“It’s my doorstep,” she corrected, hoping she was right. Hoping her aunt hadn’t decided to lease the apartment to somebody else in the week since she’d written.
His eyebrows shot up, and the man pushed up to his full height. “Your doorstep? Are you sure?”
Grace went for bravado and snorted. “Of course I’m sure.”
He shrugged one wide shoulder, and Grace was suddenly very aware that his plaid button-down shirt wasn’t actually buttoned down. It looked as though he’d just shrugged it on to come investigate the commotion in the hall, and when he moved, a long strip of skin showed from his neck all the way down to his waist. And then there were his jeans and the affectionate way they clung to strong thighs.
The Stud Farm, she suddenly remembered. What kind of place was this?
She shook off her thoughts. The man was wearing cowboy boots, for godssake. He was wholesome and homey. His thighs were none of her concern. But the sight of his boots reminded her that she was in Wyoming, which reminded her why she was in Wyoming and what a mess she’d made of her life. “Anyway,” she said with a scowl, “still none of your business.”
She grabbed the handle of her duffel bag and pulled it up with shaky arms. She couldn’t leave her bag here, but she didn’t know what she was going to do with it. She didn’t know what she was going to do with herself.
A surge of anger gave her the strength to bounce the bag higher in her grip, but she wasn’t going to make it to the curb, much less walk to… Where, exactly?
“Let me get that.” A large hand closed over the handle and lifted the weight from her grasp.
“Hey—” she started, but he’d already transferred the bag to his possession. He held it with one hand as if it were a pocketbook. Even more skin showed past his shirt now. Skin and muscle and golden hair.
While she was staring, he reached past her and opened the door.
He just…opened the door.
“What the hell?” she bit out.
He shot her a puzzled look. “You did say it was your place, right?”
“Yes, but…” She felt like smoke was about to come out her ears, and wanted to snatch her bag away and tell him to get lost. But her arms were so tired. “The door was locked,” she said past clenched teeth.
“It sticks a little. You have to pull back on it before you turn the knob.”
“So it was just open? Unlocked?”
“Nothing to steal here,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Where do you want this?”
Where, indeed? Now that they were inside, the apartment looked like an old converted place she’d once rented in L.A. White walls, scuffed wooden floors, a nondescript kitchen. But with little touches from the past, like a fireplace and built-in bookshelves. And not one single piece of furniture.
Somehow that hadn’t occurred to her.
“Right there is fine,” she murmured. “Thanks.” It didn’t really matter, after all. Living room, bedroom. They were equally empty rooms to her.
“Here?” the guy asked doubtfully.
“Yes, there. Thank you. I appreciate the help.”
“Yeah?” He smiled wide enough to show his dimples again. “Then why did you look like those words hurt coming out?”
She tried frowning at him, but he just stuck out his hand.
“I’m Cole, by the way. Cole Rawlins.”
“Grace Barrett,” she said. His wide hand engulfed hers, and though he didn’t squeeze hard, there was no mistaking the strength in those rugged hands. His calluses rasped against her fingers.
“Grace,” he murmured, his gaze rising momentarily to her hair.
“Yes. Grace.” She enjoyed the contradiction of her traditional, gentle name and her physical appearance.
This man recovered more quickly than most. “A pleasure,” he said simply. Then added, “Grace.”
She pulled her hand away at the intimacy of hearing him say her name as if it truly were a pleasure.
Cowboy freak. Though her hand tingled and she tried not to smile.
“You’re not from around here.” The understatement of the year.
“Look, I really do appreciate the help, but I need to find my aunt, so…” Give me some space?
He didn’t seem to hear that last, unspoken part of the conversation. “Your aunt?”
“I’m renting the apartment from her.”
“Wait a minute. Old Rayleen is your aunt?”
“My great-aunt, actually.”
“Ah. I get it, then.”
“Get what?” she asked.
“Why she’d rent this place to you.”
