Cowboy Player: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 3

by Mia Hopkins

  “Shit.”

  He let the phone ring until her voicemail picked up. He cleared his throat, feeling weird even though he called her all the time.

  “Hey, Mel. It’s me. Sorry about this morning. My folks needed the truck and then I was out all day with Dan. I didn’t get your calls until now. My phone died because I didn’t charge it…” He trailed off, suddenly afraid that he sounded like he was making excuses for running out on her. “Anyway, I’ll try calling you again later tonight.” He paused, not knowing what else to say. “I hope you’re all right. Okay. Bye.”

  After inventory, Clark and Dean jump-started the van and let it run. Caleb and his parents got back from the hospital a little before eight. Dan’s wife made a late dinner for everyone, but Clark’s father went straight to bed. By the time dinner and clean-up were done, Clark was bone tired. After another shower, he collapsed on his bed and checked his phone. One text from Melody.

  Call me. I’ll be awake.

  Her phone rang three times before she picked it up.

  “Clark.”

  “Hey.” Clark put a hand behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, a warm feeling settling in his chest at the sound of her voice. “How are you doing?”

  She was quiet for a moment. The silence that stretched between them didn’t feel awkward to him. The universe was stretching to accommodate this new thing they’d become. Not friends, not lovers, but something deliciously in between. His body began to tingle. No longer tired, he entertained the thought that he could get dressed, hijack the nearest truck and be back in her bed in about thirty minutes. Who needed sleep, anyway?

  “Listen,” she said. “I have something I need to tell you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I won’t be going to Santa Barbara with you and Lucky tomorrow. I can’t.”

  He sat up. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s okay.” He heard her lick her lips. He wished he were there to do that for her. She continued, “Actually, I won’t be able to go with you to farmers’ markets any more. At all.”

  “What? Why not?

  “I talked to Tom Shelton this afternoon. He’s willing to take me on as a cocktail waitress at the Spur. I start training tomorrow at eleven.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have to drop my job with you. I’m sorry, Clark.”

  He could sense her skittishness. She was a horse about to bolt. “Wait. Wait right there. I’m coming over. Let’s talk in person.” He stood up and looked around his room for a clean pair of jeans.

  “No, no. Don’t do that. Don’t come over.”

  “This—you and me—this has nothing to do with our working relationship. I never meant—”

  She cut him off. “This new job—it pays a little more. I had to put down a deposit on my sister’s new apartment in Bakersfield. We still have the costs from my mom’s memorial. And I need to get ahead of Harmony’s student loans. It’ll be a while yet before she’s making enough to start paying them off herself.”

  “If money’s the issue—”

  “It is an issue.” She let out a breath. “But it’s not the only issue.” She paused. “Clark, I can’t do this. I can’t go down this path again.”

  “What do you mean by ‘again’? I’m not your ex-boyfriend. I’m not Scott.” He made a fist and tapped it softly against the wall. “You know me, Mel. I’d do anything to keep from hurting you.”

  “I know. I just need a little space,” she said quietly. “After some time, maybe…maybe we can be friends again. Maybe we can come back from this.”

  Maybe? “Is this because I left this morning? Mel, I had to go. Caleb needed the truck to go to the hospital with my folks. The other stuff, it just piles on top. On the ranch, there’s just no way to get out from under it, you know that.”

  “I know. I know that you have a lot of responsibilities.”

  “Jesus.” Clark sat back down on his bed. He never let himself get close to other women like this. Never close enough to get burned. Now he knew why. Powerless, he grasped at words, not sure what he was saying. “I’m serious. I won’t hurt you. I’m not like your ex-boyfriend. I swear.”

  “This situation is just too complicated for me right now. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  Her broken heart, her mother, her sister and their bills—Clark knew the battles. He had no intention of adding to them. “Let me help you. Let me stand by you. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Like you said, I know you. You don’t do relationships. Never have.” Her voice wavered. “And I don’t want to be that annoying woman who forces you to pretend to be someone you’re not. You’d come to hate me.”

