Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

My third inspiration is the Chauvet cave in the Ardèche region whose 32,000-year-old cave art is the most magnificent and oldest in France.

  The Chauvet and Lascaux caves have been closed to the public, to protect the art inside from the damaging mold and bacteria caused by thousands of daily visitors. So, what you’ll see if you go there will be copies, or replicas, not the actual caves.

  The Grotte d’Arcy, on the other hand, is still accessible (only until they build a replica, no doubt), so grab your chance to see the real thing while you can!

  Thank you for reading CLARISSA & THE COWBOY!

  If you enjoyed it, please tell your friends about this book and consider leaving a short (or long) review on Amazon to help others discover my work.

  THANK YOU!

  Alix

  Turn the page to read your BONUS standalone romance included in this edition, PLAYING FOR KEEPS!

  Playing for Keeps

  Game Time Series

  He remembers everything... except the first thirty years of his life.

  Sports star-turned-coach Lucas Delaunay has no recollection of his past, despite his parents' and friends' efforts to help him.

  Enter Isabelle Ferrand, a young publicist hired to land sponsors and fundraise for Lucas’s club. He is told she was a friend. Just a friend. Everyone, Isabelle included, insists he regarded her as a sister.

  Not anymore, he doesn't.

  Every night, he dreams of her naked and panting beneath him. Her taste, her smell, the way her breasts fill his palms... Every morning he wakes up rock hard, groping for her in his empty bed.

  With desire spinning out of control, Lucas wonders if amnesia has changed his taste in women, or if there’s something Isabelle isn’t telling him.

  And if she might be the key to unlocking his past.

  PLAYING FOR KEEPS is a standalone contemporary sports romance within the Game Time series. Guaranteed HEA, no cliffhanger, intended for adult audiences.

  Prologue

  Isabelle

  Utter bliss.

  As Lucas pulls out, I roll off him and nestle in the crook of his arm. He places his other hand on my hip.

  I trail my fingers along his collarbones and kiss his broad chest. From this day forward, a morning quickie with the man of my dreams is officially my number one favorite way to wake up. Especially when said quickie occurs after a whole night of mind-blowing sex.

  Shutting my eyes, I recall the last eight hours. Let’s see… a total of five, maybe six, orgasms since around midnight, when we tumbled into his apartment, and he took me right in the entryway. Both of us were too aroused to make it to the bedroom.

  This was, without a doubt, the best night in my life.

  So worth the wait!

  Three years of being Lucas’s friend. Dozens of schemes to make him look at me differently. Disappointment when each of them failed. Pain every time I spotted him with a new woman on his arm. Envy because that woman would invariably be prettier than me.

  That’s all in the past now.

  I smile and breathe him in. Is it too soon to make plans? Do I dare to ask him what he’s doing next weekend since there are no matches and we’ll both be in Paris?

  “Next weekend,” he says, sliding his hand from my hip to my backside. “I’d like us to try something different. What say you?”

  Thank you, God, for next weekend and us!

  Wait… What exactly was his question?

  I open my eyes and peer at him, trying to figure out what he has in mind.

  “Izz… Babe…” Lucas hesitates before giving me a tender smile. “My regular girlfriend doesn’t want to hear about anything remotely kinky, but if you’re up for it, it would make me very happy.”

  Did he just say my girlfriend?

  An instant lump in my throat makes it nearly impossible to draw a breath. I pull back, scrambling for something to hold on to as I begin to fall.

  Perhaps I misheard him.

  Or maybe it was a dumb joke, and he’s going to burst out laughing any second now.

  Except, Lucas doesn’t laugh—he draws his eyebrows together. “You don’t know about Angie?”

  A tiny shake of my head is all I can manage.

  “It’s true she hasn’t been to any of my scrimmages or games.” He tilts his head to the side. “She travels a lot for work… But I was sure you’ve heard of her.”

  I shake my head again.

  “Right.” He props his head on his elbow. “Just so we’re clear… This doesn’t change anything, OK?”

  I blink at him.

  Lucas sits up. “It’s still the friend zone for us, Isabelle.”

  Isabelle.

  No longer “Izz.”

  Why not Mademoiselle Ferrand while he’s at it?

  I focus on the way he’s addressing me to keep my mind distracted from the real issue. And the real pain. But the sensation of falling is so powerful, it makes my stomach twist despite attempts to distract myself.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Lucas says, still smiling. “We’ll finish this conversation after I take a leak.”

  He stands and heads to the bathroom without bothering to put on his boxers. My descent gains momentum as I watch his muscular, V-shaped back, his tight ass, and his long, strong thighs. Two more steps, and I crash into the ground with a dull thud.

  Must get out of here before I throw up.

  I sit up and stroke my tummy under the blanket to quell the nausea.

  Lucas halts at the door, takes in my discomfiture and laughs. “You look so shocked! Hey, we had a good time, but I hope you didn’t expect a declaration of undying love.”

  “Of course not,” I say. “But… I didn’t expect this.”

  Anger rises in my chest, and I hang onto it with all I have.

  “I wasn’t aware you were seeing someone,” I hiss. “You should’ve told me last night before we came here.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Because if I had, you would’ve said no?”

