Ranch Daddy

by Shanna Handel

  His offer sent little tingles straight down to my wet pussy. A blush rose higher on my impossibly pale skin, plainly evident to him. “Are you calling me short? Again? Why do you get so much joy from teasing me?” I said. In my mind, I was saying, ‘Don’t baby talk to me, cowboy, unless you want me to rip those jeans down and hop on that hot rod of yours.’ Trying to take attention away from my arousal, I said, “You really should stop tormenting me for being horizontally challenged.”

  His brow knitted. “Vertically challenged, sweetheart. You’re vertically challenged.” His eyes rested on my hips, causing me to shift my weight uncomfortably. “I would say your horizon is doing just fine.”

  Willing the ever-increasing blush to leave my face, I said, “Well, just let me get this box out of the way so I can lock up for the day. Don’t you have hot plans for tonight?”

  “Just meeting a friend,” he said, not meeting my eye. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. It looked so soft. I wanted to reach out and touch it.

  “A friend, huh? A friend whose name can be spelled with the letters B and J?” I asked.

  He raised a stern brow to me. “BJ?”

  “Uh... I mean, DJ. Lady DJ.”

  “Sure you did.” He gave me a disbelieving stare. “Her name is Sarah, by the way.” Jealousy instantly pricked at my chest at his soft enunciation of her name.

  “Uh... okay. Thanks for the info, Captain.”

  “She’s a sweet girl. You should be nicer to her.” He shot me a disapproving look. My heart immediately picked up two paces, my nipples tightening, just from one look. The tension between us was palpable. Picking up the crate, he moved it to join the others as he asked, “Why are you here so late? Was there an emergency on Twitter? Someone post the wrong recipe for punch? Did your latest bride go ‘zilla on you?”

  “Inventory day is tomorrow. I thought I’d get a head start,” I said with a shrug. Certainly not because I had nothing better to do tonight than go home and watch murder mysteries and stuff my face with Pop-Tarts and soymilk.

  “You better not be leaving by yourself after dark.” His gaze held mine.

  “I’m fine, Colton. I live alone, for goodness’ sake. I sleep all night by myself in the dark.”

  Exasperated, he crossed his arms over his chest. “When are you going to listen to me? Huh, Josie? I swear I’ve been fighting with you since you were running around here in pigtails.”

  “Someone’s gotta give you cowboys a run for your money. I’m a big girl, Colton. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to wait up for me,” I said.

  He spoke, his tone laced with authority. “That may be so, but I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Don’t leave after dark by yourself. I’ll come back to walk you to your car after I lock up.”

  His words gave me secret shivers. The daddy voice I so loved. But the last thing I needed tonight of all nights was Colton walking me to my car. I smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  His brows rose. “A crate just attacked you.”

  I laughed. “That’s different. That thing had it out for me. I was powerless. Walking to my car alone on CLAS ranch—well, that’s about as safe as I’ll ever be.”

  He contemplated my face. “I’ve changed my mind. It isn’t even safe to leave you alone while I lock a few doors. Come with me.” He held his hand out to me. “I’m afraid I can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  Our eyes met. I swear I could sense his soul through those colored sea pools. Would the gorgeous babies we would inevitably create during our intense lovemaking sessions have my brown eyes, or his green ones? Yikes. File that thought under ‘inappropriate for friendship.’ Reaching out, I took his hand. His fingers wound around my palm. Electricity once again danced over my skin as it pressed against his. His gaze locked on mine, holding it just a tick longer than what was comfortable.

  He liked me. He wanted to fuck me. I just knew it. Surely he had felt those little magical pulses when our hands touched. Hadn’t he?

  I let him lead me out the parking lot and even open the driver’s side door for me. I laughed as his hands locked in beneath my arms and he lifted me up and onto the high seat of the truck. I loved it when he did things like this, making me feel small and protected. “In you go. Can’t have you injuring yourself again,” he said with a wink.

  Colton pulled the seatbelt buckle from above my shoulder. I held my breath as he stretched it over my chest, his hand pressing against my hip as he clicked it into place. He pulled away, resting his hands on the roof of the truck. “Drive safe, Little Bit.”

