Cowboy Player: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 3

by Mia Hopkins

  This cowboy and cowgirl sell the steak and the sizzle.

  Cowboy Cocktail, Book 3

  For eight years, Melody Santos played the game of love and lost—big time. Now she’s back in her tiny hometown looking after her younger sister, making ends meet with an assortment of odd jobs. When her childhood best friend hires her to help him sell his family’s grass-fed beef, the last thing she anticipates is falling in lust with the legendary, brown-eyed player.

  To put his family’s cattle ranch back in the black, Clark MacKinnon has his sights set on big contracts—gourmet chefs and restaurateurs. If that means long hours traveling from farmer’s market to farmer’s market, Clark doesn’t mind. Particularly since his new assistant is his childhood crush, all grown up and sexy as hell.

  One night in bed leaves them breathless and hungry for more. But when his love-’em-and-leave-’em reputation collides with her trust issues, Clark and Melody must face the truth about what they’ve become: not friends, not lovers, but players in a game that’s impossible to win.

  Warning: Contains filthy banter, raunchy sex, excessive Johnny Cash references, and hundreds of pounds of raw beef.

  Cowboy Player

  Mia Hopkins

  Dedication

  To Valerie and Sharilynne. My beautiful virgins.

  To Jennifer Miller, for continuing to laugh at my corny jokes.

  To Michelle. I’m so lucky to have a sister like you. Thank you for sacrificing your best adolescent years to babysit me.

  To my husband, Brent, whose eyes are sage green rimmed with blue. I love you.

  And most of all…to every girl who’s been knocked down by love but keeps getting back up. You indestructible badass. This one’s for you.

  Chapter One

  The Peach

  “I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen.”

  —John Steinbeck

  Eight o’clock in the morning. A giant yawn cracked Melody Santos’s jaw as she took two vacuum-sealed rib-eye steaks out of the van and shut the door. She glanced at her reflection in the back window. Bags under her eyes, no makeup. With a sigh, she tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, pulled up the zipper on her hoodie and went back to work.

  MacKinnon Ranch was a two-hour drive from Santa Monica, home of one of the biggest farmers’ markets in Los Angeles County. For the past year, her friend Clark MacKinnon had been selling his family’s grass-fed beef at similar markets all over the state. Always on the prowl for odd jobs, Melody had been giving him a hand for the past two weeks, ever since the school year ended. The work wasn’t difficult, but the hours on the road could be brutal.

  After Melody bagged up the steaks and thanked the customer, she stifled a second yawn. Clark glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and smiled. He shoved his big hands into the pockets of his Carhartt jacket. “Hang in there, Santos.”

  A young woman approached the booth. Her clingy exercise clothes showed off a tanned, toned body. A rolled-up yoga mat in a sling hung over her shoulder like a quiver without arrows.

  “Hey there,” she said to Clark in a sexy, scratchy voice. “Nice to see you again.”

  Clark turned to the woman. “Hey there, yourself. How’s it going?”

  Melody stepped back to give the cowboy and the yoga goddess some privacy. Lucky entered the booth, handed her a paper cup of coffee, and rolled his eyes. “Look at him. Chick magnet,” he said under his breath.

  Melody took a sip. “I think it’s the cowboy hat.”

  “Hey, I wear a cowboy hat too. No one’s jumping on my rig.”

  She covered her smile. Melody had known Lucero “Lucky” Garcia since he was a freshman recently immigrated from Mexico and she was the senior assigned to be his English tutor. Now twenty-four, Lucky worked as a ranch hand for the MacKinnons and competed as an amateur tie-down roper at rodeos. He was handsome but not as handsome as Clark, whose dark hair and classic good looks made him an easy mark for lovesick country and city girls alike.

  As Melody drank her coffee, the sun broke through the clouds overhead. The beach was less than a mile away, and an ocean breeze stirred the yoga goddess’s golden hair. With a smile, the woman whipped out her phone and handed it to Clark, who dialed in some numbers before handing the phone back.

