Cowboy Player: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 3

by Mia Hopkins

  “He was pretty vague over the phone. But I want it all. All five of his restaurants plus the truck. Rumor has it he’s opening up a place in Las Vegas next year. Big and splashy. I want in on that too.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “You’re here. I feel confident.” He looked at her, afraid she’d retreat from him again. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. What I mean is, I’m glad you came. Thank you, Mel.”

  Looking a little uncomfortable, she lifted her wineglass. “Hardest shift I ever worked, boss.”

  The meal waltzed forward, each course punctuated with another glass of wine, a bite of sorbet, or something small and strange perched on a porcelain spoon. By the time dessert rolled around, Clark was buzzed on wine and Melody’s company. He was afraid he might be blushing. His brothers used to tease him that he blushed whenever he was embarrassed or drank too much.

  Shape up, tough guy, he thought to himself, loosening his collar.

  Suddenly, Jerome appeared and slid into their booth next to Melody. He was wearing a black chef’s jacket and his longish hair was tied back in a little ponytail.

  “Hey, hey, my friends.” A bright smile lit up his face. He shook Clark’s hand and gave Melody a European kiss-kiss that made Clark’s fists tighten under the table. “How are you, beautiful girl?” He spoke rapid French to the server, who quickly brought him an espresso in a tiny white cup, three bar glasses and a dark bottle.

  Jerome reached forward and twisted the cap off. “Fernet Branca. Have you tried this? It’s good, but a little strong.”

  The dark liquid tasted of heartbreak and Armageddon. But Clark smiled like it was pink lemonade and laughed when Melody made a face. “Aw, come on, Mel, it’s not so bad.”

  They talked food, as usual. Jerome’s philosophy of fine dining was to dazzle the senses and to create a spectacular experience. He walked them through each of their courses and told them that the lobster was from Santa Barbara, as was the sea urchin in their pasta course. Clark’s steak was from the last of his old supplier’s grass-fed herd.

  “It was good,” said Clark, “but we can do better.”

  Jerome laughed. “Ah, the cojones on you, cowboy. I admire that. I admire that, bro.”

  Clark reached into his jacket to take out the reports he’d prepared.

  But the chef held up his hand. “Hang on a second.” He called over the server again. More French. The server nodded. Jerome turned back to Clark. “This gentleman will escort you to the office. My accountant and sous chef are waiting there. Let’s make the deal tonight, what do you say?”

  Stunned, Clark put the documents in his jacket pocket, stood up and put his hat back on. “I say that sounds pretty great.” He shook Jerome’s hand again. He turned to Melody. “Ready? Let’s go get those papers signed.”

  The chef stayed seated, blocking Melody’s exit out of the banquette. “Actually, I was hoping to get a little more acquainted with your friend here,” Jerome said, eyebrows raised. “You know. Enjoy our coffee. Take a walk around the grounds.” He looked past Clark at the server and nodded again.

  “Sir, if you’ll just follow me,” said the man.

  Clark made eye contact with Melody. She lowered her chin almost imperceptibly. Go ahead, she seemed to say. I can handle him.

  “Okay.” Clark tried to keep his voice cheerful even though every protective bone in his body wanted to grab that bottle of Armageddon and smash it over Jerome’s ponytailed head. With a phony smile, Clark said to Melody, “I’ll meet you in the lobby tomorrow at nine, all right?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  “Okay,” he said again, feeling like an idiot. “Have a good night, you two.”

  He could hear them whispering to each other as he entered the dark hallway that led to the kitchen. Then he heard something that crushed his nerve and sent him into full-blown jealous asshole mode.

  Melody’s laughter.

  God, he missed that sound.

  * * * * *

  A king-sized mattress, a down comforter, ten thousand thread-count sheets, enough feather pillows for twelve heads. Didn’t matter. It was still the most uncomfortable bed Clark had ever slept in. He rolled around for hours, trying to find a position that didn’t feel wrong in every way.

