He kept on talking, and Mila heard most of what he said. He was giving her an out, telling her that he’d like to take her on dates and have sex with her on the hood of his truck while it was raining. He mentioned other sex things, too, that all sounded incredibly interesting, but none was as attention-grabbing as the other response he’d given to her.
“You nodded,” she said. He looked a little confused by that so she clarified. “When I asked if you were in love with me, you nodded.”
He lifted his shoulder. “Yeah. And I also told you that you didn’t have to feel the same way about me—”
“But I do. Roman Granger, every memory I have of us involves me being in love with you. Except for nearly getting in a fight in the parking lot of the bar. Oh, and when you put that gerbil down the back of my shirt when I was seven. Other than those two times, I have loved you every minute of my life.”
He blew out a breath, kissed the top of her head. Then his mouth made it down to her lips where he did some more damage. Oh, mercy. The man was a handful. Literally. She slid her fingers into his jeans and found pay dirt.
Roman, in turn, slid his hand over her butt. “I think we should start with a spanking.” He didn’t let go of her while he used his other hand to lower the blinds.
Yes, with her spanking him. They kissed their way to the sofa and fell onto it in a tangled heap. A rather nice heap since she ended up on top of him.
Mila pinned his hands to the sofa. “How many times do we get to have sex with the new rule?”
He hauled her down to him for a kiss and gave her a swat on the butt to go along with it. “We’ll start with three hundred and go up if needed.”
“Oh, it will be needed,” Mila promised him.
Roman smiled. Not a full-blown one because he was still, after all, a badass.
Her badass.
* * * * *
JUST LIKE A COWBOY
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
CARLENE SANDERS WAS well aware of the two great weaknesses in her life: premium chocolate and Wynn Beck.
Too bad it appeared this morning she was on a collision course with both.
Just ahead by the barn, she saw Wynn with two huge take-out cups that no doubt contained the hot chocolate that he drank as if it were the cure for all ills. He was walking straight toward her, which meant one of those cups was probably for her.
For once the gossip mill was falling down on the job, because Carlene hadn’t heard a peep about Wynn coming home for a visit to Wrangler’s Creek, Texas. Too bad. Because whenever her life collided with Wynn, which thankfully these days wasn’t very often, she always needed to prepare for it in advance. She usually did that by steeling herself, girding her loins or running for the hills.
Today, she was choosing the third option. It would give her a couple of moments to accomplish the first two.
Carlene skirted the corral and ducked into the cluster of sugarberry trees that was at the back of the ranch house she called home. The running, though, was all for nothing since Wynn saw her anyway and just kept coming toward her.
“Morning, Carlene,” he drawled. “On the way over here, I stopped by the diner and picked us up something to drink. Double dark chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles. It’s a peace offering, of sorts.”
Well, he hadn’t lost any of that charm, and he knew her Achilles’ heel was that chocolate. “What do you want?” she grumbled.
Wynn took a leisurely sip from one of the cups. He also tried to hand her the other one, but she shook her head and scowled at him.
“Now, is that any way to say hello to an old friend?” he teased. He even winked at her.
“Yes, when that friend is an ex-husband, it is.”
An ex-husband who could still make her feel too many things. Not just the old attraction, either, but the heartache that came along with it. She didn’t need it. And she didn’t need him.
“What do you want?” she repeated. “Because your uncle Joe’s not here. He moved to Florida shortly after Christmas.” That was over two months ago, and Carlene had figured that if Wynn hadn’t come home to say goodbye to the uncle he loved, then he had no intention of returning.
“I know. I talked to Uncle Joe just this morning.” And then Wynn smiled, all lazy and slow. That Wynn-ing smile was so potent that many women in their hometown of Wrangler’s Creek had classified it as foreplay.
He took a step toward her.
“Don’t come any closer,” Carlene warned him, fearing that he might try to give her a welcome hug. Or worse—a welcome kiss. She didn’t want to get any closer to Wynn’s mouth or that highly caloric brew.
He didn’t listen. What else was new? Wynn never listened when it benefited him to do otherwise. He not only came closer, he also kept on smiling that heat-generating smile.
“Carlene, Carlene, Carlene.” He tsk-tsked her. “That’s the best greeting you can manage? And here we haven’t seen each other in, what? Two years?”
“Three,” she corrected.
Too bad she hadn’t even had to think about it for a second. That told Carlene loads about this potentially explosive situation. Like premium chocolate, Wynn was all too often on her mind. Worse, like chocolate, the taste of him was embedded in her memory and her mouth. And it was a taste that she craved much too often.
But he was way off-limits.
They’d divorced nearly three years ago, and he’d left Wrangler’s Creek and his uncle Joe’s small ranch to go full-time on the bull-riding circuit. Wynn had wanted to make a name for himself. And from everything she’d heard, he had done just that. Maybe he’d leave and keep on making that name so she wouldn’t have to see him.
Carlene didn’t want to notice, she really didn’t, but darn it, he looked good. Of course, looking good wasn’t much of a stretch for a guy like Wynn. Good genes poured into great-fitting jeans complete with one of those prize rodeo buckles that was only slightly smaller than a truck hubcap.