  Lucky and Melody watched the yoga goddess’s perfect ass sashay away.

  “What the hell is your secret?” Lucky asked. “How do I get me some ladies like that?”

  Clark flashed his easy smile. “Ain’t no secret.”

  “Tips. I need professional tips,” said Lucky.

  Melody had known Clark even longer than she’d known Lucky. The same age, they’d been close friends since they were old enough to walk. Clark had always been a joker and an insufferable flirt. She’d moved away after high school, but now that she was back in her hometown, they’d picked up their friendship exactly where they’d left off.

  “Yeah, Clark,” she teased. “Give us some tips on how to be a lady-killer.”

  “Tips, huh?” He turned to Lucky. “All right. Two tips. When you meet a woman, just look in her eyes and make a mental note of what color they are.”

  Melody snorted. “But what if her eyes are boring brown, like mine?”

  “Your eyes aren’t ‘boring brown’, Mel.” Clark took his coffee from the paper tray resting on one of the coolers.

  “Really? Then what color are they?” She covered her eyes with her hands.

  Clark’s voice came through the darkness. “They’re coffee-colored. Dark roast. And there’s a tiny streak in the iris of your left eye. On the bottom half. Shaped like a backwards Z. It’s the color of a penny.”

  She laughed. “Stop making things up.”

  “I ain’t making anything up.”

  Lucky gently pulled her hands down. “Lemme see.” He leaned forward and searched her eyes up close, making her feel self-conscious.

  “God, you two are so full of it,” she said softly.

  “No, Mel, he’s right,” Lucky said. “Look at that. Exactly right.”

  “Of course I’m right.” Clark drank his coffee and gave her a self-satisfied grin.

  “The eye thing, check,” said Lucky. “What’s step two?

  “Step two’s easy. Just let ’em talk. Then ask lots of questions.”

  “Are you serious?” Lucky said. “That’s secret number two?”

  Clark nodded. “That’s it.”

  Melody leaned toward Clark. “So what did you ask the yoga goddess?”

  Clark shrugged and said nothing.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Ugh. You player. You know, we ladies are not as simple as that. Your pickup tricks wouldn’t work on me.”

  “I’m going to go with Mel on this,” said Lucky. “Looking in a woman’s eyes and listening? That seems too easy.”

  “Trust me. Just try it.”

  “I will, Superman. First chance I get.” Lucky rubbed his hands together in the cold morning air. Superman was Clark’s childhood nickname. He hated it.

  “So,” said Melody, “what if I want to pick up a hot date? Do you think your strategies will work for me too?”

  Clark looked her up and down as if assessing her. He was joking, but his scrutiny made Melody’s cheeks unexpectedly warm. Clark nodded slowly to himself. “You’ve already got a lot of things going for you, Mel. You don’t need my help. But if you feel like having some fun, I think I see my friend Jerome walking up the street.”

  Melody blinked, breaking eye contact wit
h Clark and shaking off the uneasy feeling in her chest. What was wrong with her today? Maybe she was getting sick. “Who’s Jerome?”

  “He owns Le Monarque and a whole bunch of other restaurants in L.A. Good guy. I’ve been working on getting a contract with him for months.” Clark’s eyes twinkled. Melody knew that look. It meant trouble. “Tell you what. I’m going to pretend to be on the phone next to the van,” he said. “You handle him and do what I said.”

  “Handle him? What are you talking about?” Melody asked. Lucky had already started to laugh.

  “One, look into his eyes. Two, listen to him and ask questions.” Clark took out his phone. “Weren’t you paying attention to me?”

  “What?” Melody put down her coffee cup. “No! Jesus, Clark, you’re crazy. I’m not doing it.”

  Clark stood in front of the van and pressed his phone to his ear. “Go on, girl. Shake it. Lucky, go count tri-tips in the van. This is Mel’s show.”