Grace straightened her shoulders and scowled. “Why exactly wouldn’t she rent this place to me, huh? Real nice, cowboy.”
She assumed he would stammer and shift and try to find some excuse, when what he really meant was that she didn’t look like a girl who belonged here. But instead of clearing his throat or changing the subject, he just grinned again.
“Let’s just say you’re a little smaller than the other renters here.”
Grace glanced around as if those other renters had just joined them. “I thought you Wyoming folk were supposed to be plainspoken. How about you try saying what you mean?”
“Talk about plainspoken. They don’t make ’em timid where you come from, do they? All right, here’s the deal. Your aunt has a reputation for renting only to men. Says that they’re easier to deal with.” The wry tone of his voice implied something different.
“Uh, is there something going on here I should know about?” When she shot an obvious look down his body, his eyes widened in horror.
“No! Absolutely not. But, hey, if she likes my face enough to give me a hundred-dollar discount on rent, I won’t argue with her. But that’s the extent of her quirkiness. I swear.”
Even the most cynical person could tell he was offering the truth. And his face? Hell, that was enough to inspire generosity. It was lovely in a very masculine way. A jaw like steel. Strong nose. And blue eyes that crinkled with warmth fairly often, if the laugh lines were any indication. And his short brown hair had just enough wave to make it look unruly and disheveled. He was gorgeous, and his body called for further attention, too, but Grace kept her eyes on his face.
“Isn’t it illegal to rent only to men?”
“Beats me. But I guess she gets away with it.”
“Regardless,” she finally said, “I need to find my aunt. Get a key. Let her know I’m here.”
“Well, that’s easy. She’s probably next door.”
“At your place?”
“No! Come on. I meant next door at the saloon.”
“Is she a big drinker?”
“She runs the place,” he corrected. “And she’s a big drinker.”
“Got it. Thanks. I’ll just go see her then.” She was clearly implying he should leave. She even raised an impatient eyebrow and glanced toward the door. But Cole didn’t notice because he was pointedly looking around her apartment.
“You got some furniture coming?”
“Sure. Of course. Thanks for the help.”
He turned his grin on her again. “All right, then, Grace Barrett. Even cowboys can take a hint when you’re bashing them over the head with it. But let me know if you need any more help. I’m only a few feet away.”
“Great. Thanks.”
The sound of his boots on the wood floor of the apartment was softer than Grace would’ve expected, but his steps still echoed against the bare walls. If she were the kind of person who had ever planned to stay in one place more than six months, Grace knew what she would be thinking at this moment. I’ll need to find something to put on these walls. Or at the very least, she would’ve been painting them some warm and inviting color in her mind, and wondering where she could find some rugs. Instead, she just took pleasure in the fact that the white paint was still white and was marred by only a few nail holes.
At least she’d learned to appreciate the small things in life. And the big thin
gs, like the sound of the door closing behind Cole Rawlins as he finally left her alone.
“Whew,” Grace breathed, letting the air ease out of her lungs. The place felt a lot bigger without him taking up all her space.
Okay, maybe a little too big. But without him here, she could see the small ways that the apartment wasn’t quite like an old place in L.A. The beautiful, dark wood window frame hadn’t been painted over, and instead of miniblinds, there were white curtains. It also didn’t smell like roach spray.
She strolled over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. Here was another difference. Instead of a view of a parking lot or traffic or a million other apartments, Grace was looking at a huge pine tree. Past that, she had a view of the small street, and a green house with a yellow porch on the other side of it. A snowmobile sat in the open garage.
Grace crinkled her nose at the strangeness of the sight. That was something she’d never seen in L.A. Jet Skis, sure. But the snowmobile looked like a real machine. It looked dangerous and powerful, gleaming black and red in the sunlight. It looked…fun.
Too bad she’d be long gone by winter. She had to get to Vancouver in six weeks and make some money, or she was going to be in even bigger trouble than she was now. Way bigger.