  “Not too little to kick your ass, Colton,” I mumbled, fumbling the key into the ignition. He chuckled, closing my door and giving me a wave.

  Smiling, I reversed out of the spot.

  He had buckled me up. Like a daddy would do. The sweet gesture had me almost picturing myself as a Louanne or a Georgia—let’s be honest, with my ass and attitude, I’m more of a Bridgette—allowing myself to be cared for in this way. But only almost. I just wanted to hit the hay with Colton and get a little taste of that cowboy daddy action, then be on my way. I turned to wave goodbye. He stood watching me pull away. There was a funny look in his eyes that I couldn’t quite read, but I shrugged it off and was on my way.

  When I got home, I had a big old case of Colton on the brain. Only one cure for that. Binge-watching my favorite gory stalker series, Mystery Murders.

  * * *

  The next morning, I overslept. Damn, just when I was trying to impress my sister boss, the Louanne Jenkins, wedding planner extraordinaire. Known in the wedding planning world as the queen of Ranch Romance, she had her own unique brand of décor and ambiance. She could throw a wedding so beautiful it would make your grandma cry, using nothing more than a little downhome cooking and decorations from a few of her carefully marked crates. Her perfectly penned cursive lettering was all she needed to create signage. Brides-to-be let out heavy sighs at the sight of her perfect place cards.

  Louanne’s only flaw was that when it was time for her own big day, she chose a simple service at Little Peak Baptist, followed by an old-fashioned church picnic. There wasn’t even a cake, for crying out loud. The groom had served his famous homemade vanilla ice cream, which wasn’t the three-tiered masterpiece for which the entire town had been waiting. Little Peak was shocked. And as for the online bridal community—let’s just say the groans of disappointment could be heard ‘round the world. One of her most devoted readers even gave her a one-star review on her blog for revenge.

  To this day I still don’t understand Louanne’s logic in choosing a small wedding but to each his own. She looked pretty happy on her big day, so I left well enough alone.

  Louanne was the best in the business. Last year I was lucky enough to become her full-time assistant. At first, I helped plan events on the ranch, but once articles about Louanne and her coveted weddings started to hit big name bridal magazines, we had quickly switched over to solely hosting destination weddings.

  Brody was more than happy to drop our other clients. He had kicked out one too many CEOs for sneaking in flasks of liquor on our corporate retreats and didn’t care for it. He liked the vibe of the weddings, calling them a ‘family affair.’

  Louanne was not only the best boss in the entire world but also the best big sister there was. We were close—she was like a second mother to me—and working together had only served to strengthen our bond. She took me under her wing, teaching me everything she knew. Emulating Louanne’s Type A personality tics had turned me from a ‘fly by the seat of my pants’ procrastination personality into an even-keeled, ‘cool as a cucumber’ badass girl boss. I could take any problem and turn it into a solution with a breezy smile on my face.

  I attributed my success to having followed two of Louanne’s top three tips religiously: make lists, pay attention to the details, and always be on time.

  The being on time part—well, let’s just say I was a work in progress.

  Glancing up at the clock on my
wall, I confirmed my suspicion—I was already running ten minutes behind schedule. Good thing that CLAS ranch was just a few miles up the road from my new place. Pulling on my single red cowgirl boot, I hurriedly looked for its mate. Rushing through my condo I tripped over something, crashing to the floor. Fumbling around beneath me, I searched for what had put me on my butt. It was the other boot. I picked it up, tugging it onto my sock-covered foot. “Hello, you. Just the thing I was looking for. Now I need to pack up the shirts, and I’ll be ready to go. Only going to be a few minutes late, but it’s inventory day so no big deal, right?”

  Limping from my fall, I hobbled over to the washer and dryer Hayes had generously donated to my living situation. An embarrassing truth—big sis had to teach me to do my laundry when I moved out. I had separated the whites exactly how she had shown me, and washed them on hot, as per her instructions. She was going to be so proud when I showed up today with the freshly washed, bright white button-downs, ready to be counted and packed up for storage. Grabbing the empty wicker basket, I crouched down, opening the front-loading door of the dryer.