  Lucky disappeared. Melody had just enough time to wipe the anger off her face before a tall, tattooed man in a black T-shirt, black jeans and black motorcycle boots approached the booth. An entourage of beleaguered-looking cooks in chef’s whites followed him, pushing a cart stacked with crates of produce. The man in black had longish black hair and a boyish face. He looked right past Melody at Clark, who was doing an impression of someone deep in conversation on the phone.

  She cleared her throat. “Um, hi. Good morning.”

  The man glanced down blankly at her. “Hey, how’s it going? Good morning.” His accent was French crossed with California surfer dude.

  Melody peered into his eyes long enough to take note of what color they were. Greenish gray. “Hi,” she said again, with what she hoped was a flirtatious and not a creepy smile.

  To her surprise, the dark-haired chef’s slow smile bloomed to full strength. “Hi,” he said again, his gaze resting on Melody’s face as if this were the first time he’d seen her standing there. “I’m Jerome. Nice to meet you.” He reached forward to shake her hand, his eyes now locked on hers in a more-than-friendly way. “And you are?”

  “Melody.”

  “That’s beautiful name. A song.” He let go of her hand but not her gaze. “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you the new cowboy? Too lovely to be a cowboy, I think.”

  Flirting wasn’t something that Melody had a lot of experience with. Jerome’s attention made her warm and jumpy, but so did the thought that Clark was eavesdropping and watching her every movement. A hot blush rose up her neck, but she didn’t break eye contact. “I’m just helping out today. Clark mentioned your name once. Are you a chef? At Le Monarque?”

  Her simple question unleashed a friendly, animated monologue in which Jerome explained his role as a chef, the difficulty of finding good kitchen staff, the challenges of running multiple kitchens at once, the unpredictability of diners and the cruelty of restaurant critics. Crowds funneled through the farmers’ market and still Jerome talked while his staff waited patiently like horses tied to an invisible hitching post. At one point, gushing about organic produce, Jerome reached into one of the crates on his cart and pulled out a perfectly ripe white peach. He took a small folding knife from his pocket and cut a thick wedge for her.

  “Taste that,” he said, holding the blade up to her mouth. The fruit resting on the metal glistened wetly in the sunshine.

  Melody took the piece of fruit with her fingertips and ate it. It was sweet and succulent. The bite was slightly too big and juice dripped out of the corner of her mouth. Jerome stared at her lips as she wiped away the liquid with her fingertips.

  “Gorgeous,” he murmured. He was leaning forward slightly, looking down at her through narrowed eyes. “God, I’ve never wanted to be a peach more in my entire life.”

  Before Melody could respond, Clark suddenly appeared at her side. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he grabbed Jerome’s other hand and shook it hard, dislodging the tiny hearts in the Frenchman’s eyes.

  “Hey, Pepé Le Pew,” Clark said, overloud.

  “How’s it going, bro?” Jerome said, the spell broken. He folded the knife and put it away.

  “How’s the food truck? Everything on schedule? Have you thought more about our last conversation?”

  Confused, Melody looked back and forth between the two men. They yukked it up like old friends, and Clark stepped out of the booth in order to talk to Jerome out of her earshot.

  Lucky climbed out of the van and elbowed her in the ribs. “Look at you. Man-eater,” he whispered.

  “I’m not sure what just happened.” She felt lightheaded. The flavor of ripe peach still lingered in her mouth.

  “Powerful voodoo magic, that’s what just happened. Clark’s voodoo.”

  The quivery feeling in her stomach made her wonder if Lucky was right—maybe Clark was using magic. Or maybe Clark had played a prank on her. Either way, she didn’t like magic and she didn’t like pranks. As Clark talked to the chef, Melody and Lucky helped customers. In between buyers, Melody thought she caught Clark watching her over his shoulder. But when she blinked, he’d looked away and she had to convince herself she was seeing things.

  “I feel really loopy today,” she said to Lucky quietly. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”

  “Just a few more hours, Mel. Then it’s home sweet home.”