* * *
COLE GRABBED A COKE and leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes on his front door. That had been a surprise. Opening his door to find a raging tornado of a city girl assaulting a stuffed duffel bag. Not at all what he’d expected during his quick run home to shower and grab a sandwich after his half day at the ranch.
The female voice in the hallway had caught his attention. The female herself, spewing curses and kicking things? Whew.
That girl was going to be trouble. If the purple layers in her dark, choppy hair didn’t make that clear, the hard glint in her eyes certainly did. He knew that look. He’d seen it before. And despite his image as the wholesome and friendly good ol’ cowboy, that look stirred something in him. It was like a dare. A challenge.
And he did love a challenge.
Speaking of… She’d basically pushed him out the door, claiming that she needed to find her aunt right away. But five minutes had passed and he still hadn’t heard her leave. Rude little witch. It seemed like she’d taken his attempts to help as some sort of insult.
He should’ve let her stand out in that hallway all afternoon, trying to figure out how to get into an open apartment.
Cole imagined her increasing anger and frustration. That look of hot rage he’d glimpsed when he’d opened his door to find out what the noise was about. She hadn’t even been embarrassed. She’d just glared at him as if he was intruding.
“Trouble,” he murmured as he finally gave up his vigil and stood. Shane was waiting at the saloon to grab a beer, and Cole had nothing to do until physical therapy the next day. He managed not to linger in the entryway, but only because he figured he might see her at the Crooked R soon.
He’d forgotten about this type of girl during the past decade. But he was remembering everything now. The way they made his heart beat faster. The way they seemed to dare him to act on his impulses. He’d once had a thing for dangerous city girls. And he’d ended up in a bad way because of it.
He shoved the thought away as he walked into the saloon and spotted Shane setting up a game of eight ball. “Hey,” he said as he grabbed a cue.
“Hey. When are you getting your lazy ass back to work?”
Despite the rude words, Cole noticed the look of concern that Shane shot him. He ignored it. “I’m part-time at the ranch now. It won’t be long.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
Shane watched him for another long moment. “Good,” he finally said. “Because I want my first-floor apartment back.”
“The stairs too much for you, old man?”
“You’re one to talk.” He gestured toward the table. “You want to break?”
“Was that a joke about my leg?” Cole asked, but he was immediately distracted by the door of the saloon opening. The flash of daylight obscured the person, but as soon as it closed, he saw it was a blonde. No black-and-purple hair in sight.
“You ready to play?” Shane asked.
Yeah, he was ready to play, but he wasn’t thinking about pool. Instead he was thinking about his new neighbor.
“Hey, did you hear the news?”
Assuming Shane was talking about Grace, Cole just raised an eyebrow and leaned over the table to break.
“There’s a big film production coming to town.”
Cole forced himself to pull the cue back as if those words didn’t affect him. In fact, he managed to sink two balls with a perfect break.
“You know anything about it?” Shane asked.
“Why would I?”
“I thought maybe you were going to go Hollywood again.”
Cole forced himself to smile, even though his mind was spinning. That couldn’t be why Grace was here, could it? “That was a long time ago,” he said calmly.
“Not that long ago,” Shane countered. “Ten years?”
“Thirteen,” Cole said. Thirteen long years, but not even close to long enough. Thirteen years since Hollywood had come to town and he’d jumped in feetfirst. If Grace was part of that crowd…
But no. She was renting an apartment, not staying at one of the fancy resorts. Grace wasn’t part of the film team. No way. But maybe this was a warning that should be heeded. A reminder that city girls had led him astray before. And he’d followed willingly.
This chick was bad news. And she was living across the hall. And he wasn’t the least bit inclined to avoid her.
She should’ve scared the hell out of him, and instead, he was smiling in anticipation.
Somehow that only made him smile harder.
