The Cowboy Meets His Match

by Jessica Clare

  They ordered. Hank got the biggest steak on the menu and she ordered a soup and sandwich for herself, mostly because she was probably going to be too nervous to wolf down a big slab of meat. Becca had a cocktail, and she noticed Hank drank just water. Not a drinker. That was good. They talked a little about Libby while waiting on their food, but the date still felt terribly awkward and stilted. Hank tended to answer in one-word responses unless she tried to pry more out of him, and it was exhausting.

  She worried that he wasn’t having a good time. That she was a crappy date. Maybe she was too chatty for him and that was a problem. So when the food was set down, she concentrated on eating, waiting for him to pick up the conversation . . . but he never did. They ate in silence, and she continued to feel more awkward by the minute.

  Something told her this was going to be her last date with Hank Watson. She didn’t know if she was disappointed. It was clear he didn’t want to talk to her . . . but if that was the case, why had he asked her out? She toyed with her spoon in her soup, her appetite mostly gone.

  “Dessert?” their waiter asked, his voice kind. She suspected he could tell their date was going badly, because he kept casting sympathetic looks in her direction.

  Hank looked at her and she shook her head, and the waiter set the bill down.

  “If we’re leaving, I need to run to the ladies’ room before we go,” Becca said, getting to her feet.

  Hank got to his feet, too, and nodded.

  She turned and crossed the restaurant, biting back her sigh of disappointment. Well, this was how dating went now, wasn’t it? You had to date around to find the right guy. That’s what all the magazines said. It was an empowered time and she didn’t have to settle for the first man that crossed her path . . . except she was pretty sure she liked this one. So that was frustrating.

  As she walked past the bar, her skirt snagged on something and flipped up. She felt a breeze on her butt and gasped, reaching for the back of her dress.

  Everyone in the restaurant was going to see her ugly granny panties!

  Except when she went to smooth her skirt down, someone else’s hand was there. Becca was horrified to find that someone from the bar—a biker from the rough look of him—had grabbed her skirt and was leering at her.

  “Hey there, little girl.” He winked at her in a creepy way. “Where’re you hurrying off to?”

  Becca jerked her skirt out of his grip, humiliation staining her cheeks as the guys sitting next to the biker laughed and stared at her.

  “You saw her panties,” another one said, leering in her direction. “No one’s getting laid tonight!”

  And they all started laughing again.

  She’d never been so humiliated. It felt as if the entire restaurant was full of men, all of them laughing at her. She—

  A massive body clad in dark colors stepped in front of her. Before she could say anything, Hank’s big hand touched her arm and he was practically shielding her from everyone’s gaze. He’d stepped in front of her to confront the laughing man and was now looming over him, a deadly look in his eye.

  “Don’t like the way you’re talking to my lady,” he growled, his voice so low it was barely audible. “Sure didn’t like the way you’re tryin’ to embarrass her.”

  “Pal, I’mma let you in on a secret.” He laughed, drunkenly raising his glass into the air. “You ain’t getting any tonight. Did you see—”

  To her surprise, Hank reached over and plucked the glass from the man’s hand and set it down on the bar. He leaned forward even more, inches from the man’s face. Becca was frozen on the spot, unable to look away.

  Hank murmured something too low to hear, and the man at the bar blanched. His buddies averted their eyes. The biker rubbed his mouth and glanced over at her. “I . . . ah, right. I’m sorry, miss. Just got carried away.”

  She stared at him in helpless, mute fury, not sure what else to say.

  Hank turned and looked at her, waiting.

  Was she supposed to give her approval? What would happen if she didn’t? For a moment, she wanted to beat the biker with her purse and shout obscenities in his face for making her feel so stupid, but she was frozen in place. All she did was nod and rush to the bathroom.

  She just wanted this horrible evening to end already. It had started with such promise, but everything seemed to be going wrong, all of it.

  Inside the bathroom, Becca sat on the toilet for a few long minutes and wept. She was still embarrassed. That hadn’t changed. She wished she’d been stronger. She wished she’d responded better. That she’d taken charge. Instead, she was hiding in the bathroom and weeping like an idiot because some jerk had harassed her. She hadn’t reacted. She’d frozen, and she was mad at herself over that as much as everything else.

  Becca gave herself a minute—two, max—to cry, and then she sniffed and went to the mirror to fix her makeup. She dabbed away smudged mascara, reapplied her lip gloss, and then put her hand on the door, dreading that she was going to have to walk across that crowded restaurant one more time with everyone staring at her, knowing she was wearing the ugliest panties known to humankind under her cute dress because her date wasn’t going to get any.

  God, how humiliating.

  She took a deep breath and then opened the door and stepped into the hallway that led back out to the main area of the restaurant. In the distance, dishes were clinking in the kitchen and music was playing. It sounded normal. She didn’t hear the guys at the bar, their loud laughter, or anything of that nature.

  Her date waited at the entrance to the bathroom, leaning against the wall. He was an intimidating figure, made all the more terrifying by the dark scowl on his face. He straightened as she exited and touched her bare arm when she tried to brush past him.