  “Mel, come on.”

  “Besides, you said it yourself. ‘One night’s not forever.’ Right?”

  He cursed under his breath. He’d tossed that line out there because he was dying to go to bed with her last night. Sometimes he couldn’t believe the stink of his own bullshit. “You’re looking for reasons to run away,” he said slowly. “If that’s what you really want—”

  “Yes. That’s what I really want.” Her voice broke. “Good-bye, Clark.”

  And just like that, she hung up.

  Clark lay down and looked blankly at his phone. He never realized that such a banal object had the power to crack open his rib cage and incinerate everything in his chest cavity like napalm.

  * * * * *

  Two weeks passed.

  Lucky never asked why Melody stopped doing the farmers’-market runs with them. In Oleander, the grapevine had great reception. Clark just assumed Lucky’d heard the whole story or some version accurate enough to know that Clark didn’t want to talk about it. So they didn’t.

  On the ranch, Clark worked with his brothers and spent time in the office feeding spreadsheets and running reports. As he expected, Melody didn’t call or text. After a dozen calls, he gave up.

  With each passing day, he was becoming a moody asshole. Dean, his oldest brother and the moodiest asshole in the family, even remarked on it one afternoon while they were doing some yard work for their mom.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Clark shrugged. “Yeah. Why?

  “You don’t seem like yourself.”

  “Like myself? How?”

  It was Dean’s turn to shrug, cowboy-speak for you know how. Out loud, Dean said, “Want to grab a beer at the Spur?”

  “I thought you were hanging out with the Singhs again tonight.”

  “I am. That’s why I said a beer and not some beers.”

  Clark had been avoiding the Silver Spur. He didn’t know which nights Melody worked, so it made the most sense not to go at all. “Maybe another night,” he said.

  “Suit yourself.” One last shrug from his brother meant that the conversation was done but a point had been made. Clark had to shape up. In his very laconic way, Dean was right. What happened happened. Clark couldn’t change these circumstances. He’d just have to get used to the new order of the universe and maybe the big sucking wound in his chest would eventually heal up on its own.

  The next morning, Clark had just gotten off the phone with a bank about a loan application when his cell phone rang.

  “Hey, bro, long time no see.”

  French surfer-dude accent. Clark smiled. “Hey, Jerome. How’s it hanging?”

  “Loose, bien sûr.”

  They talked a little about Jerome’s restaurants and all the recent foodie buzz in Los Angeles and San Francisco. Jerome’s publicist had gotten him a spot on a local TV news program to promote the food truck. Jerome was thrilled to be making his Hollywood debut. He was contemplating getting a new tattoo.

  Then he said, “Clark, my friend, I have a problem.”

  Clark’s ears perked up. “What’s going on, bro?”

  �
�Beef. Beef is my problem.” Jerome made a sound, halfway between a tsk and a hiss. “I’m having trouble with my supplier. He’s in Northern California, and he says the drought has damaged his pastures to the extent that he needs to dry lot his animals. I can’t go with that product. Not with my restaurants. And especially not with this new food truck—burgers made with 100 percent grass-fed beef is the whole concept.”

  Now Clark’s radar was spinning. He and Dan had done everything they could to keep their pastures healthy. If he could secure a contract with Jerome, MacKinnon Ranch would be in the black at last. “Tell you what. Email me some numbers,” he said cheerfully, even though adrenaline was pumping through his veins. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  “I can do you one better,” said Jerome. “Prepare some reports for me. Come to Le Monarque tomorrow night. Stay at the Hotel Roxbury. My treat. Come have a night on the town and let’s discuss this tête-à-tête.”

  Le Monarque was Jerome’s fine-dining restaurant in the Hotel Roxbury right above the Sunset Strip. It was one of the hottest celebrity hangouts in Los Angeles.

  “Are you serious?” Clark asked. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, bro, I want to. You would be helping me out of a jam if this works out. As a matter of fact, bring your hat. They’ll think you’re John Wayne.” He laughed. “Oh. And you know what? Why don’t you bring your friend too? The cowgirl, I think her name was Melody?” Jerome cleared his throat. “Out of curiosity, is she seeing anyone?”

