Hard Loving Cowboy--Includes a bonus novella

by A. J. Pine

Walker expected the riot act—about what, though, he wasn’t sure.

  “Come by the house for dinner tonight,” Jack said.

  Well, that was—unexpected.

  “I’m busy,” Walker said.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Jack countered.

  Walker shrugged. “Pretty sure I’m busy then, too.”

  Jack ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “What the hell’s going on, Walker?”

  Walker scanned the room, then pointed to his workstation. “Well, I’m cutting shelves, and Violet’s working on some wedding assignment from Ava. You know…another day that ends in y.”

  “Cut the shit, Walker. I mean what the hell is going on with you avoiding your family? I mean what the hell is going on with you disappearing every Sunday night ’til well past midnight sometimes?”

  Walker gritted his teeth. “Are you keeping tabs on me? Because last I checked, getting sober didn’t mean I was under house arrest.”

  Jack tugged at the collar of his plaid button-up shirt. Walker noticed his brother was also wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans that looked like they’d just come off the shelf of some too-expensive mall store.

  “You look like a lawyer pretending to be a rancher,” Walker said. He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, but Jack was pushing his buttons, and this was the only way he knew how to push back.

  “I’m a lawyer and a rancher,” Jack said, unfazed. “And you’re an asshole, but that’s not the point. I’m not keeping tabs on you. Olivia runs her B and B movie night on Sundays. Common room faces the street. Sometimes she sees you pulling in.”

  Walker shook his head. “So the sheriff’s girlfriend is spying on me. Even better.”

  “Olivia’s a good woman,” Jack said, and Walker could hear his brother’s patience wearing thin. “She may not know you real well, but she cares about you. We all do. And maybe if we saw you a little more, we’d feel the need to show you how much we care a little less.”

  “Noted,” Walker said with a nod. “We done here? Because Violet’s waiting, and we’re hungry.” He brushed past his brother and almost made it out the door. Almost.

  “You with her on Sundays?” Jack asked.

  Walker stopped dead in his tracks.

  “I know you haven’t been at Nora’s. I’m the first person she’d have called if she saw you walk through that door. Jenna says you’ve been stopping by but that you usually leave her place no later than six. So I figure you’re either taking the scenic route home or you’re playing house with someone who’s going to up and leave eventually. I don’t want to see anything set you back.”

  Jack paused, but Walker still didn’t turn to face him.

  “I don’t come to dinner, big brother, because with you and Luke and everybody else in town, I’m Walker Everett, alcoholic who’s still climbing his way out of a decade plus of hell. With her I don’t have to be that guy.” And with that Walker pushed through the door and out into the blazing sun.

  He found Violet leaning on his bumper, her pale yellow T-shirt and cropped denim shorts doing nothing to save her from the heat. Beads of sweat sat along her hairline, and she fanned herself with what looked like a take-out menu from a pizza place outside of town.

  “Your window was open, and I was roasting,” she said. “So I took a chance on peeking under a sun visor, and voila! My own personal air conditioner.”

  Just seeing her sitting there—overheated but not complaining, blaming him, or judging the way he lived his life—lightened the weight of his and Jack’s brotherly exchange.

  “Everything all right in there?” she asked, nodding back toward the winery door.

  “It’s better now,” he said, shooting her a grin. “C’mon. Time to eat.”

  Violet followed Walker around to the back of the antiques shop and up a staircase that ended at the small landing and door. Then he simply turned the handle and pushed the door open, ushering her inside.

  “Wait,” Violet said. “You don’t even lock the door?”

  He’d already been home when she’d come over the last time and had thought nothing of the unlocked door.

  Walker winked. “That’s Oak Bluff, Teach. Safest place on earth. At least in my very limited experience.”

  She laughed. “Right. Because no airports for you. Too many humans, and we know how much you hate those.”

  She slid past him and into the kitchen, which was exactly where they needed to be, but she kept on walking. The place looked different than before. She moved forward the two more steps it took to enter the living room and realized what it was. He’d cleaned the place up for her parents. But now the couch was covered with a tarp and piled with scraps of different types of wood. The room itself was more of a storage space for various pieces she assumed Walker had built—a step stool, a large mirror framed with a rich, dark wood, a knotted pine hope chest.

  “Oh, Walker,” she said, striding toward the chest and dropping to her knees. “This is absolutely beautiful. You’re really good.”

  The wood floor creaked as he strode toward her.

  “Been selling a couple pieces here and there at the farmers market where Jenna sets up shop on the weekends. Hoping to unload this one next weekend.”

  She ran her hand along the beveled edge of the lid, then across the grain of the wood on the body of the chest, her finger tracing the shape of each individual knot.

  “If I had my own place and disposable income, I’d buy it off you right now.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against a patch of wall that was clear of one of his projects. “Why don’t you just take it?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Hell, I can always make another.”

  Violet shot to her feet. “Don’t you dare make another one, Walker Everett. This piece is one-of-a-kind.” She poked him in the chest with her index finger, not understanding her sudden exasperation. “And don’t you go offering your hard work out for free, either.”

  He wrapped a calloused hand around her wrist, firm yet gentle.