  “Wait,” he murmured. “Stop.”

  She did, staring at the wall and at the framed picture of a butcher’s diagram of beef and how it related to cattle. Huh. So that was where the T-bone came from.

  Calloused fingers touched her chin. Hank gently lifted her face until her gaze met his, and he scanned her eyes, his mouth drawing to a firm, hard line at the sight of her reddened eyes. His thumb brushed over her chin, just once, and then he leaned in. “Do you have cash?”

  “Cash?” She gave him a curious look. “For my half of the bill?”

  “No.” He leaned in closer. “For my bail money if I go beat the shit out of that guy.”

  Becca’s eyes went wide. He was serious? As she stared up at him, she noticed the intense look on his face, the tightness at the edges of his mouth, and realized that, yes, he was very serious.

  Oh. For some reason, that made her feel better. She hadn’t reacted on her own, but he was outraged on her behalf, and that somehow helped. She touched his arm. “Let’s just go, okay?”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  A moment later, a big hand splayed across her back, and then Hank slowly escorted her out of the restaurant, glaring at the men as they passed the bar. Not one of them looked in Becca’s direction. They all looked terrified.

  And, okay, that made her feel a little better, too.

  Hank calmly guided her through the parking lot and opened her door for her, helping her into the truck. He shut the door, then paused. For a long moment, she held her breath as he glanced back over at the rows of motorcycles, as if he was considering. Then he looked at her again.

  She shook her head.

  He nodded once and then got into the truck and started it up, and then they started the long drive back to Painted Barrel.

  It was quiet in the truck cab, and Becca fidgeted with her purse and the hem of her dress, wondering if she should say anything. Eventually, curiosity got the best of her. “Would you have really—”

  “Yes.”

  Well. All right, then. It was hard to dislike a man that was willing to
go to jail for your honor. She found herself smiling in the darkness and glanced over at him again. “You really scared that guy, you know.”

  “Good.” A ruthless smile crossed his face.

  She tilted her head, watching him as he drove. “What did you say to him?”

  He glanced over at her for a moment, as if debating whether to tell her. Then Hank turned back to the road once more. “Told him I had my skinning knife in my truck and I wasn’t afraid to go to prison for wearing him like a fur coat.”

  Becca paused. “Well . . . that’s rather savage.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Would you have—”

  He snorted. “No. But he didn’t know that.” Hank glanced over at her again. “I’m sorry.”

  He was sorry? “For?”

  “For not doing more.”

  The man had the ability to shock her, constantly. “Are you kidding me?” Her voice rose to a screechy note and she made herself calm down. “Hank, I dated a man for ten years and he never would have done that for me.” If anything, Greg would have chastised her for wearing too short a dress and causing a scene, like she was the problem. “I can’t thank you enough for standing up for me.”

  “Hated that it happened on our date.”

  “Yeah, well, me too.”

  “One thing’s clear, though.”

  She turned to him. “What’s that?”

  “You have shit taste in men.”

  A horrified giggle escaped her. “I do not!”

  “As one of those men, I can safely say your taste could be better.” He grinned over at her, and for the moment, the mood between them was crackling and fun. She forgot all about the awkward dinner date and the jerks at the bar. This was the Hank she wanted to go out with. The one that made sly, sharp comments. The one that looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive. She just had to get him to show up instead of the silent, broody guy who made her feel like an idiot.

  Then they were in front of her house, the pale strings of lights flickering in the salon window. She’d left her porch light on, and Main Street was surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. Hank got out of the truck and, like before, opened her door for her and escorted her to her front porch, his big hand on her back. She was acutely aware of that small touch, and for some reason, it felt wrong that the date was about to end when they’d just had a breakthrough.

  She pulled her keys out and hesitated before she opened the door. “You want to come in and watch some Netflix?”

  “Netflix?” he echoed.

  Oh god, was he going to think she was asking him to Netflix and chill? That was code for hooking up. “It’s just to watch a movie, nothing else,” she blurted, and then felt her face go bright red because she’d practically shrieked that at him like a crazy woman. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this. I don’t want you to think—”

  But Hank nodded slowly. “Me either.” He scratched at his hair, mussing it up, and let out a long sigh. “Here I thought calving season was hard, but it’s hardest being on a date with a pretty woman.”

  Aw. He thought she was pretty? Becca felt herself melting at the compliment. “I’ve only ever dated one person, so I’m pretty rusty at this sort of thing.”

  “The one that didn’t defend you. Right.”

  “But I like you,” she blurted. “I think you’re real sweet.”

  He scowled. “Sweet?”

  For some reason, his grumpiness made her smile. “Sweet is good. Did you want to come in? It’s okay if you say no. I promise you won’t hurt my feelings.”

  For a moment, Hank hesitated. He shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t want you to think I have ideas or anything . . .”

  Ideas? Oh gosh. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting laid.” She gestured at her skirt. “Remember? I’m wearing the ugliest panties ever.”

  “I liked ’em.”

  “They have squirrels on them.”

