Wild for You
Daisy Prescott
Copyright © Daisy Prescott 2017, All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Cover Design by ©SM Lumetta
Cover photos: ©Studio Firma; ©Rawpixel
Editing by There for You Editing
Proofreading by Proofing Style
* * *
ebook ISBN: 9780998858203
Paperback ISBN: 9780998858258
For the wild ones
I'm sick of their city games
I crave a real wild man.
Lady Gaga
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Up to You: Chapter One
Also by Daisy Prescott
Acknowledgements
About Daisy
Chapter 1
Zoe
“The best way to get over a man,” Mara says, lifting her margarita, “is—”
Sage interrupts her. “To go to the rodeo and get your ho down with a cowboy.”
My best friend proudly grins at her new solution for heartbreak. Breakup solidarity blue streaks the tips of her blond hair, a new color from her typical pink.
“That’s not what I was going to say, but I like it if ho down means you’ll ride a cowboy.” Mara lifts her glass higher and her gold curls bounce with her enthusiasm. “To big belt buckles!”
“Aren’t all cowboys bowlegged and reek of horses?” I wrinkle my nose. “Unwashed, missing teeth. Chewing tobacco. Sleeping outdoors on the ground. Eating cold canned beans. Out of the can. With a knife or a twig.”
Three sets of eyes stare unblinking at me.
“What?” I pull on my braid. “I’ve seen a few Western movies.”
Mae is the first to speak. “Zoe, you’re kidding, right?”
“I’m from Chicago. We don’t really do the whole Wild West, big belt buckle thing. Or cowboy boots. Or the hats.”
Sage speaks and I’m hoping she’s going to back me up. “We’re not in Illinois anymore, best friend of mine. This is the American West.”
“Exactly my point.” I agree with her on the geography lesson.
“Cowboys are hot. How have you never been to the rodeo in Snowmass? What’s wrong with us that this isn’t our weekly thing? Pink Taco Tuesdays and Rodeo Wednesdays.” Margarita sloshes over the edge of Mae’s glass as she lifts it in a toast to our foursome. The four of us have become a tight squad over the past six months.
“Wild Women Wednesdays has a better ring to it.” Mara sets down her drink with a loud clunk on the wood table. She only does this when she has something important to say or she has to go to the ladies’ room. “I have a confession. I’ve never been to a rodeo either.”
“You’re from New England. You’re forgiven,” Mae says.
“Horses make me nervous.” Mara stares at the table, twisting a blond curl nervously around her finger.
“We need to change this. As soon as possible.” Mae’s dark eyes blaze with mischief as she raises her glass again. “To getting back on the horse. And by horse, I mean man.”
“Cheers,” Mara says. “Let me tell you from experience … the man you think you should end up with isn’t always the man you need. See, the problem is you’re thinking with your brain. Checking off lists and putting things in boxes. Silly human. The heart, not the brain, is where love lives. Sure, we can convince ourselves we’re in love. But not for long. My ex, Geoffrey, was smart, nice, kind, and great on paper. Zero zings. Jesse and I don’t line up on paper, yet we work.”
“Zings?” I ask.
“All of them.” She stares into space with a soft, dreamy expression on her face. “And those laser noises. Pew pew pew. In my pants.”
“Thanks for sharing. If the burning laser sensation lasts for more than a few hours, you might need a special cream,” Mae says, frowning while the rest of us laugh. She holds the scowl for about ten seconds before cracking up.
“Not sure I’ve had zings.” I finish my drink and think about ordering another one. We’re sitting on the deck of Agave, under the heat lamps. Another margarita and I might curl up on this couch and go to sleep. Not sure how management feels about napping patrons.
If they don’t want to encourage us, they shouldn’t make the seats so comfortable. I lose the fight against yawning.
“Wake up!” Sage jabs her finger between my ribs.
“Let me sleep. Maybe I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream … a horrible, depressing, sad sack of a dream.” I squirm away from her and snuggle a pillow.
“This is a good thing.” Sage removes my cuddly cushion. “Neil’s an iceberg. Innocent looking on the surface, but a whole other story down below. Icebergs are best admired from afar.”
I don’t think she’s ever been a big fan of my ex-boyfriend. Too safe, too boring. Too predictable. Easy for her to say given she’s with Lee, a South African rugby god with a heart as big and kind as his … feet.
“Without Neil’s share of the bills, I can’t live on my own based on my massage income from the spa. Even with the crazy tips, Aspen’s real estate is out of reach. I’m looking at rentals with multiple roommates down valley. One place had bunk beds. Like camp.” I groan and try to suck the last drops of tequila from the ice cubes in my glass.