  Empty.

  Groaning, I mentally kicked myself for binge-watching an entire season of the gut-wrenching edge-of-your-seat series Mystery Murders. Hooked on the gory storyline, I must have forgotten to switch the load from the washer to the dryer. I had been so scared, I ran straight to my bed and hid my head under my blanket. I hadn’t even stopped to brush the s’mores-flavored Pop-Tart crumbs from my chest. Unable to sleep, I had popped in my earbuds and tried a meditation my sister had recommended—a lot of good that did me. I ended up even more wound up after listening to it.

  Opening the door to the washer, I reached in to retrieve the wet shirts. My jaw dropped open, my hands digging through the load of laundry. “Talk about a comedy of errors—you have to be kidding me!”

  Pink.

  All of the white shirts were now bright pink. Every single one. Flinging shirts out of the machine left and right, my fingers wrapped around the burgundy culprit. It was my favorite top—the long sleeveless tunic Louanne had bought to help me create a more professional wardrobe. I held it up, eyeing it in disbelief. It was easily three sizes smaller, now looking more like a tiny tank top. Reading the tag, I moaned, “Delicate cycle, cold water only, tumble dry low!”

  Leaving the shirts, I hopped up from the floor. Hurrying, I grabbed my patchwork quilt bag off one of the eight limbs of my octopus coat hook, slinging it over my shoulder. Breezing through my tiny entryway, I stopped for a moment at the mirror by my front door to catch a glimpse at my reflection.

  Pulling an elastic from my bag, I used my fingertips to scrape my freshly bleached platinum hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. Rummaging around in the bottom of the bag, I found my Berry Cherry gloss and swiped it onto my lips. The contrast of the shiny red against my pale skin gave me what I hoped was a retro glam put together look—I was anything but.

  Giving myself a satisfied nod, I headed out the door. A few steps down the walk, I murmured, “Crud.” Louanne’s voice rang in my head: ‘Always lock your door. I know we live in a small town, but now that you’re on your own, you have to be responsible for your safety, Josie.’ I ran back up the walk to lock it.

  My sister and I no longer shared a last name or a place of residence. With Louanne married and living on the ranch, and my mom finally getting a boyfriend after being single for pretty much my entire life, I had moved out of my childhood home. I now resided in an eight hundred square foot, two-bedroom, one-story condo in town. My friends called it ‘the shoebox,’ but it felt massive to me. Huge, and too quiet.

  Would I ever get used to living alone?

  Door locked and keys in hand, I ran to Florence, my beat-up red truck that waited for me in the parking lot. Brody had insisted I borrowed it when I moved out on my own. He said I could keep it until I found something suitable to drive. I had been hesitant to accept his offer, but what Brody says, goes and so I listened and took the truck. I had quickly fallen in love with her and thus, gave her a proper name—Florence the Machine, after the badass redheaded lead singer of my favorite band.

  I think Brody and Florence and I all secretly knew the truck would become a long-term loan.

  Cranking the engine, I smiled as the old dear roared to life. Pulling out of the driveway, I headed to the ranch. I was going to be twenty minutes late, but at least I had already pulled all the crates and the entire day was blocked off for inventory. No client meetings would be affected by my tardiness.

  Urging Florence to push herself up to her max speed of fifty miles per hour, I finally made it to the ranch. Jumping down from the truck, I slammed the door and jogged up to the building, my bag slapping my thigh as I ran. Stepping into Louanne’s office, I shut the door behind me. Trying to catch my breath, I slumped into one of the gray buffalo-checked club chairs that sat in front of the desk, throwing my bag into the matching one.

  “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t hear the alarm,” I said, panting.

  “Hello, Josie,” she murmured, her eyes staying focused on the narrow lines and numbers of the paper she held before her. She sat at her desk, dressed in a dark green sweater, a pressed white collar peeking out from beneath it. I was sure she had on her emerald tartan skirt—she always wore it with that shirt—but her heavy oak desk blocked my view to confirm. Light brown hair carefully combed and held in place with a black hairband. With just a touch of mascara darkening her lashes and a dab of gloss brightening her smile, she was the picture of perfection. Her brow wrinkled as she worried over me. “Trouble falling asleep again? Did you try the meditation I told you about?”