  I open my mouth to confirm, but the truth is I’m not sure. I can only hope it would’ve been a no.

  Instead, I say, “It pisses me off that you want to use me as a fuck buddy for whatever depraved shit your regular girlfriend won’t do.”

  There, it felt good to voice it.

  Lucas backtracks and sits at the foot of the bed. “Izz, I’m going to be blunt. I have to because you need it.”

  I swallow, bracing myself for more nastiness.

  “You’re plain,” he says. “Fit and wholesome, but plain. I don’t date plain women. In fact, I don’t even sleep with them. You’re an exception.”

  He may as well have sucker punched me.

  I turn my head to the wall. “You flatter me, Lucas.”

  “Try to put yourself in my shoes,” he says. “I’m just a man. And you were so… desperate. You’ve been trying so hard, for so long—”

  “Are you saying this was a pity fuck?” I force myself to turn to him and stare into his eyes.

  He holds my gaze. “Yes.”

  For a moment, we stay like that, me glaring, him searching my face for sympathy.

  “Let me show you something,” he finally says and begins to sift through the pile of clothes on the floor.

  Whatever it is, I’m almost sure I don’t want to see it. After his previous remarks, I only expect more pain from the “man of my dreams.”

  “Found it!” Lucas straightens up with his phone in his hand.

  I think I know what he’s going to show me.

  “This is my girlfriend,” he says holding the phone in front of my face. “She’s a top model.”

  Of course, she is. The woman is freaking gorgeous. Almost too perfect to be real.

  “How long have you been seeing her?” I ask, praying that my voice doesn’t crack.

  “Since July.”

  “That’s five months! You’ve had an actual non-groupie, non-disposable girlfriend for five months?”

  “Yeah.”

  My eyes tear. “Why did
you do this to me, Lucas?”

  He shrugs. “Like I said, you were desperate. And I was… curious. So, I figured now was the time before I take it to the next level with Angie.”

  “Next level?” My eyes widen as comprehension strikes. “You plan to marry her?”

  “Eventually, yes.” He smiles. “But I’m counting on you not to tell anyone at the club yet.”

  I smirk. “Do your teammates even know she exists?”

  “Some of them do. They know Angie doesn’t like water polo and doesn’t have time to hang out with my crowd. Besides, she finds our gatherings vulgar.”

  “Does she?”

  “Hmm, now that I’m telling you this, I wonder if I should feel offended.” Lucas grins. “Anyway, when we’re both in town, we mostly hang out with her trendier model and photographer friends.”

  I stare at him, still finding it hard to believe what I’m hearing.

  He fingers his phone. “Let me show you a few more pics.”

  As photos slide in front of my eyes, Lucas says, “This is Angie doing a Dior show… The two of us in Saint Tropez… This one was taken at her friend’s party in London.”

  Beautiful people, designer clothes, expensive cars, luxurious settings… A life so vastly different from the northern suburbs of Paris both Lucas and I come from, it may as well have been on a different planet.

  “Who’s the pretty boy on her left?” I arch an eyebrow, pointing to a big dude with his arm wrapped around Angie’s shoulder. “He’s in half of your pictures.”

  Lucas’s expression loses some of its smugness. “That’s Clément. He’s a fashion photographer and Angie’s best friend.”

  I sneer. “Friend with benefits?”

  “Without,” he says. “I’m certain of it. It’s like you and Eric—just really good friends.”

  It’s true, Eric and I are just really good friends, and we do hang out together a lot. And, damn him, he does like to hug me. So there goes my pathetic attempt to insinuate a man who has his arm wrapped around a woman’s shoulder must be more than a friend.

  “Well, congratulations,” I say, looking at the wall.

  “Thank you.” He stands and leaves the room.

  Lucas has a girlfriend, is all I can think about as I pull my clothes on and see myself out.

  Last night he cheated on her, and I was an accessory to his dalliance. He wants to sleep with me again so he can try kinky stuff she won’t do. I hate him for that, and I loathe myself.

  On some level, I’ve always known he didn’t find me hot enough for a proper relationship. But I lived in denial. Except now, there’s no hiding from the bitter and humiliating truth. I’ve been blind enough not to see it and to fall in love with him.

  And that brings me to the second truth, which is even more distressing than the first.

  Now I know he’s a jerk—and I still love him.

  1

  Lucas

  Six Years Later

  The horn marks the end of the game, and the guys shout and throw their fists up.

  “Go France!” our fans in the arena chant.

  The Czech fans show remarkable restraint in expressing their disappointment.

  I glance at Michel and Frederic from the French Swimming Federation. They give me the thumbs up, and I nod, beaming.

  This wasn’t just any victory.

  The men’s national team, which I’ve had the honor of coaching since last season, just qualified for the knockout stage of the European Water Polo Championship.

  Eric, who’s been screaming his head off for the last thirty seconds, pulls himself together and nudges me with his elbow. “We did it.”

  “It’s huge.” I smile before arching an eyebrow. “But this is not our endgame.”

  He nods. “I know, I know—our endgame is the podium. We’ll get there.”