“Do you want to be a massage therapist forever?” Mara asks.
“No,” I answer without a second’s hesitation. “I’m good with my hands and when you move to paradise, you do whatever it takes to stay.”
Unless you’re Neil. My ex, who bailed on me and our five-year relationship at the end of the ski season. His “it’s over speech” made him sound like the boring, number-crunching, middle-aged asshole he’s probably going to grow up to be.
Mae and Sage both snort. Mara, who moved here earlier this year and doesn’t really get our humor, blinks her wide eyes at me.
I shake my head. “Don’t make that dirty. I’m not that desperate. My massages don’t have happy endings.”
“I think a lack of orgasms in your life might be part of your problem.” Smirking, Mae rolls her long, dark hair into a loose twist down her back. “There’s plenty of men around here who would volunteer. A whole squad of eager and overly sexed, testosterone filled rugby players.”
Sure, I could hook up with one of the local rugby players, but diving into the shallow end of the dating pool has disaster written all over it. I’d need a head injury to agree to have sex with one of those guys. Landon’s like a ski parka with old lift passes still attached. Yes, we all know where he’s been. He’s dated
half the women at this table. No, thanks.
“Easley’s had a crush on you for a while,” Sage volunteers.
Tall and flirty, Easley is nice enough, but in a big brother kind of way. “I’m sure some women out there love hairy men.”
“The only fur I like is on animals.” Mara laughs and waves over the waiter. “I’ve shaved enough cat balls, I never want to have to do it for a man.”
“That’s way more information about Jesse’s sack than I ever needed.” Mae finishes the last of the pitcher. “I could never be a veterinarian. Or a waxer.”
I sigh. “I’ve seen way too many hairy backs during massages. Sometimes it’s a complete surprise based on how a guy looks with his clothes on.”
Simultaneously, we all shudder.
I continue. “Reality is Aspen’s a small town. Not a lot of prospects for settling down.”
Mae’s mouth purses like she’s sucked on a lime. “That’s a horrible expression. Settle. Down. Nothing positive about those two words.”
Sage gives me a sympathetic smile. “Maybe a summer fling could be good. There’s enough influx of seasonal employees in the restaurants, tours, and outdoor sports outfitters to provide temporary options.” I love Sage’s optimism. “No reason you need to find Mr. Right.”
Mae agrees. “Mr. Right Now should be your goal. And we can start tomorrow night at the rodeo.”
“Yee haw!” Maybe someday I’ll be able to believe Neil did me a favor.
Nursing my post margarita headache the next morning, I drag my sorry self and a tumbler of iced coffee out to my soon-to-be former condo’s small balcony. My hat and oversized sunnies shade my eyes from the glare of the summer sun. With a sigh, I troll the rental listings on my phone. I have another month to find a place before my lease is up and I’m homeless. This afternoon I have three massage clients. Tomorrow two. It’s June and the summer season is off to a slow start. At this rate, I’ll have blown through my small savings by ski season. If I last that long.
This is not how I planned my year. Or my life.
Three things I knew for certain six months ago:
I was pretty sure my college boyfriend was going to become my husband someday.
We’d spend our lives together living in the mountains of Colorado.
I was definitely living the life I’d dreamed about as a teenager in the suburbs of Chicago.
Too bad it all fell apart.
Boyfriend decided to move back to “the real world” as he put it and be a “real adult” in Chicago. The air quotes and implied middle fingers are mine.
A few ski seasons and summers bumming around Aspen were enough for him. As if location and job, not age, define us as adults. Pretty sure Colorado still counts as being part of the real world, even if we have legalized pot. It’s not like there are dragons and fairies flying around.
All Neil’s “realness” kind of ruins the second and third things on my dream life list. The we is now an I. As in single, alone, and facing down thirty in four years.
Oh no. Now I’m having a quarter life crisis.
Add cliché to my list of what my life is now.
I’m probably going to end up a cautionary tale. Younger generations of idealistic women will whisper the name Zoe with a sad nod and downcast eyes.
At least Neil paid his share for the last two months. Out of the goodness of his bank account. Because the man wants his security deposit back. He’ll do anything to avoid a financial penalty or heaven forbid, negative credit.
Chapter 2
Zoe
I will never look at a man in jeans the same way ever again.
Or boots. There’s something so strong and tough about a pair of scuffed boots. Like he’s been out doing manly things all day. Riding horses and kicking ass.
Who knew men’s footwear could be hot? I didn’t.
I’m okay admitting when I’m wrong.
And I’ve been wrong about cowboys.
Belt bling might be my new favorite thing. A beacon, a lighthouse showing me the way through the darkness of the post-break up blues.