Bad news, indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
THE FRESH AIR STRUCK GRACE as soon as she stepped out, the cleanness of it startling though she’d been outside just a few minutes before. Almost against her will, she took a deep breath, drawing in the beauty of it. Even if she’d been surrounded by stucco buildings and ten lanes of traffic, there’d be no mistaking that she wasn’t in L.A. anymore. The air was too crisp, and when she moved, it hardly even touched her skin. She felt lighter as she headed for the faint sounds of music leaking from the saloon next door.
“The saloon next door,” she murmured. That was something she’d never said before. Bar, yes. Liquor store, sure. And on one occasion even a strip club. But never a saloon.
The strip club had actually made a pretty good neighbor. Unlike bars and liquor stores, no one wanted to hang around outside a strip club. The interesting parts were inside, behind blacked-out windows and plain cement walls. And once the place shut down for the night, the girls dropped everything and left as if the building made their skin crawl.
Grace had always told herself she couldn’t imagine doing that. Pretending to like a man for money. Using her body to win favors. But in the end, she’d done the same thing, hadn’t she?
As she opened the heavy saloon door, she shook that thought from her head. What the hell did it matter? She’d done what she’d done, and now she was just as miserable as she deserved to be.
Old country music filled the saloon, though it wasn’t particularly loud. A friendly buzz of conversation overlaid the music. Even at 3:00 p.m., several of the tables were filled, though not with the usual miserable types she associated with afternoon drinking. Two of the groups looked like young and scruffy college kids that you’d see in any other town. But at the closest table, all five of the men wore cowboy hats. Each man touched the brim of his hat as she passed. Grace felt her face flush at the unexpected courtesy and hurried past them to the long bar that ran along the side of the building.
She hadn’t seen her great-aunt in almost twenty years, but the blonde woman behind the bar was clearly not Aunt Rayleen. This woman was somewhere in her thirties, probably, though her skin was fresh and so pretty she could pas
s for a younger woman.
“Hi,” Grace said, catching her attention. “I’m looking for Rayleen. Rayleen Kisler?”
The woman kept polishing a glass, but offered a wide smile. “Of course, sweetie. She’s right over there. Usual table.”
Grace followed the gesture to a table at the far corner of the bar. An old woman sat there playing solitaire, an unlit cigarette gripped tightly between two thin lips. Yeah. That was Aunt Rayleen. She looked as mean as ever.
“Thank you,” Grace murmured, thinking those weren’t quite the right words as she headed across the bar. What she should have said was “Never mind” or “Pretend you never saw me.” She should have turned around and grabbed her stuff and kept moving. Grace hadn’t even wanted to ask for help from her grandmother, much less this sour-faced woman who’d never had a kind word for anyone, even when Grace had been a child.
And her face had only gotten more sour in the meantime. Though her hair was still beautiful. Pure white and flowing past her shoulders in a gorgeous wave. Rayleen’s one and only vanity, according to Grandma Rose.
Grace finally stood before the table, but the old lady didn’t look up. She just scowled down at her cards, flipping over three at a time in a slow rhythm. Her pale chambray shirt looked about three sizes too big for her.
“Aunt Rayleen?” Grace finally ventured.
The old lady grunted.
“I’m Grace. Grace Barrett.” Still no response. “Your niece?”
Her silver eyebrows rose and she finally looked up. A sharp green gaze took Grace in with one flick of her eyes. “Thought you’d be knocked up.”
“Pardon me?”
Her gaze fell back to the table and she resumed her card flipping. “A grown woman who can’t keep a job or support herself and has to write to her grandmother to ask for money? I figured you were out of commission. But you look perfectly fine to me.”
Grace’s skin prickled with violent anger. “If you—”
“Aside from the hair.”
Grace stiffened and cleared her throat. She didn’t have the right to tell this lady off. God, she wanted to, but maybe a free apartment gave Rayleen the right to get in a few insults. Which was exactly why Grace hated asking for help.
Close Enough to Touch Page 2