  “You all right there, Teach?” he asked.

  She stared at all the different shades of gold in his beard. “I’m fine,” she lied. Two minutes inside his own personal space—the way it was when he wasn’t putting on a show for Gabriel and Camille Chastain—and she was overwhelmed. This was supposed to be lunch. Sandwiches. Nothing more. She was gonna slice the pickles.

  “Where are the pickles?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “Fridge. Top shelf. Grown and pickled by none other than Jenna Owens. Even better than what we had at Jack and Ava’s, though if you tell Jenna they had store-bought she’ll flip her lid. Either that or she’ll drive over to his place with a truckload so he doesn’t run out again.”

  He released her wrist, and she immediately backed away and turned toward the kitchen.

  “I take it back,” he called after her. “The offer for the chest. I’d rather charge buckets of money for it than let it end up with the likes of you.”

  She flipped him off over her shoulder, and he laughed harder.

  Good. Back to bantering like friends.

  In between bites of bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado sandwiches—pickles on the side this time—Violet brought up her digital music library on her phone and proposed they play Name the Song.

  “Whoever scores the best out of ten gets the last slice of bacon,” she said.

  Walker narrowed his eyes. “How dare you step between a man and his bacon, Teach. You’re on.”

  They flipped a coin to see who would go first, and Walker won the toss, calling heads.

  “Hand it over,” he said, and Violet gave him her phone.

  “Ten seconds per song?” she suggested, and Walker nodded his agreement.

  He scrolled through her library for several seconds, then shook his head. “You know what? I’m not liking these odds. It’s your list, so you’re more likely to know the songs. I’m going to go to the music store app and find me a clip from there. But I do admire a woman
who has the entire Tom Jones catalog.”

  “As you should,” she said. “Now come on! Stump me. But remember that I am a music major.”

  Walker grinned. “Fine. Let’s see if you majored in this.” He pressed play on the song sample.

  After only two notes, Violet slapped her hand on the table. “Aerosmith, ‘Dream On’!”

  Walker groaned. “I’m toast,” he said. “And what’s with the table slapping?”

  Violet winced. “Sorry. It was my game show buzzer.”

  He chuckled and handed over the phone where she tried and failed to stump him with “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac.

  They went on like this for the next several minutes until they were neck and neck at question ten—Violet having incorrectly insisted that Fall Out Boy’s “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark” was titled “I’m on Fire.”

  “All you have to do is get this one little song right, and the bacon is all yours,” she said, queuing up her final challenge.

  Walker licked his lips. “Mmm. I can already taste it,” he said. “And you should know that I do not share.”

  She grinned, enjoying his competitive side—one to rival her own—and then hit play.

  “‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls!” he called out after three seconds, then followed up his correct guess with, “Shit. You used bacon to trap me into admitting I know the Spice Girls.”

  Violet burst into a fit of laughter. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed so hard or felt such ridiculous joy. Before Walker had a chance to react, she grabbed the prized piece of bacon and darted into the living room.

  “Relinquish your trophy, and I won’t tell anyone your dirty little secret!” she cried as she ducked for cover behind the couch.

  “I thought I told you that nothing gets between me and my bacon,” he said.

  She peeked over the top of the couch to see him striding her way, then yelped when he skipped using the floor and leaped over the piece of furniture acting as her shield.

  She tilted her head back and dangled the bacon over her lips. Right before she took a bite, though, Walker swooped in and tore the piece from her hand with his own savage bite, his lips colliding with hers as he did.

  He chewed and swallowed while she sat there, frozen.

  “Violet, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  She threw her arms around his neck, her lips crushing against his. He didn’t stop her—didn’t even hesitate to kiss her back.

  In a flurry of movement they stood, and Walker hoisted her onto his hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he grabbed her ass for purchase.

  “I have been wanting to get my hands on this asset of yours for weeks,” he said between heated kisses.

  Her fingers tangled in his overgrown hair. “What are we doing?” she said.

  “Lunch,” he answered, his voice rough.

  “Good enough for me,” she said, and she turned off the part of her brain that wanted to ask more and decided to take what she wanted for once. Something only for her—even if that something was a man she’d say good-bye to before too long.

  He walked her through his bedroom door and set her down so the backs of her legs were next to his bed. She pulled her T-shirt over her head, then her bra.

  He nodded toward the lower half of her body. “How about we lose the shorts, whatever’s underneath them, and the shoes.”

  She let out a nervous laugh, then remembered that Walker had already seen her completely naked thanks to her stunt that first night at the B and B.

  She raised her brows, then kicked off her tennis shoes. Next she unbuttoned her shorts and shimmied out of them along with her underwear.

  Walker drank her in with his ocean blue eyes. “You’re beautiful, Teach,” he said. “So damned beautiful in every possible way.” He cupped her right breast in his hand, then dipped his head to kiss it, to swirl his tongue over her hardened peak.

  She whimpered as his teeth nipped and his lips sucked.

  For weeks she’d convinced herself that despite their short make-out sessions on the Sundays when Walker showed up for dinner, the friend thing was working out just fine. Yet now, with his lips and his hands on her like this, she wondered how she’d held it together for so long.