He had butterscotch hair that drizzled around the collar of his buckskin jacket. Warm caramel eyes. There was just a touch of milk toffee tint to his skin, a DNA contribution from his Comanche grandmother.
All in all, Wynn looked downright edible.
And that’s why Carlene backed up even more when he ambled toward her. Unfortunately, the freezing-cold sugarberry tree stopped her from backing up any farther.
As if he owned the space between them, Wynn closed in on her. Knowing she had to do something, Carlene made a cross with her fingers and held them up in front of her. The way someone might try to ward off a vampire.
Wynn chuckled. “I just brought you some hot chocolate, that’s all, and I’m trying to give it to you. I know how much you love it.”
“I’m dieting,” Carlene said. Not exactly a lie. She was always dieting. Or at least thinking about it.
Wynn took that as an engraved invitation to give her a full body once-over. His gaze skimmed over her bare, no-makeup face. Her chapped lips. And the poop-stained jeans and boots she wore when she was out feeding the calves—which she’d just been doing.
It got worse.
There were unidentifiable stains on the lime-colored down jacket, a ragged duct-taped rip on the left sleeve and lint bumps everywhere. The thrift store would have rejected the getup, even as a donation for dust rags.
He shifted his stance a little, and she caught a full whiff of his chocolate and of him. The steamy musky-male-and-cocoa scent went straight to the center of her hypothalamus.
And to other parts of her, as well.
“Dieting,” he repeated, adding a husky, manly sound of disagreement. “Not nece
ssary. You look pretty good, if you ask me.”
He took another sip of the hot chocolate. Lazy. Slow.
Carlene reminded herself that Wynn was only temporarily in Wrangler’s Creek and at his uncle’s ranch. She wasn’t. So, in order to save herself from another round of serious heartache, she needed to keep some distance between him and her.
“It’s good to see you, Carlene,” he whispered, all low and sexy.
That famous Texas drawl was in full working order. Wynn didn’t just speak. He French kissed the words, and they sounded a little lust crazed by the time they made it to her ears.
His gaze dipped a fraction until he got to her lips. His chocolate-scented breath brushed over her mouth. She took in a deep breath, hoping the smell alone would satisfy the sudden craving she had for something hot and sweet.
It didn’t.
Nor did it satisfy the sudden urge she had for other hot and sweet things. Specifically, Wynn. And that meant she was in a mountain of trouble.
Carlene tried to move, she really did, but her jeans were caught on something. She struggled, squirmed and otherwise wiggled way too close to a man she shouldn’t have been struggling, squirming and wiggling near.
Wynn glanced behind her and chuckled. “Darling, it appears your butt’s frozen to the sugarberry.”
Carlene got her own verification of that, but it came at a cost. When she turned her head, her boob swiped his hand and her mouth grazed his chin. Definitely not good. A warm boob and tingling mouth were not ways to distance herself from Wynn—especially since he’d noticed that boob swipe. He grinned at her.
But that wasn’t all.
With only a micrometer of space now separating them, Wynn looked deeply into her eyes. “You need some heat,” he informed her.
Carlene gulped in a huge chunk of the freezing air. Why, oh why, did this man have her hormonal number?
“And I suppose you think you’re the man for the job?” she complained.
He fought with a smile, and somehow all that lip twitching was just as drool inducing as his full-blown foreplay smile. “Yeah, I do. After all, I’m the one with the hot chocolate.”
Of all the things she’d thought he might say, Carlene hadn’t expected that. She just stared at him. “Huh?”
“Hot chocolate,” he said again.
Wynn set one of the cups on the ground and maneuvered himself even closer. He pressed his hips against hers and reached behind her. He drizzled a little of the hot chocolate on the butt of her jeans.
Pinching, pulling and otherwise touching, he unthawed her from the sugarberry.
“Uh, thanks,” Carlene mumbled. She craned her neck and caught a glimpse of the residue. Wonderful. Now, she had a saucer-size brown splotch on her rear end.
She started to move again, but Carlene realized she was imprisoned by some pokey tree limbs. Wynn stood between her and much-needed freedom.
He grinned again. And in that grin, Carlene saw the next few moments of her life flash before her eyes. He planned to kiss her. No doubt about it. She’d spent much of her free time since age sixteen either kissing Wynn Beck or daydreaming about kissing him, so she knew exactly how to interpret that expression on his face.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, dropping that voice down yet another octave.
Carlene shook her head. “This won’t work.”
He nodded. “I know. We’ve grown miles and miles apart, what with you being here in Wrangler’s Creek and me on the rodeo circuit.”
“Absolutely. Glad you see things my way—”
He leaned in. “And you’re still riled that I left town the way I did.”
“I haven’t given it a moment’s thought.”
He brushed his mouth against hers. No more. No less. But, just like that, her body went from the frostbite stage to a raging inferno. The air around them warmed at least a full twenty-five degrees.
