by Lia Riley
As soon as she arrived in Brightwater, she’d invest in proper clothes and send for her belongings back home. Until then . . . time to face the music. She stepped from the bathroom, chewing the corner of her lip. Archer didn’t burst into snickers. All he did was stare. His playful gaze vanished, replaced by a startling intensity.
“Well, go on then. Get it over with and make fun of me.” She gathered her hair into a messy bun, securing it with a hair elastic she found in her purse.
“Laughing’s not the first thing that jumps to mind, sweetheart.”
Her stomach sank. “Horror then?”
“Stop.” He rubbed the back of his neck, that wicked sensual mouth curving into a bold smile. “You’re hot as hell.”
Reggie had never remarked on her appearance. She sucked in a ragged breath at the memory of his text. Bore me to fucking tears.
“Hey, Freckles,” he said softly. “You okay?”
She snapped back, unsure what her face revealed. “Tiny shorts and boob shirts do it for you?” She fought for an airy tone, waving her hand over the hot pink “QT” abomination and praying he wouldn’t notice her tremble.
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Short shorts do it for all warm-blooded men.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, thumbing her ear. He probably wasn’t checking her out, just her as the closest female specimen in the immediate vicinity.
He wiggled out of his tan Carhartt jacket and held it out. “You’ll want this. Temperatures are going to top out in the mid-forties today. I’ve stuck a wool blanket on the passenger seat and will keep the heat cranking.”
Strange. He might be a natural flirt, but for all his easy confidence, there was an uncertainty in how he regarded her. A hesitation that on anyone else could be described as vulnerability, the type of look that caused her to volunteer at no-kill rescue shelters and cry during cheesy life insurance commercials. A guy like this, what did he know about insecurity or self-doubt? But that expression went straight to her heart. “Archer . . .”
He startled at the sound of his real name, instead of the Cowboy moniker she’d used the last twenty-four hours.
His jacket slipped, baring her shoulders as she reached to take one of his big hands in hers. “Thank you.” Impulsively, she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but he jerked with surprise and she grazed the appealing no-man’s land between his dimple and lips.
This was meant to be a polite gesture, an acknowledgment he’d been a nice guy, stepped up and helped her out—a stranger—when she’d barreled in and given him no choice.
He smelled good. Too good. Felt good too. She should move—now—but his free hand, the one she wasn’t clutching, skimmed her lower back. Was this a kiss?
No.
Well . . . almost.
Never had an actual kiss sent goose bumps prickling down her spine even as her stomach heated, the cold and hot reaction as confused as her thoughts. Imagine what the real thing would do.
He stepped away first, an easy grin affixed on his features as if the almost kiss hadn’t happened, and it hadn’t, not really. Almost isn’t actually. Even though she instinctively licked her lips as if his taste lingered on her mouth. He stared at her tongue and she felt distilled to that single body part. What was she doing? This guy couldn’t be farther from her type. Wranglers? A belt buckle the size of her hand? A Western shirt with pearl-covered clasps?
Those should all be counted as strikes.
But those intelligent, light green eyes were something else. So was the thick hair perfect for sinking fingers into. Throw in his rock-hard body, and wow.
Imagine it hard in the wrong places? The naughty thought slammed her back to reality. Sure, if she was the sort that flirted, she’d flirt with Archer Kane. Handsome was handsome after all.
But she wasn’t that sort of carefree woman.
Plus, she was a runaway bride who needed to stand tall and be her own person without hiding behind her family’s wealth and privilege. Or a man. She’d reached out to Reggie in a moment of weakness, longing for children and security, and what did it get her? Nothing good. It was time to take an indefinite hiatus from men—a depressing notion as she’d only ever been with one.
Archer Kane of the good smells and better body, had a lot of things going right, but for a woman in her situation, he was all kinds of wrong.
But did she want to give up a chance at getting her hands on all those muscles, waking up to his sexy smile, and seeing the depth this man hinted at in those green eyes? She’d never seen anything close to that kind of raw emotion and conviction in Reggie’s gaze. Could this guy, so far from her type, be right for her?