  With a sigh, he sat up and turned on the lamp. The room was luxurious and beautiful. He didn’t want to think about how much it cost. But that was what happened when you were part of the Jerome Dupont team. Gold rained down from the sky and everyone got to eat well.

  The deal was better than he could’ve imagined. He’d called Dan as soon as the contracts were signed. In the background, his sister-in-law and the kids cheered and banged on pots and pans. When Clark arrived home tomorrow, he’d talk to his dad. The old man had always advised Clark that selling directly to restaurants or individual consumers always made more sense than selling to any processing plant—it just took more work. And today, Clark’s work paid off.

  So why did he feel like a piece of shit?

  He checked his phone. Two in the morning. No texts, no messages from Melody. Before he’d gone to bed, he’d walked down the hall to her room to check on her. No answer.

  Could she really take care of herself? Had he put her in danger? Jerome dressed like a biker, but he wasn’t a fighter. Clark could tell—he’d been beaten up enough times to know when he could take someone and when he couldn’t. And Melody was tough. She’d grown up with the MacKinnon boys, for Christ’s sake.

  But none of this rationalization made him feel any better.

  The room was hot. He got up, pulled off his T-shirt and stepped out onto the balcony.

  The cool night air embraced him. Bars and clubs were closing on Sunset Boulevard. A few drunk people wandered the sidewalks, talking loudly and laughing. A thin sheen of dew had formed on the metal railings of the balcony. Clark wiped his hands on his pajama pants and stretched. A few pushups opened up his lungs. Crunches and sit-ups got his blood pumping. As he did a few squats, he realized he wasn’t used to eating like he’d eaten tonight. Maybe a run tomorrow would be good, after that long drive.

  He had just drunk a glass of water from the sink in the bathroom when he heard a soft knock on the door. He opened it.

  Melody was still in her dress, but she was barefoot. Her sandals dangled from one hand. There was a pink rose in her hair.

  “Can I come in?” she whispered. Her eyes were puffy. She’d been crying.

  Clark sat her down in the big plush armchair and brought her another glass of water. As he watched her drink, he made a very serious decision. He was going to kill Jerome tonight. He was going to kick the shit out of Jerome, and then he was going to deliver as many head shots as it took to separate the Frenchman’s soul from his body. Quickly, he made peace with this decision. He’d sing Johnny Cash songs as they strapped him to the electric chair.

  “What did he do?” Clark asked. He sat in front of her on the coffee table. “Tell me, Mel. We’ll make this right.”

  “What?” Melody put the glass down. “What do you mean?”

  “If he touched you—”

  “Touched me? Jerome?” She looked confused. “No, he didn’t do anything. We drank coffee and walked around the garden. Then he kissed me good night. That was it.” She removed the rose from behind her ear and put it in the water glass. “Perfect gentleman, actually.”

  “Kissed you? On the lips? So help me God—”

  “On the cheek.”

  “Did you give him permission? Because—”

  “Clark, cut it out.” She leaned forward. “Listen. I’m not here because of Jerome.”

  Now it was Clark’s turn to be confused. “You’re not?”

  “No.” Then her face crumpled. Tears began to pour down her cheeks.

  At once, he gathered her up in his arms. In his ample experience, he f
ound it was best to just let girls cry it out. Whenever he tried to say something to make them feel better, they tended to cry harder. So he shut up, stroked Melody’s hair, made soft shushing noises and tried to hide the erection that had risen at once in his pajama pants.

  When her tears ran dry—which took a while—he rocked her gently her back and forth until she was calm again.

  “God, I’ve been so stupid.” She sniffled. “I thought that if I pushed you away—if I was nasty and mean to you—you’d stop coming around and I’d stop thinking about you.”

  Clark’s heart began to beat harder. “Did your plan work?”

  “No. Not at all.” She looked up at him. “I think of you day and night. I can’t stop.”