  My assistant coach is a former Pro A player just like me, even if we’ve never played for the same club.

  But I knew him Before Amnesia. The pro water polo world being so small in France, everybody seems to know everybody. Besides, Eric and I had a common friend, Isabelle Ferrand. She used to play for the women’s team in my club, but she quit water polo and went back to school to get a degree in marketing a few months before my attack.

  Four years back, I looked her up and arranged a meeting. Encouraged by my therapist, I was on a mission to talk to everyone from my past in the hopes of triggering a memory—any memory. But we didn’t connect. Isabelle was aloof. I was still weak and easily overwhelmed. We soldiered through a disjointed conversation for half an hour, at the end of which we bid each other a relieved farewell and went our separate ways.

  Beats me how she and I could have been friends when we had nothing to say to each other.

  Then again, perhaps Before Amnesia, we did.

  I’ve collected so many facts about the first thirty years of my life, I sometimes tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore that I can’t recall things. But most of the time, when I’m at a loss about what kind of person I used to be, I’m reminded just how much it matters.

  If only I hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time that night!

  The police reconstructed the events leading up to my attack with very few holes. I’d had a regular day. I’d worked out at the pool in the morning. Then I’d grabbed lunch with a couple of my teammates. I’d gone home and had a video chat with Angie, who was doing a beachwear shoot in Brazil. Back to the pool for the afternoon practice. Nothing special, no tiffs with anyone.

  In the evening, Eric and Isabelle had spotted me in Le Poivre, waiting for someone. We’d exchanged a few words, and they’d left. Unfortunately, I hadn’t told them who I was meeting.

  The cops were unable to establish that, either.

  No one knows if that person ever showed and if he’s the one I had a fistfight with. When I fell, hit my temple against the curb and passed out, there was so much blood, he might’ve assumed I was dead. He might’ve freaked and hightailed it out of there, taking my wallet to make it look like a mugging.

  Or, more likely, whoever I was waiting for never showed. I’d had too much to drink, and some asshole in the bar marked me as easy prey and followed me outside.

  A regular mugging, with a very unfortunate outcome, but no mystery behind it.

  “I hear you’re dining with the Swimming Federation reps tonight,” Eric says, breaking me from my thoughts.

  There’s a tiny hint of envy in his voice.

  “It’s to talk shop,” I say. “I’d rather be celebrating with you guys.”

  “I bet you would,” Eric says.

  This time, both his smile and his tone are earnest, and I chastise myself for my earlier discomfort. So what if Eric feels a little resentful about being left out? Anyone would in his place. The man is ambitious and serious about his career. I can relate. And I can certainly understand his wish to be involved when the “grown-ups” talk shop.

  “I’ll give you a detailed account,” I say. “And next time they invite me, I’ll insist you come along.”

  He waves dismissively. “Don’t. Someone needs to keep an eye on the guys, so they don’t get too carried away.”

  “Zach can do it,” I say. “He’s the oldest and wisest of the lot.”

  Eric nods. “I guess he can.”

  In the evening, I join the Federation reps at the hotel restaurant.

  “I just wanted to say, once again, what an honor it is for me to coach the national team,” I say while we wait for our food to be served. “You entrusted me with a huge responsibility, and you won’t regret it.”

  Michel raises his glass. “Amen to that. The decision wasn’t Fred’s and mine alone. It was the entire board’s. Everyone was inspired by how you’d started a brand-new club and taken it to national silver in two years.”

  “It was my luck players like Zach Monin joined from the outset,” I say.

  Frederic takes a sip from his glass and swishes the wine in his mouth. “Zachary Monin’s joining
you had nothing to do with luck.”

  His tone is sardonic and cold, the only way the Chairman of the Federation ever sounds. But he’s a good sort—fair and unburdened by any of the prejudices people of his generation sometimes harbor.

  Not my parents, thank heavens.

  Besides, Frederic does have a point. Zach “The Nuke” Monin and Denis Milevic joined Nageurs de Paris because the three of us used to play together for Boulogne back in the day.

  My genius goalie Noah and a few younger players signed up because Zach is the country’s top scorer and a demigod in the water polo world.

  Our talented hole defender, Julien, assures me he joined after he watched recordings of my own exploits back from when I played hole D on the French Olympic Team. He says he was impressed by my endurance. Hell, I’m impressed by it every time I watch those old games. Without false modesty, I was good—a top-notch hole D fans worshiped and several premium division European clubs warred over.

  Shame I don’t remember that.

  But, yeah, it does look like my past as a good player had more to do with the club’s success, than dumb luck.

  “Your job is cut out for you, Lucas,” Michel says. “Get the French water polo team to where it was six years ago, before you and Zachary took a break. And then take it further. We want a European medal, my boy. We haven’t had one in decades.”

  Funny how what Michel speaks of as a “break,” Frederic, who’s blunter, calls a knockout. As for Zach’s hiatus, he refers to it as a knockup. Zach had put his life on pause for four years after his newborn son was diagnosed with epilepsy and his ex had left the two of them to fend for themselves.

  I guess Zach and I would finish pretty close if we contended for the “Shittiest Water Polo Break of the Decade.”