  “I like squirrels.” And she could see a flash of his bright white teeth against that beard.

  And gosh if that smile wasn’t doing things to her insides. She was all aflutter. He saw her embarrassing panties and liked them. He’d defended her like some rough-and-tumble knight in shining armor.

  Had she thought this date wasn’t going well? It was going amazingly. So Becca just smiled at him and opened her door, then waited for him to join her inside.

  CHAPTER TEN

  She expected him to hesitate again, but this time he joined her instantly, glancing around at the inside of her small house. Because most of the bottom floor was the storefront for the salon, she had a tiny living room and an equally tiny kitchen. Her bedroom and bathroom upstairs were much bigger, but she didn’t mind the small size since it was just her there. Hank seemed to eat up most of the entry hall, though, and she suspected he’d eat up most of the living room, too. Or any room he entered, really.

  He stepped inside and eyed her place. It was a little . . . okay, it was super girly. Greg had lived with her off and on throughout their relationship, and she’d picked a lot of neutral things for their shared living space. Now that he was gone, she’d veered toward the other end of the spectrum. Romantic prints of paintings covered the pale purple walls—Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss, Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott, a Degas with ballerinas. She had leafy plants on her coffee tables and delicate lacy white pillows tossed over her purple sofa. Everything was ultra girly, because she liked girly things.

  But Hank only looked around and then sat down on one end of her sofa as if he was surrounded by girly stuff all the time.

  “Can I get you a drink? Popcorn?” she asked, setting her purse down on the counter.

  “Sure.”

  Becca hurried over and handed him the remote to her wall-mounted television. “You pick something to stream. I’ll handle the snacks.” She kicked off her high heels and curled her toes in the carpet, then headed into the kitchen. Once the popcorn was in the microwave, she pulled off her dangly earrings and let her hair down. If they were going to watch a movie, she wanted to relax. Would he pick something funny? Something sexy? She wondered if he was going to send her a quiet message with his movie choice and hoped that was the case. After all, if she sat down and he’d picked Fifty Shades of Grey, she knew she was in for some hard-core making out.

  And, oh gosh, she wanted some hard-core making out. It felt as if it had been so long since she’d been touched. Just thinking about it made her ache.

  She rejoined Hank and sat on the other end of her couch, curling her legs under her as she handed him the popcorn bowl and a drink. The movie started, and she bit her lip, wondering what they were about to watch . . .

  It.

  They were about to watch a horror movie about a killer clown.

  She turned to him. “Really?”

  Hank’s brows furrowed. “You said I could pick. Is this bad?”

  “No, of course not,” she said hastily. “I’m just surprised is all.”

  “I picked something I can’t watch with Libby around.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I can pick something else if you’d like.”

  “No, a horror movie is totally fine.” She’d just sleep with the lights on later. No problem. Becca settled in on the couch, hugging a pillow, and started watching.

  They were about five or ten minutes into the film when Hank settled his arm across the back of the couch. She was utterly aware of it, just as she was completely aware of when he slid it just a little lower, his fingertips brushing her shoulder.

  So Becca adjusted her legs on the couch, shifting ever so slightly in his direction. Gosh, this was just like being a teenager again, with furtive touches and guessing whether or not each caress was intentional. Goose bumps broke out on her skin as he caressed a lock of her hair, toying with it as the movie blared on and children were lured into sewers or som
ething awful like that. She wasn’t paying attention. The movie was in front of her, but she was utterly focused on the man sitting a few feet away. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, but his gaze remained locked on the television.

  Then one big hand brushed against her nape.

  She shifted closer to him again, hoping he’d drag her into his lap and kiss her silly. Instead, the movie had a jump scare and she jerked, then settled back on the couch just a hint closer to him. His thumb was definitely resting on her neck, ever so slightly rubbing her with small touches that made her crazy with need.

  And still he didn’t grab her. Ugh. Was it because of the squirrel panties? Did the sight of them convince him that this was going to be a totally chaste date? She suddenly wished she’d worn her most scandalous panties ever, damn it. Even if she didn’t want to have sex on the first date, they could kiss, right? Surely they could kiss. She leaned a little closer to him.

  “You uncomfortable?”

  Becca looked over at him in surprise. “No, why?”

  His eyes were inscrutable in the low light of her living room. “You keep moving over.”

  She glanced down at the amount of sofa between them. Okay, yeah, she’d somehow managed to move over enough that there was less than a foot between them. Move back to her side, or admit what she was doing? Becca glanced over at him. He didn’t look annoyed, and his hand was still ever so slightly playing with her nape.

  She opted for confession. “I was hoping you’d kiss me tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh? All she got was “oh”? She bit back her frown and stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t move, and when the disappointment threatened to crush her, she decided she’d return to the other end of the couch and pretend like the conversation never happened. She started to get to her feet—

  The moment her butt left the couch, Hank’s heavy arm snagged her around the waist. He drew her backward and she tumbled into his arms, letting out a squeak in surprise. Becca turned to look at him and realized breathlessly that her face was only an inch or so away from his. They were so close that their noses were practically touching.