  Chapter Three

  The Game

  “Awareness of the insanity of love has never saved anyone from the disease.”

  —Alain de Botton

  Melody didn’t have a game plan when she knocked on Clark’s door. If she’d taken the time to draw one up, she probably wouldn’t be sitting on his lap now, streaming snot and spewing forth a babbling confession about how much she’d been thinking about him, day and night.

  God. So cheesy. What are you doing?

  She wiped her nose on her arm and leaned her head against his shoulder, emotionally defeated. She’d screwed this up big time. Nothing left to do but keep going. “When I woke up that morning and you were gone, I panicked. I immediately went to a very dark place. A place I thought I’d left behind once Scott and I broke up. I was pacing the house. Calling your phone and hanging up. Imagining the worst.”

  “Why?”

  “I was afraid you never wanted to see me again. I was a wreck. I had promised myself I’d never be that person again. And there I was. Same as ever. Needy. Suspicious. Mistrustful.”

  Clark took her hand and squeezed it. “I should’ve told you good-bye before I left. That was a mistake.”

  “It was, but a small one. In my mind, it became this huge monstrous thing,” she said. “Looking back, I hate the way I reacted. I was wrong. So wrong.” She closed her eyes. A cold breeze blew in from the open balcony doors, but Clark’s body radiated heat. Her skin tingled against his. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for trying to push you away. For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean any of it.”

  “You didn’t?”

  She looked up at him again. He sat still as she reached up and stroked his face, cradling his cheek in her hand. “No.”

  He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her palm. “I thought you hated me.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I could never hate you.” Melody felt many, many emotions for Clark MacKinnon, but hate was not one of them. When she kissed his cheek, he sighed and his body relaxed against hers, slack but solid with muscle. “I missed you, Clark. It’s been a long two weeks.”

  He gave her a squeeze. “Yeah. It has.”

  They held on to each other in silence. The minutes ticked by and slowly, they began to breathe together, their inhalations in sync. Wrapped up in his big arms, she let Clark’s warmth envelop her. Flashbacks of their shared passion lit up her nervous system like faraway lightning. He’d changed everything she’d understood about sex. He’d taught her things she didn’t know about her own body. For days, he’d haunted her nights and waking dreams.

  “I know you don’t do relationships,” Melody said softly.

  “I would try it. For you.”

  “You don’t want to get tangled up with me,” she said, shaking her head. “I have serious trust issues. I’m poison.”

  “Jesus, stop it.”

  Fear, real and cold, cut through the warmth swirling in her chest. She’d never asked a man to sleep with her before. “I don’t want to lose you as a friend,” she said slowly. “But tonight, I can’t help wanting…” She trailed off, unable to find the words.

  They were quiet for a long time.

  When he finally spoke, Clark’s voice was deep and steady. “I think I know what you want, because I want it too.” He stroked her hair and kissed her temple, the exact same place he’d kissed when he first invited her down this rabbit hole. “One last night together. Right?”

  She gasped softly, relishing the sensation of his lips on her bare skin. Pleasure spiked in her brain like a drug.

  “One last night together,” she repeated. “Then we leave this part of us behind. It stays here and we move on. What do you think?”

  He was quiet for a moment. He stroked her lower back, edging lower and lower with each languid sweep. “If this is going to be the last time I’m going to make love to you,” he whispered against her neck, “I’m going to give you everything I’ve got. Are you ready for that?”

  The sultry promise in his voice sharpened her senses. She was more than ready.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  His taut chest was feverish against her fingertips. She tipped her chin up, closed her eyes and kissed him. Their lips melded together so sweetly that the pleasure of it trickled like warm honey through her body.

  Clark MacKinnon could kiss like an angel, but there was nothing angelic about the way he made love. As he kissed her, Clark untied the straps of her dress, pulled the silky fabric down and tossed it away. He unfastened her strapless bra and dropped it on the carpet. His big thumbs hooked on to the waist of her panties; when he yanked them down, Melody caught the scent of her own arousal. She was wet for him. She’d been turned on from the moment he’d answered the door, shirtless and hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell.