You’re crazy, Eden.
Yeah, a little cowboy crazy.
ARCHER TURNED DOWN the radio; they’d driven in near silence the final few hours. Freckles didn’t seem interested in talking much and for once in twenty-seven years, he didn’t know what to say. Back in the motel, when she stepped shyly from the bathroom, her sweet curves shown off to maximum benefit by that small, silly, gas station outfit, he’d been a goner. Brain obliterated. He’d leaned in for the kiss before grasping she’d pecked him on the cheek, not like a man but a friend, or worse, a relative. He’d frozen, mouth half on her soft lips and half not, realizing that what he wanted and what she wanted were on two opposite sides of the coin.
The last few hundred miles were an opportunity to try to make peace with the fact she wasn’t interested. Try being the optimum word.
But Grandma always said, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit, there’s no use being a damn fool.”
He made sure to pull over every half hour and let her get some air. That seemed to help. She wasn’t nearly as pale as yesterday. Her gaze covertly skimmed in his direction and he glanced over only to catching her hurriedly turning her attention to the view outside. His blue balls made road bumps sweet agony. Most women seemed to like a bad boy, but Edie wasn’t most women. Not by a long shot. Why? And what was it precisely about her that drove him nuts? Because it wasn’t just those freckles, that killer body, and her long red waves. There was an innate goodness hidden behind her reserve, but he sensed a bad girl there too, a woman who could get into a whole lot of rowdy mischief. She might not even know it yet, but no one hitchhiked hundreds of miles with a stranger unless they were batshit or a little wild.
And Edie sure as hell wasn’t batshit. He’d left batshit behind at the Vegas hotel yesterday morning—hopefully for good. He felt a little nervous, but also zinging with anticipation. He was finally ready to tackle responsibility. All he needed was the right plan.
“Here we are.” He pointed out the green and white wooden sign on the right-hand side of the road.
Welcome to Brightwater
America’s Biggest Little Town.
Home of 750 Nice Families and 1 Old Grouch.
Est. 1865
“Home sweet home,” he said, rolling down the window and taking in a deep gulp of pine-scented air. “It can take forty-five seconds to walk down Main Street, but forty-five minutes if I stop and talk to everyone I know.” He slowed to fifteen miles per hour and checked his rearview mirror for any sheriff’s vehicles. It wouldn’t do to get pulled over by his big brother while Edie wore little more than his work jacket and pink hot pants.
Not that Sawyer would be surprised, but damned if Archer could bear causing Edie even the slightest embarrassment.
“This place is charming, a real Main Street from a movie. Look at all the old brick storefronts and filigree balcony railings. I’ll bet most of these are registered historical landmarks. And that firehouse,” she said, pointing out his window. “That’s a fantastic representation of neoclassical Greek revival–style architecture. And there’s a bookshop here? And wine bar too?” She eyed A Novel Idea and Bottom of the Barrel, the two newest shops to open since last Christmas, with avid interest.
“Yeah, the town is changing all right.” His mouth tugged down in the corner. “For a lon
g time things stayed the same, then came that movie Tumbleweeds—add a few magazine features and next thing you know every Johnny Someday wants to buy a vacation home in this valley.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Archer gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Property values quadrupled in two years. For those born without a silver spoon in their mouths, which is all of us raised here, it’s become damn near impossible to buy a place to live and that’s not right. Seems like it’s a revolving door, old timers moving on as newcomers pour in.”
“Wow,” she said softly. “That sounds really hard.”
He shrugged, wanting to find an easy brush off, a way to dismiss the painful subject, but he couldn’t lie, not to her. “It is. Anyway, there’s the local Save-U-More.” He nodded at the small grocery store. “If a Whole Foods replaces it, that’s when I’ll worry. Anyway, I’m starving. What do you say we stop to get a bite before heading to The Dales?”