  “Seeing anyone? Ah, no, man,” Clark said, stumbling over the words. Jerome was trying to sound casual about Melody, but Clark could tell he’d been thinking about her. “Melody…she’s single. As far as I know.”

  “Great! Fantastic. Bring her.” In the background, Clark heard a crash of dishes and an explosion of cuss words in three languages. Jerome groaned. “Okay, my friend. Gotta go. Seven o’clock at Le Monarque. Tell the hostess you’re my guests.”

  Clark ended the call. He was alone in the office, so no one saw him put his head on the desk and give it three gentle thumps. A pencil rolled off the edge and landed on the floor.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  * * * * *

  Clark had never noticed that the cocktail waitresses at the Silver Spur wore uniforms until he saw Melody wearing hers. Cowboy boots, cut-off jean shorts and a plaid shirt tied up at the waist—the Daisy Duke special. Clark contemplated sending the owner Tom Shelton a thank-you note.

  Melody stood at the till adding up a bar tab. Shapely legs, a slender waist, softly muscled arms, and high, round breasts. There was a silvery scar on the back of her left thigh where she’d fallen while riding his horse—they’d been twelve at the time, and Clark had been racked with guilt for months. Just above her rhinestone belt, faint stretch marks striped her lower back. She hated them; they started showing when she was about seventeen. These so-called flaws made her even more beautiful to him. Years of shared history meant that he could read her body like a book.

  The room was less than half full. Another cocktail waitress sat at the bar chatting with Tom. Slow night.

  Clark took a breath. Do it.

  He walked right up to Melody and leaned against the bar. “Don’t rabbit,” he said quietly. “I have to talk to you.”

  She was wearing more makeup than usual. It was an alluring look, but he knew that she was even lovelier without the war paint. Her fingers flew over the touch screen. She didn’t look him in the eye. “I’m at work. We can’t do this here.”

  “This won’t take long. Just listen.”

  As quickly as he could, he laid out the scenario with Jerome. A half-dozen emotions danced across her face as he spoke, but none of those emotions were positive.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re asking permission to pimp me out to your friend in order to secure a contract,” she said. “That’s really classy, Clark.” The receipt printer got jammed. She had to open it and unspool the paper.

  “Jesus. Stop.” Clark stood up straight, nudged her out of the way and began to work out the paper jam. “You’ve seen our numbers. The ranch is in trouble. The drought. My dad’s hospital bills—insurance doesn’t cover everything. If I sign Jerome, the ranch’s finances will be solid for the first time in years.” He shut the cover and the printer screeched into action. “If you’re there he’ll be more relaxed. More likely to make the deal. I’m not pimping you out. I’m asking you for help. As a friend.”

  She tore off the receipts and grabbed a pen from her apron. “Then as a friend, I say no. I’ve gotta work.”

  Clark waved to the other cocktail waitress. The blonde bombshell sashayed over.

  “Rhiannon,” he said, looking from one woman to the other. “You working tomorrow night?”

  “No.” Rhiannon leaned languidly on the bar. She had hazel eyes, but her left iris was slightly lighter than the right. “Whatcha have in mind, cowboy?”

  “Could you cover a shift for Melody?”

  Rhiannon raised her eyebrows, mildly offended. “What?”

  “I’m trying to fix Melody up with a friend,” he said quickly. “I’d owe you big time, Rhi.”

  The woman smiled. “All right, Clark. I’ll do it. For you.” She looked at Melody. “And get this darling girl laid, will you? She’s been moping around here for days.” With a wink, Rhiannon turned and left.

  Melody looked up at Clark and shook her head. “I need that money, you know.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “You can’t afford to throw wages around like that.”

  “If we sign Jerome, I’ll pay you double what you would’ve made on that shift.” He searched her face. “What do you say?”