  * * * * *

  After the long drive back to Oleander, Melody kicked off her sneakers and lay down on the ancient couch in her family’s double-wide trailer. She needed a nap. Now that it was summer vacation and she was on break from teaching English at the local middle school, she helped shelve books at the college library. This third job with Clark was helping to pay off the used car she’d just bought for her little sister. With a deep sigh, Melody closed her eyes and dozed off.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was dark. Harmony stood over her dressed in a sparkly minidress and heels. A ring of keys dangled from her finger, and she was jangling them like jingle bells.

  “Mel, you promised!”

  Melody groaned. Seven years younger, Harmony was a good girl, studious and hard working, but she could be a colossal pain in the devil’s ass sometimes.

  “What did I promise you now?” Melody rolled over and covered her head with a throw pillow.

  Harmony yanked the pillow off her sister’s head. “You promised to be my designated driver. Tonight. It’s my graduation party at the Silver Spur. Everyone’s going to be there.” She grabbed Melody’s ankles, dragged her sideways and dropped her feet on the ground. “It’s bad enough I have to throw a party for myself…and now my sister, my one and only living blood relative in the whole wide world won’t even take me to my own party… Mom and Dad are rolling over in their graves. ‘Why, Melody, why don’t you love your sister? She’s so good! Like an angel! Ay, naku Diyos ko!’” Harmony mimicked their mother’s singsong accent as she threw out the Filipino exclamation.

  “‘Like an angel’?” Melody threw the pillow at Harmony. “The only reason you want to go to the Spur is to rub yourself on a bunch of drunk cowboys. Mom and Dad would be so ashamed.”

  “Me-el!” Harmony bellowed. “I’m going to be late to my own party! Wash off the dead cow smell and come out with me!”

  “Jesus Christ, I’ve been babysitting you my entire life,” Melody grumbled, but she sat up and stumbled to the bathroom to take a shower.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days!” Harmony called as Melody turned on the water. The old pipes whined and rumbled. “I’m putting one of my dresses on your bed. It’ll make you look like a girl. Remember that, Mel? When you took the time to look like a girl?”

  “Must be all that time I now waste working three jobs to pay your nursing school bills.” Melody got into the shower.

  “For which I’ll forever be grateful.” Her sister’s hand popped out from behind the showe
r curtain holding a new razor and shaving gel.

  Melody groaned and took the instruments of torture. “Do I have to?”

  “For me, yes!” Harmony called through the steam. “And when you come out, I’ll do your hair and makeup. Hurry!”

  An hour later, Melody watched as Harmony two-stepped into the Silver Spur where a group of her nursing school friends waited at the bar. The old honky-tonk was bustling, jukebox jumping while a live band set up their gear. Wall-to-wall butts and buckles filled the space from the front door to the pool tables. The only lights in the bar were the pinks and blues of the neon beer signs and the spotlights on the stage.

  Someone vacated a seat at the other end of the bar. Melody hopped on, adjusting her short skirt as she crossed her legs. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, her sister was right—it had been a long time since she’d dolled up. She wasn’t wearing anything glittery and tight like Harmony was, but the black dress was breezy, short and low cut enough to be enticing. Harmony had curled her hair and applied some mascara and lip gloss. Melody fidgeted with her clothing and hair as though she were wearing an ill-fitting disguise. But one-and-a-half gin and tonics later, Melody had settled into the energy of the crowd. Three cowboys and a city boy had hit on her, and all four looked sufficiently crestfallen when she turned them down with a polite smile. She was here to watch over her little sister. Harmony was getting absolutely shitfaced, laughing her head off and playing an endless game of spin the bottle without a bottle. Melody needed to be the guardian tonight.

  A little romance for herself? Out of the question.

  As Melody watched the cowboys and cowgirls hooking up on the dance floor, the feelings she’d been bottling up inside started to leak out. Her father, who’d worked as foreman on MacKinnon Ranch, had died of a heart attack when she was only nine—she had few memories of him. But her mother had died only eight months ago, quite suddenly, from pneumonia. The fresh ache of losing her mother snuck up on her every now and then, curling around her like a quiet, malevolent animal that sucked all the breath from her lungs.