“Stop?” She glanced at the bare expanse of her upper thighs with open alarm. “But I can’t go in any place dressed like this. They’ll think I’m soliciting.”
“The Baker’s Dozen is next door to a clothing shop that’s also new, and female.”
“Female?” Her brows knotted.
“Sells skirts and shit.”
“You should consider a career in advertising,” she said with a giggle as her nose practically touched the windshield. “Tell me, do you ever get used to the view?” The Eastern Sierras rose up in a dramatic wall, thrusting straight from the valley floor. Clouds skimmed the highest peaks, providing tantalizing glimpses of snow and glacier-carved rock.
“I haven’t yet,” he said, and that was God’s truth. He liked to get out of the valley for the odd adventure, but if he didn’t see these mountains for long, he felt himself getting twitchy. This was home and he knew deep in his heart he’d never live anywhere else. “We call it The Granite Curtain, keeps the rest of the state at bay, or at least it used to.”
“I haven’t been in the mountains for a long time.”
“Let me guess, the last time was the Alps?”
“I’m not a stereotype,” she muttered.
His lazy gaze drifted over. He wasn’t sorry for pushing her buttons. In fact, he sort of enjoyed it. “I’m right though, aren’t I?”
“Maybe—ah!” She broke into a muddled yelp as Archer grabbed the back of her head and forced her face down on his lap.
She twisted back and forth against his denim-clad thigh. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Let me go this instant.”
“Hang on, hang on,” he muttered. Shit. Do not get hard. Do not get hard. “It’s my Grandma. Remember how the welcome sign said ‘one grouch’?” Of all the bad luck, he’d pulled up at the single traffic light in Brightwater and the pickup beside him just so happened to be Grandma Kane’s. He didn’t want her bifocaled gaze resting on Freckles. Grandma judged any woman badly who kept his company. His reputation wasn’t going to recommend him for character medals anytime soon. That never bothered him much before, but for the first time, worry cooled his gut.
If Edie stuck around, what gossip would she hear?
Grandma cranked down her window. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“What can I say, Grams, I missed you.” He gave his best grin but as always Grandma proved genetically immune to his charm.
Her eyes narrowed. “My house, dinner tonight.”
“I might have plans.” The warmth from Edie’s cheek radiated into his leg. He glanced down and the sight of her red hair splayed over his lap sent blood rushing to the last place he wanted while talking to Grandma.
The light turned green and a horn beeped, likely a newcomer, here to spend time in their second or third home, who’d not yet felt Grandma’s wrath.
“Cancel them,” she said. “We need to have a serious talk about the ranch.”
“Hidden Rock?”
“No, the other four-thousand-acre ranch I own.”
He flexed his grip on the steering wheel with a prayer for calm. “What’s happening?”
“You’ll find out tonight,” she snapped. The horn sounded again and she stuck her hand out the window, flipping the luxury SUV the bird.
Archer waited until Grandma hit the gas before shifting into first. “Sorry about that,” he said, releasing Edie with no small regret. It wasn’t even the thrill of having her face nearly between his legs that sent his heart into a caterwaul, but the idea of holding her.
His pulse beat like a ticking time bomb.
He was so fucked for this woman, so why did the idea make him do nothing but grin?
Edie sat, smoothing her hair with a frown. “What was that all about?”
He swallowed hard, tricky to do with a dry mouth. “My grandma was next to us.”
“Okay?” Her brow wrinkled. “Why did you act like you were people smuggling?”
“I didn’t want her getting the wrong idea.”
“Which would be?”
“Grandma doesn’t think a lot of most people.” He paused, looking at her. “And less about women who go around with me.”
“Do you have a reputation?” she asked, absorbing his words.
You could say that. “It’s a small town. People talk.”
She tipped her head, struggling to understand. “And what is it that people say?”
He maneuvered his truck right in front of Bab’s Boutique. Saved by the perfect parking spot. “Let’s get you some new clothes.” He hopped out before she could ask a follow-up question. Edie was too sharp for her own good, and he seemed compelled to tell her the truth. What was he going to say? He was the most infamous manwhore in three counties?