  “You get women to do your bidding all the time, don’t you?” She sighed and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Okay, Clark. One night.” She stuck a finger in his chest. “But I’m doing this for your brothers and your folks, not for you.”

  “Yes! Thank you, Mel.” He almost leaned forward and kissed her, but he stopped just in time. He glanced at himself in the mirror behind the bar. A big goofy grin sat on his face. He turned back to her. “So you’ve been ‘moping around’? Interesting.”

  Melody did not return his smile. Instead, she brushed past him, tray under her arm. “You should go. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  * * * * *

  Clark was in so far over his head, he might as well have been standing on the bottom of the ocean.

  First of all, the woman was going to kill him.

  High-heeled silver sandals, curled hair, makeup—Melody had put on the dog, and she smelled like apple blossoms in the Garden of Eden. Worst of all, she wore a dark-blue handkerchief that some highfalutin’ fashion people called a dress. On the two-hour drive to Los Angeles, she wouldn’t return his attempts at conversation. So they sat in silence, Clark slowly crumbling in the presence of so much rampant sexiness.

  Second of all, this place.

  Jesus.

  The Hotel Roxbury stood on a small side street above the Sunset Strip. Built sometime in the 1920s, the old chateau-style hotel radiated Hollywood history. Perfectly clipped high hedges surrounded the property, hiding the luxurious cars that entered and exited the grounds. When they pulled up to the entrance in Caleb’s jacked-up old Silverado, Clark took the ticket from the valet and led Melody inside. Her heels clicked over the polished Spanish tile in the cavernous lobby. A bellboy collected their overnight bags and handed them their room keys. They didn’t even have to stop at the front desk.

  Feeling like an oil baron, Clark snapped the kid a five-dollar bill. Melody hid her smile and automatically took the arm he offered her.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  The entrance to Le Monarque was tucked in the back of the lobby. An orange-stained glass monarch butterfly decorate
d the restaurant’s door. A sedate, well-dressed crowd stood three deep at the bar. Dozens of people crowded the hostess stand, waiting for a table.

  The hostess looked up when Clark approached. When he tipped his hat, her eyes widened, then narrowed and got sultry right quick. She had bright green eyes, like a Heineken bottle. Melody’s grip on his arm grew just a shade tighter.

  “Evenin’, miss,” he said, turning up the twang. “Clark MacKinnon and Melody Santos. We’re guests of Jerome.”

  The hostess nodded. “Good evening,” she said. “Follow me, please.”

  They bypassed the bar and the crowded dining room. The hostess seated them in an enormous semiprivate booth bathed in candlelight. A big picture window faced the courtyard where twinkle lights dangled from jacaranda and date palms. Spotlights lit the enormous stone fountain in the center of the gardens.

  “Your server will be with you in a moment. Chef Dupont will be joining you for coffee and dessert.” The hostess nodded to both of them, her gaze lingering on Clark. “Enjoy your evening.”

  When they were alone, Melody fidgeted in her seat, scanning the space. In the candlelight, her golden-brown skin glowed and her dark eyes sparkled like polished obsidian.

  “Beautiful,” Clark murmured. He wasn’t referring to the restaurant.

  She nodded. “Amazing.”

  They didn’t have one server—they had a team of servers. Jerome had prepared a tasting menu for them along with wine pairings for every course. The fanciest restaurant Clark had ever been to offered all-you-can-eat breadsticks, so the spectacle of flavors overwhelmed him. By the time his steak arrived, there were ten different glasses on the table. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to drink from them or play “The Sugar Plum Fairy” on the glass harp.

  His steak—well, that was pretty good. Jerome had chosen to serve Melody a whole lobster. Clark’s nose wrinkled at the ostentatiousness of it all. Damn Frenchie. He sliced off another hunk of meat and shoved it in his mouth. Showoff.

  “You okay?” Melody asked when the servers were out of earshot.

  Clark swallowed. “Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “Because you look like you’re about to go on the warpath.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “Are you worried about the contract? Is Jerome interested in a supplier for only the truck or for all his restaurants?”