Carlene’s body suddenly wanted to give in to the moment. Stupid parts of her wanted to wrap themselves around Wynn, haul his mouth to hers and see if he tasted as good as he smelled. She wanted to drag him against that sugarberry and have her way—
But there was no way any part of her could do any of that.
She forced herself to remember that Wynn was off-limits. Ditto for his hot chocolate. One would expand her thighs. The other would break her heart—again. It was time to turn her back on both of these particular temptations before they ruined her life.
She ducked under his arm, pulled back her shoulders and started toward the house. Her exit would have been far more effective if she hadn’t had to dodge a frozen cow patty and a couple of surprised squirrels. She staggered and nearly head butted another tree before Wynn caught her arm.
“Careful there,” he mumbled.
“Too late for that.” Cursing herself for her near slipup and her sudden bout of clumsiness, Carlene extracted herself from his grip and got moving again toward the house.
“Doesn’t it get lonely out here all by yourself?” he asked, picking up the second cup of hot chocolate and following her.
“No. I date Birch Davidson now, and we spend a lot of time together.”
That was a total lie. She had gone on a few dates with Birch, one of the horse trainers at the nearby Granger Ranch, but Birch was about as interesting as that frozen cow patty she’d just dodged.
“I don’t mind being alone here, either,” she added. “I’ve always loved this ranch.” Which explained why she’d worked here for the past three years since...
Well, just since.
Running things was hard, sometimes backbreaking, work, but Joe had allowed her to make it into the only ranch in the area that exclusively bred and raised champion-bloodline Santa Gertrudis cattle. People came from miles around to buy the calves and the bulls, and Carlene had plans to expand—to add a small, sustainable farm, too. There was an old cabin in the back that had once belonged to Joe’s dad, and she could convert that into a huge chicken coop.
Wynn stopped when they reached the back porch, and he looked out at the pasture. “I’ve got plans for this place,” he said.
That got her attention, and Carlene wondered if she’d said aloud what she had been thinking. She whirled around, frowned. “What?”
“Plans,” he verified. He went inside and looked around in there, too. Carlene went after him. “Now I can make it what I’ve always wanted it to be.”
Her heart went to her kneecaps. “What?” she repeated.
Wynn looked back at her, his forehead bunching up. Then he cursed. “You didn’t know? Joe didn’t tell you?”
Her heart just kept falling, but Carlene managed to shake her head. “Tell me what?”
Well, Wynn wasn’t grinning and charming her now. “I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you were being so chilly toward me.”
“I was being chilly...” Carlene stopped. No, best not to get into their past when it appeared there was plenty in their present they needed to clear up. “What did you think Joe had told me?”
Wynn stared at her. The stare of a man trying to figure out how to deliver really bad news. “Uncle Joe signed over the place to me.”
Oh, God. No, this couldn’t be happening.
“I’m sorry,” Wynn went on. “I honestly thought he’d told you.”
She managed a headshake. Nothing more. Hard to talk with no breath.
“Joe did have one condition, though,” he added a heartbeat later. “I own the ranch. At least, I will soon when the papers are all signed. But don’t worry, Joe’s condition was that I keep you on so you won’t be out of a job. And I agreed. So, I guess that means you work for me now.”
CHAPTER TWO
JUDGING FROM THE gobsmacked expression on Carlene’s face, she hadn’t had a clue about Uncle Joe’s decision to
give Wynn the ranch. No wonder she’d been so surprised to see him.
And no wonder there was suddenly fire in her eyes.
This fire was nothing like the heat from the flirting that’d gone on in the back. Nope. She was pissed off.
Without saying another word to him, Carlene marched into the house and yanked her phone from her jeans pocket. No doubt to call Joe. But his uncle was only going to tell her what he’d already told Wynn.
“Joe liked my plans for the place,” Wynn told her while Joe’s line rang. He set the hot chocolate he’d gotten for Carlene on the coffee table. “And he said it was time for me to be the owner now that I’m giving up bull riding.”
Her mouth didn’t fall open, but it was close. Clearly, she hadn’t known that, either.
Where the heck were the gossips when you needed them?
Wynn hadn’t bothered to tell Carlene that little detail about bull riding—or the fact he was returning to Wrangler’s Creek—because he’d figured it would be old news by now. Such old news that he’d half expected to find her packed up and moved out since it was obvious she wanted to avoid him.
Even though Carlene didn’t put the call on speaker, Wynn was close to her and the house was quiet enough that he could hear Joe’s phone ring and ring. While she was waiting for an answer, Wynn had a look around. The place hadn’t changed at all in the past three years. Actually, it hadn’t changed since he’d moved here as a kid.
There was something comforting about that.
The house itself not only had good bones, the furniture and furnishings were suited for a ranch—saddle-brown leather sofa and chairs, his grandmother’s quilt hanging on the wall, the hammered-copper countertops in the adjacent kitchen. While he was continuing to have his look around, he went up the hall to his bedroom, opened the door.
And Wynn frowned.
This was a definite change because it was jammed with boxes and stuff. The bed was still there, but someone had turned it into a junk room.
Branded as Trouble Page 27