No thank you.
Besides it was nice spending time with someone who was interested in more than what hung between his legs. He had a brain too. He opened her door and extended a hand.
She took it hesitantly and stared at the place where her cool, porcelain skin pressed to his tanned palm. “I can’t wait to change. I feel like pre-makeover Pretty Woman.”
He glanced at the clothing shop. Hmmm. He knew Babs in the biblical sense. It was doubtful that she’d take kindly to him escorting a half-dressed woman inside.
“Tell you what, I’ll go into the bakery next door and order. You meet me there after you’re finished.”
“How will you know what I like?” she said.
He gave her a long look. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem, sweetheart.”
That lovely blush made her freckles more frecklish.
“S-sounds good,” she stammered. “I shouldn’t be long.”
Clutching his Carhartt jacket around her slim frame, she hunched and dashed through Bab’s front door.
She appeared in the bakery fifteen minutes later, just as the owner, Marigold Flint, was getting around to bringing out the coffee. Goldie flashed a coy smile, but Archer pretended to be busy unfolding his silverware.
He glanced up and there she was, Edie, stepping through the front door and glancing shyly around the mostly empty room. He’d seen her in a wedding dress, his t-shirt and a pair of pink booty shorts, but never like this.
“So . . . what do you think?” She slid into the booth. Her black leggings hugged every curve exactly right and her off-the-shoulder shirt, a deep emerald, set off her hair and the silver tones in her irises.
He opened his mouth but no words came.
She fidgeted in her seat. “I’ve never dressed like this before.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m more of a Banana Republic gal.”
The idea of the shimmying Chiquita banana woman flashed through his head, a pleasant thought, but he didn’t think that’s what she referred to.
“You know the store, right?” Her forehead furrowed as if he’d announced himself to be a visiting alien conducting research for his home planet. “Oxford shirts and khakis?”
He shrugged, unwilling to be pegged a dumbass, and knocked back the res
t of his coffee—ugh, tasted like it had sat burning in the pot for hours. “I’ll just say this look, it’s . . . whoa.”
The set of her mouth told him she didn’t get compliments often. That wasn’t a blush of pleasure, but open distrust. “These flower arrangements are really pretty,” she said, as if to change the subject. Every table sported a small vase with a cheerful sprig of daisies, the one part of the café that Marigold seemed to take real pride in.
“Edie, I meant what I said.” He leaned in on his elbows. “You look great.”
“I thought you might be making fun of me,” she mumbled.
He gaped at her. Had she never owned a mirror? “How don’t you see that you’re gorgeous?” he blurted. Jesus, what was going on? He never blurted. Blurting was for suckers.
She made a noncommittal sound and picked up her mug with a touch of desperation before coughing into her hand. “Is the kitchen connected to an oil-change shop? This isn’t coffee, it’s engine grease.”
“I made that pot an hour ago.” Marigold Flint arrived to take their order. The annoyed way her high-set ponytail bobbed indicated she’d heard Edie’s disparaging remark.
It wasn’t that Edie was wrong, Marigold’s place was known to have gone downhill, but it was the only lunch spot in town so you took what you got. Plus, Goldie had a temper, one he didn’t feel like going up against.
“Hey there, having a good day?” Archer sought his smoothest tone. Goldie was pretty enough, but most men in town kept their distance due to her even prettier temper, which is why no one ever sent back the undercooked eggs or stale toast. Marigold’s mother ran The Baker’s Dozen until her death a few years back. He’d never got the impression Goldie was particularly happy taking up the mantle, but hard to say as sucking lemons seemed to be her usual expression.
“You planning on ordering or complaining?” Marigold addressed Edie, the look in her eye enough to send most people ducking for cover.
Strangely, Edie seemed unaffected. Instead, she narrowed her eyes right back, even as she shredded a sliver of paper napkin, rolling it into a tight ball. “What do you recommend?”