  Clark ran a slow trail of kisses down her throat until he reached her breasts. He sucked one hard nipple into his mouth and teased her with the tip of his tongue. Then he reached down and put his hand between her legs. He swiped one warm finger from the base of her slick seam up to her clit. Melody hissed, unprepared for the shock of his touch.

  “You okay?” he whispered, a wicked grin on his lips.

  “I’m burning up.”

  “We can fix that.”

  He slid his arm under her knees and picked her up at once. Feeling lightheaded with desire, she wrapped her hands around his shoulders as he carried her to the balcony.

  “Someone will see,” she said.

  “No one will see.” He set her down. The clay tiles were cold against her bare feet, and the cool breeze raised goosebumps on her naked body. “Put your hands on the rail, facing me.”

  She did as he told her. The wrought iron railing was cold and she recoiled for a moment. He reached out and clapped her hands to the metal.

  “I said, ‘put your hands on the rail’,” he growled.

  The cool command in his words made them stronger than any rope. She shivered, remembering the night they’d slept together. His outward sweetness belied a man capable of making her come so hard that she’d felt echoes of his pounding deep inside her body for days.

  One more searing kiss and Clark slid to his knees before her. “Open,” he said.

  Her breath in her throat, she spread her legs. With his giant hands, Clark stroked her hips with the barest touch before sliding the pads of his thumbs forward to part the dark hair just above her sex.

  Her senses sharpened. She heard the cars passing quietly below on Sunset. Crickets sang in the shadows, a late-night mockingbird babbled in the eucalyptus trees. The seventh-floor balcony was dark. Clark was right—no one could see them.

  Clark leaned forward and, without preamble, sealed his hot lips over her. His muscular tongue strummed her clit immediately, flicking it with a steady rhythm that matched the drumbeat in her chest. Her hands tightened their death grip on the rails. Each lash of his tongue amplified the lust coursing in her veins. Her ears filled with the wicked sound of his licking as he drew more arousal from deep inside her. Their first night together, he’d taken his time. Tonight, he had her number and there was nothing tentative about his inte
nt.

  Before she could register what was happening, Clark ran the tip of his tongue around the crown of her clit, then pressed down hard, sending jolts of pleasure to her brain. An intense orgasm seized her at once. Melody threw her head back and looked up sightless at the night sky as blood and dopamine coursed through her. Clark’s tongue was relentless. He continued to lick and suck on her, drawing out her climax as she trembled and gasped. She’d never come so fast.

  Without a word, Clark picked her up again and threw her over his shoulder like a caveman. He dropped her on the bed and, standing over her, took off his pants. Melody, still twitching, reached forward and slid her hand over his erection. He was hot and rigid. As her fingers trailed over him, she still had trouble reconciling that this big, perfect cock was attached to her best friend, the guy she’d grown up with.

  His eyes blazed with lust. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away.

  “Not yet.” The deep rumble of his voice washed over her.

  He stroked himself as she watched. The slick tip of his cock swelled and his shaft grew darker and thicker. In response, her tender pussy clenched and grew even wetter. Her thighs were streaked with slickness.

  “Touch yourself,” he commanded.

  Eyes locked on his, Melody reached between her legs and ran her fingers over the soaked, swollen lips of her pussy. Her clit was still tender from his tongue. Instead of touching it, she pressed the tip of her middle finger into her opening, then drew it out.

  “Deeper,” he said. He took his cock in his fist and began to pump harder. “All the way.”

  She did it. She was slick and tight. When Clark licked his lips, her smooth inner muscles tightened around her finger.

  “Goddamn.” He reached into the overnight bag by the bed and rolled on a condom. Then he sat down on the bed with his legs straight in front of him on the mattress. “Come here. Face the door.”