  While he paid equal attention to her left breast, Violet worked open the button of his jeans and shoved her hand inside the waistband of his briefs.

  Walker let loose a growl as she wrapped her hand around his thick shaft.

  Seriously. How had they held off this long?

  He pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his boots, and stepped out of his jeans and socks. With one hand maintaining its firm grip, she got rid of his briefs with the other. Lunch had officially turned into dessert.

  “Look at you,” she said, stepping away so her eyes could take him in. “God, Walker. It, like, hurts to look at you.”

  He laughed, but the truth was he was beautiful in a way that made her ache—lean muscles from the physical work he did, a hint of sparkle as well as pain behind his bright blue eyes.

  He found a condom easily in the drawer of his nightstand, and she rolled it over his thick, hard length like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she hadn’t just met this man last month.

  Wordlessly, he laid her down on the bed, and she let her legs fall apart, welcoming him.

  He nudged at her opening and slid in easily, burying himself inside her and filling her so completely she thought her heart might burst.

  She bucked against him.

  “Patience, Teach,” he said softly. “Lunch hour’s not over yet.” Then he pressed his mouth to hers as they found a quiet rhythm that let both of them dial back the frenzy of movement and savor the moment.

  He kissed her lips, her jaw, her neck, and savored the hardened peaks of her breasts.

  “I think maybe we need to take more lunch breaks together,” she said when he tilted his head up, his eyes meeting hers. “I mean friends—” she gasped as he slid out of her, the movement achingly slow, then sank back into her so deep she cried out.

  He kissed her, tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Sure,” he said. “Friendly lunch breaks don’t break any self-imposed rules.”

  He grabbed one of her ankles and threw it over his shoulder, then plunged inside her once more.

  “Dieu, Walker,” she said, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh mon Dieu.”

  “Fuck,” he ground out. “If I’d have known you’d turn all French when I got inside you, I’d have thrown the rules out the window long before now.”

  “Plus fort!” she cried, grabbing his perfect ass. Harder.

  He slammed into her, either understanding her words or his body understanding her need.

  “Plus vite!” she added. Faster. Then she gripped the backs of his thighs and coaxed him to pick up the speed.

  “How do you say”—he asked between breaths—“I want to watch you?”

  He slid a hand between them and swirled his thumb over her soaked center.

  Her back arched, and she whimpered. “Je…veux…te…regarder,” she managed to say as he pulsed inside her, his thumb on her clit moving in the same rhythm.

  “Well then, Teach, je veux te regarder.”

  He rolled onto his back so she was sitting on top of him, his hands on her hips as they slid slowly back and forth, each roll of her pelvis taking him deeper and sending her closer to the edge she wasn’t quite ready to reach.

  She dropped her head, her hair falling over her face, and lowered herself to kiss him. She nipped at his lip with her teeth, and he responded with a low growl, the sexiest sound she’d probably ever heard.

  “Why is it so different with you?” he asked. But he didn’t let her answer. He kissed her hard, and she rose onto her knees, sinking over him again and again, her body begging for release even though she never wanted this to end.

  “Walker,” she whimpered, and he moved in time with her, thrusting as she descended
on him with fierce abandon, pumping harder and faster until her head fell back and she cried out, letting the climax wash over her in hard, crashing waves.

  She collapsed onto his chest in a boneless heap of her former self.

  He kissed the top of her head, then wrapped her in his arms.

  Never had she felt so satiated, so cared for, so safe.

  “Lunch tomorrow?” she asked, still trying to bring her breathing back to normal.

  He chuckled but didn’t say anything. And because she didn’t want to break the spell, she burrowed into him, her body fitting against his like they were made to lay exactly like this.

  But lunch tomorrow never came. Violet had to run two towns over to take care of a misprint on a batch of Crossroads Winery bottle labels unless the Everett family wanted their first pinot noir vintage to come from Crosstoads Winery. She was gone most of the day.

  On Wednesday Walker and Luke had to take Cleo, one of their horses, to the equine vet for a bug bite that seemed to be giving her an allergic reaction.

  Between dog-walking, grabbing a couple shifts at the B and B front desk, and leading a few pre-harvest vineyard tours to local restauranteurs, Saturday morning showed up out of nowhere, and she was headed back to Santa Barbara once more. One thing was for sure, though.

  Violet would never have a better turkey, avocado, and bacon sandwich for as long as she lived.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Despite a week of missed connections, Walker showed up in Santa Barbara at six thirty Sunday evening, just in time for Papa’s Asaro—a sweet potato–based dish Maman had introduced Gabe to years ago that was now one of the most popular menu items in his restaurant. Yet the African dishes Violet had grown up loving were starting to leave a bitter aftertaste. Her history—Maman’s history—was more than items on a French fusion restaurant menu. The closer she got to making Paris a reality, the more she began to feel like she was going home. Her parents would have to understand what this trip would mean not only for Maman but for Violet, too.

  “Thank you for coming tonight,” she said to Walker while they were eating, not realizing she’d needed him here until he showed up at the door.