Bigger than is polite for regular society, but not as obnoxious as a pro wrestling championship belt, the rodeo buckle is perfect.
I feel like Goldilocks when she stumbled upon the bears’ house.
Not too big, not too small. Just right.
Or maybe it’s the men behind the buckle.
Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Biceps that can only be described as bulging.
Speaking of bulges, the beacon of the buckle definitely draws my eyes to the obvious selling point for a pair of Wranglers.
I’m not saying every man here is the stuff of fantasy, but there’s enough eye candy to keep my interest.
I wonder if women follow the rodeos like patchouli-scented hippie chicks trail behind Phish.
And where do I sign up for this adventure? I can give massages to earn my way. My Mini Cooper might be able to tow a tiny camper.
Yes, I’m thinking about going on the road and towing a bed behind me.
My hormones have taken over.
I’ve clearly lost my mind.
Over some shiny brass with a bronco carved into it. I’m pretty sure it’s a bronco. I haven’t had the chance to examine one up close. Yet. This needs to be remedied as soon as this sexy horse and pony show is over.
Goals are important for a fulfilling life. I know this because the daily self-affirmations calendar Sage gave me reminds me. Every single day.
Another thing I’ve decided is the combined scent of leather and horse should be bottled. Add in some manly musk, and women would buy the shit out of it for the men in their lives.
Eau du cowboy.
Why hasn’t anyone thought of this yet? There used to be the Marlboro Man, a cigarette smoking cowboy of the twentieth century. Who wants a man to smell like smoke? Especially when sage and leather exist? Throw in some sandalwood, and I’ll hand over my panties.
This is what I imagine young Robert Redford smelled like. Now I get why my grandmother was obsessed with him and Paul Newman.
I can see a day filled with old Westerns on Netflix in my future.
“You have a glazed look, and is that drool?” Sage’s finger jabs near the corner of my mouth. “I can see the lust vibrating off of you. And a vibrator in your future.”
After swatting away her finger and knowing I’m blushing from her last comment, I rub the knuckle of my index finger around my mouth. “There’s no drool.”
“You’ve got it ba-ad,” Sage singsongs.
“So bad. Have you never seen a man on a horse before?” Mae joins in the taunting.
“Chicago police has a mounted unit. Evidently, they don’t count.” I focus my attention on the pen full of cowboys.
“Not even close to being the same thing.” Mara looks a little flushed and glassy-eyed herself. “I doubt those horses buck and try to throw off the cops.”
“I’m going to admit something I never thought I’d say or even think.”
Holding their breath, the three of them wait for my declaration.
“I might have a thing for chaps.” I tilt my head in the direction of a row of cowboys standing on the metal fence near the bulls. “It’s a gift that keeps on giving. Front, back, and sides.”
“I’d like the one on the end. Front, back, and sideways.” Mae openly points at the dark-haired guy straddling the top rail.
I shove her hand down. “Don’t be obvious.”
Mae sticks her tongue out at me. “Okay, Zoe. I’m not the one who was shouting and moaning loudly when the one with the black hat was rolling his hips on the bronco. I think those kids behind us are going to have a lot of questions for mommy when they get home tonight.”
I roll my eyes. “Not my fault if they don’t know basic anatomy. I had no idea bull testicles were so huge.”
Mara snorts. “Why do all our conversations end up being about animal balls? I get enough of them at work, please and thank you very much.”
&nb
sp; “I’d rather talk about making the suggestion of a cowboy scramble. Instead of letting a gaggle of sticky-fingered children loose on the dirt to grab a ribbon off the ears of those poor baby cows, they should let us have the chance.” My idea is brilliant.
“Sweetie, you wouldn’t stand a chance of grabbing some chaps against some of these cougars.” Sage pats my arm. “We may be younger and faster, but they want it more.”
She’s right. I study the group of ladies sitting to our left. Bedecked and bejeweled in outfits that cost more than I could afford in rent, they’re perfectly polished specimens of women. From their glossy yet wavy hair to their barre class sculpted arms, they could easily take down someone like me with a flick of their slightly pointed, almond-shaped nails.
I might be taller than most of them, but their lower center of gravity works in their favor. In my holey-kneed jeans and white T-shirt with gold sparkle ’Merica on the front, I’m definitely out of my league. At least my straw hat, a gift from Sage, is on point.
“Okay, bad idea. New idea: do you think we could volunteer for roping practice? Because damn if the way they lasso and tie-up those little calves isn’t sexy.” I’m definitely thinking of the multi-tasking and hand-eye coordination involved in riding a horse, swinging a rope, and catching a moving animal. Those seem like solid transferable skills.
“Someone get a bucket of water.” Sage grins.
Wild for You Page 1
