign-off. Four words somehow sounded like he’d carved them into a fence post.

I typed another message, then deleted it.

At five fifteen, I shut down my computer, gathered my leather tote, and crossed the square.

Heat pressed around me the moment I stepped outside.

The courthouse lawn had gone pale at the edges despite the sprinklers, and the limestone buildings threw sunlight back hard enough to make me squint behind my sunglasses.

My SUV had been baking under a pecan tree that offered more decoration than shade. I started the engine, turned the air-conditioning to full blast, and waited for the steering wheel to become touchable.

Sin & Tonic sat beyond the older residential streets, where town thinned toward ranchland and limestone ridges.

The low building had weathered cedar siding, a deep covered porch, and a neat gravel lot that was mostly empty before the evening crowd.

A black metal sign hung above the entrance, the ampersand curved like a flourish scratched into iron.

The place didn’t look lawless. It looked successful.

That would disappoint Daddy.

Inside, the temperature dropped and the light softened to amber.

Ceiling fans turned above scarred wood tables.

A long bar ran along the far wall below shelves of bourbon and tequila, and the room smelled faintly of cedar, citrus, and whatever had been cooking in the kitchen before I arrived.

A small stage occupied one corner, its microphone stands waiting in silence.

A man behind the bar glanced up as I approached.

Titus Calhoun was taller than I’d expected, which was irritating because I’d expected him to be tall.

He wore dark jeans, boots, and a clean charcoal work shirt with the sleeves rolled below his elbows.

His white cowboy hat rested on the bar beside him, leaving short dark-blond hair flattened at the crown.

Stubble shadowed a strong jaw, and his clear blue eyes moved over me once—not slowly, not rudely, but thoroughly enough to make my pulse jump.

“Shay Luttrell,” he said.

His voice was low and rough around the edges. My thighs pressed together before I caught myself.

“Titus Calhoun.” I set my tote on the stool beside me. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“You scheduled it.”

“I did.”

He waited.

Apparently, the Luttrell charm offensive would be a solo performance.

I took the nearest stool but stayed upright, one boot planted on the brass rail. “A resident contacted the mayor’s office about the live music.”

“I got the complaint notice Friday.”

“The office receives a copy.”

“I assumed that’s how your father learned about it.”

There was no heat in the remark, but his gaze stayed steady on mine.

“The music has remained within the hours specified in your permits,” I said. “The resident is asking for it to end at nine every night.”

“The resident bought a house behind a bar that’s had live music for eight years.”

“I’m aware.”

Titus’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Are you?”

I folded my hands over my knee. “I read the file before I came.”

“That’s a good habit.”

“It serves me well most days.”

The corner of his mouth shifted. It wasn’t a smile, but it proved he knew how.

I cleared my throat. “My father wants you to agree to the earlier cutoff voluntarily.”

“And if I don’t?”

A low bass note pulsed once from the stage speaker, then stopped. My bracelets clicked softly when I adjusted them.

“He suggested future permit renewals might not go smoothly.”

Titus went still. His shoulders tightened under his shirt, and when he spoke, his voice had dropped another degree.

“He said that?”

“He did.”

“And what did you suggest?”

“That he was threatening you.”

A brief, reluctant smile appeared, and it was much too effective.

“Does Mayor Luttrell know his messenger has gone off script?”

“I’m not his messenger.”

“You’re standing in my bar delivering his message.”

“I run his office,” I said. “Today that includes this meeting.”

“I figured you did more than answer his phone.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Was that almost a compliment?”

“It was an observation.”

“Those are free. Compliments cost extra?”

“That depends on who’s asking.”

Heat gathered low in my stomach. I crossed my ankles under the stool and concentrated on the meeting.

“So,” I said, “what would you like me to tell him?”

“That Sin & Tonic follows every condition on its permits. I’m not closing the stage early because the mayor prefers one complaint over the rules his own office approved.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Titus studied me for a moment. “Exactly that?”

“I might remove the part where you imply he can’t read.”

“I didn’t imply it.”

A laugh slipped out.

His expression shifted, almost amused.

I reached for my tote. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

“Careful, Shay. Somebody might hear you agreeing with a Calhoun.”

“There’s nobody else in the room.”

“Small town. That’s never stopped anybody.”

I slid from the stool. Standing brought me closer to him than I’d been prepared for. Even with my boots, the top of my head didn’t reach his chin. He smelled clean, with a trace of sun and leather beneath the room’s cedar scent.

Titus picked up his hat but didn’t put it on. “Are we done?”

“The official meeting is over.”

“What about the unofficial threat?”

“I delivered it accurately. I didn’t endorse it.”

“I noticed.”

I held his gaze a second too long.

I hooked my tote over my shoulder. “I’ll let you get ready to open.”

“Shay.”

I turned at the door.

Titus rested one forearm on the bar. “Tell your father the answer is no. You don’t have to soften it for me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

This time, his smile lasted long enough to follow me into the heat.

***

By eight thirty, I’d traded my dress and boots for soft pink shorts, a white tank, and bare feet.

My thick dark-brown hair had lost some of its professional discipline, and I’d clipped it off my neck before carrying a plate of goat cheese, crackers, sliced peaches, and prosciutto to the small table beside my sofa.

The guesthouse sat behind my parents’ main home, separated by a stretch of lawn, a row of crepe myrtles, and enough distance to make privacy feel possible.

It had its own kitchen, bedroom, porch, and driveway.

It also had a direct view of the upstairs windows where my mother could tell whether my lights were on.

That was adult independence, Luttrell style.

My laptop chimed, and Brandi’s face appeared on the screen. Her blue-gray eyes were bright with anticipation, her strawberry-blond bob curved neatly at her jaw, and lemon earrings swung beside her cheeks when she leaned close to the camera.

“There you are,” she said. “I was about to assume your father scheduled an emergency parade.”

“Not tonight. He only sent me to threaten a cowboy.”

Brandi froze with her wineglass halfway to her mouth. “I need names, physical descriptions, and a clear explanation of why I wasn’t invited.”

I poured chilled rosé into my glass. “Titus Calhoun owns Sin & Tonic.”

“The Calhoun your father complains about most?”

“That changes by the week.”

“And now one of them is a cowboy with a bar. Continue.”

“One resident wants the music shut down at nine every night,” I said. “Sin & Tonic is following its permit, but Daddy implied Titus’s renewals might become difficult if he refused.”

Brandi’s eyebrows climbed. “Your father sent you to say that?”

“He did. Titus told me no.”

“Good for Titus.”