  “Yes, and it wound me up more. It stressed me out.” I gave a little shudder, remembering my experience from the night before. I opted for telling only the partial truth and leaving out the part where I had first stayed up well past midnight watching a hot serial killer hack the bodies of his female victims into pieces—the perfect pre-bedtime activity for a young lady who had recently moved in on her own.

  She looked up at me, her brow knitted in confusion as she asked, “How can a relaxation meditation possibly stress you out?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, pushing away one particularly gory image; a partial leg with the high heel still on the foot. “The guy said to visualize yourself on a park bench.”

  “So?” she asked, going back to her paper, making several marks with her fine-tipped black ink pen. The same writing utensil she had threatened me with death if I ‘borrowed’ and lost, again. “What’s wrong with that? Parks are pleasant.”

  I heaved a sigh. “The man says to visualize yourself sitting on a bench, watching old people doing Tai Chi. Well, he didn’t specify that the people were old. I just assumed since no one under eighty does that kind of thing in a public place.”

  “Don’t say old people, Josie. It’s not polite.” She gave me a long look, then went back to work with a shrug. “Why would that stress you out? I think it sounds nice.”

  “It made me anxious. What if they fall and get hurt?” I twirled a loose strand of my hair around my finger. It had made me nervous. “Just picture the frail dears tipping over like cattle in a field.”

  My sister carefully placed her paper back into the black leather binder. The word ‘Inventory’ was neatly lettered on the front of the binder in her beautiful penmanship. She stood from the desk, crossing the room. Yep—there was the tartan skirt swishing over her tights. Taking down one of the crates from the top of her enormous wall of file cabinets, she brought it over to me, setting it down on the floor beside me. “Here’s Disco Queen. These are all the party favors we have left. Throw out any that are looking raggedy. Especially those disco ball necklaces. I think ketchup got on a few.” She wrinkled her nose, going back to the stacks of boxes.

  I peered down into the box. Silver glittery globes winked back at me. Bending down, I picked up a strand, beginning the tedious job of untangling the necklaces. “Gotcha.”

  She lifted a sma
ller box, delicately transporting it to her desk. Placing it down on the desktop, she carefully opened the flaps. The way she handled the package told me its contents before I saw them—her prized crystal unicorn collection. They made their debut at Princess Gala (a birthday party for a spoiled brat ten-year-old) and had gone on to star in Fantasy Wedding (my sister liked to name all of her events), a celebration of all things fanciful. Pulling out one of the darling creatures, she set it delicately on her desk, saying, “What happened next?”

  “So, I’m sitting on the park bench, watching these old geezers—I mean... the elderly, doing these weird stretches. Then the guy said I had choices.” My brows shot up, waiting for her to be as upset as I was.

  Her brow wrinkled as she took out another unicorn. “Well, what did he mean by that? What were you supposed to do?”

  “I have no idea! It’s supposed to be a guided meditation. As in, he’s the guide. It’s his job to tell me what to do. Not just send me on my own. We all know that leaving me up to my own devices in a strange city is not a good idea,” I said.

  Louanne soon had several perfectly lined-up rows of the glass animals on her desk—an army of crystal unicorns to do her bidding. She asked, “So, what did you do?”

  “I dreamed up a hotdog cart and went over and got a foot-long with everything: Chili, onions, the works. And of course, the man running the cart was as hot as the wieners he was serving. Feel free to insert your penis joke here, Louie. I ate the whole thing and then I just laid there on the bed with heartburn. I was miserable. I was even more awake than when I had started the damn meditation.”

  She gave me a disapproving look, stating, “But you didn’t eat a hotdog, Josie. You couldn’t have had heartburn.”

  “I have a very active imagination. You of all people should know that. Don’t underestimate me.” I tugged at a particularly stubborn strand, freeing three of the disco ball necklaces at once. Yep, ketchup on two of them. Or was it dried blood? An image of a dismembered leg flashed in my mind. Yuck—I threw all three into the trash. Better safe than sorry. “Anyway, the story gets worse.”