Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII: The Cowboy Who Never Grew UpHooked

by Kimberly Raye

  The mention of bulls snagged her back to the all-important fact that the papers still sat untouched on the table between them.

  “You still haven’t signed.”

  “I never sign anything before breakfast. I can’t concentrate on an empty stomach.” He held up a forkful. “Pancake?”

  Her stomach grumbled at the sight, reminding her that she hadn’t had anything since the chocolate bar she’d wolfed down at the rodeo arena.

  Woman doth not live by candy bars alone.

  Lisa’s voice echoed in her head. Best friend and serial-dater Lisa was always encouraging Wendy to go out with someone—anyone—and have some fun.

  But at twenty-eight, Wendy wanted more from a man. Sure, she liked doing the nasty as much as the next red-blooded female, but she wanted a real relationship to go with it. And while she didn’t have her heart set on marriage just yet, she at least wanted a man who was open to the concept.

  That’s what she told herself, but her gaze snagged on Pete’s mouth anyway. A dab of syrup sat at the corner and she had the overwhelming urge to lean across the table and lick it off.

  Crazy.

  She shook away the notion and fixed her gaze on the papers. “I really need to get these back to corporate for a counter-signature.” The bus swayed to the left as it made a sharp turn and she clutched the edge of the chair. “The sooner that happens—” she fought to regain her composure “—the sooner you get your check.” She dangled the one advantage she had over him. Money. It was more than they’d ever paid to any spokesperson in the history of Western America and it was a heck of a lot more than the payout on any old bull.

  A gleam lit his eyes before taking a nosedive into the deep blue depths. “I never talk money before breakfast, sugar.” He downed a large gulp of milk that sloshed slightly in the glass as they rumbled down what was now a dirt road.

  She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took another bite and a strange tingling started in the pit of her stomach.

  It was the bus, she told herself. They were pitching and rocking. Enough to hollow out anyone’s stomach.

  Except his. He seemed immune.

  She knew the feeling. She’d lived her life on the road at one time and nothing had bothered her. Not traffic. Or turbulence. Or a rough stretch of road.

  Then.

  But now things were different. She was different. Even if she had slept like a baby for the past six hours.

  “So why don’t you like pancakes?” he asked as they hit a pothole and she clutched at the chair’s edge.

  “Who said I don’t like pancakes?”

  “I offered to share and you turned me down.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like them. I just don’t happen to want one right now.” Liar. She wanted one desperately. A bite of his pancake. A bite of him.

  Whoa. Back the horse up.

  Where had that thought come from? She didn’t want anything from Pete Gunner except his signature, which obviously wasn’t happening until he finished the mountain on his plate.

  She drew a deep, shaky breath and tried to tamp down on the anxiety rolling through her. Gripping the chair, she slid around and sank down again before she broke an ankle.

  Unearthing her cell phone, she spent the next few minutes doing her best to ignore Pete and his pancakes while she checked her voice messages.

  Ten from Lisa wanting to know how things were going and when she would be back home. One from her dad telling her he would have a six-hour layover in Houston next week on his way to a Cubs’ alumnae dinner. One from Fred telling her not to come back without the papers in hand.

  Ugh.

  “You missed yoga this morning,” Lisa said when she picked up on the second ring. Lisa had been her first friend at Western. The first friendship she’d ever had that had lasted longer than six months. “Are you still in Dallas?”

  “Not quite.” She watched Pete take a great big bite. Syrup dribbled down his chin and before she could stop herself, she licked her lips. He grinned and she gave herself a great big mental slap. “I, um, think this is going to take a little longer than I anticipated.”

  “But you’ll be home by tomorrow, right? My parents are coming over to meet Mike and I want to finish painting my living room first. I need you to help.”

  “You guys just started dating two weeks ago. Isn’t it a little early to spring him on your folks?”

  “What can I say? When it’s right, it’s right.”

  “Wasn’t it right with Wayne about three months ago? And Marty before that? And Kevin last year?”

  “Mike is way better than all of them.” At the moment. Wendy was willing to bet Lisa would find something wrong with him when things started to get a little too serious. Just as she’d done with Wayne. And Marty. And Kevin. “Listen, can I borrow your red dress? He’s taking me out for a special dinner tonight and I don’t have time to comb the mall for a new outfit.”

  “Only if you pick up Tom and Jerry for me. I doubt I’ll be home until late tonight.”

  “On second thought, maybe I’ll swing by the mall—”

  “They’re not that bad.”

  “They ate my cell-phone case.”

  “They thought it was a Twinkie and I promise it won’t happen again. You know I’ve been taking them to obedience classes. Please,” she added when Wendy hesitated. “I’ll throw in the open-toe shoes.”

  “I still think I’m getting the raw end of the deal, but okay.”

  “You’re the best.” Wendy killed the connection and glanced up to find Pete looking at her.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Tom and Jerry?”

  “A golden retriever and a Chihuahua.” She meant to stop there, but he kept looking at her as if he expected more and the words slipped out on their own. “My mom passed away in a car accident when I was just a few months old. My dad traveled a lot, so I spent way too much time staring at the inside of a hotel room. He bought me videos to help pass the time. I had every cartoon collection out there, but the Tom and Jerry ones were my favorites.” A smile tugged at her lips. “My dogs are always roughhousing and fighting, and so the names seemed to fit. What about you?” Not that she cared, but it was better to talk than sit quietly and lust after him. “Any pets?”

  “Just one.”

  “And?” she prompted when he seemed hesitant to continue.

  “A miniature Yorkie named Tinkerbell.”

  “It figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the cowboy who refuses to grow up. I should have known you’d have a sidekick named Tinkerbell. But a Yorkie? What kind of a self-respecting badass buys a dog that can double as a powder puff?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t pick her. She picked me. Somehow she ended up scavenging around this old rodeo arena just outside of town. She managed to jump up into the back of my pickup and follow me home one night. She’s been with me ever since.”

  She had a quick visual of him cuddling a tiny, yapping Yorkie and her chest hitched.

  The realization made her back go ramrod-straight. So what if he had a dog? That was no reason to go all soft and gooey inside. He was still a major thorn in her side.

  Still wild and crazy Pete Gunner.

  “Living out of a suitcase doesn’t exactly lend itself to pet ownership,” she pointed out, suddenly desperate to kill the vision of him cuddling a ball of fluff. “That’s why I never had one when I was growing up. How do you do it?”

  “My ranch foreman looks after her when I’m away.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “There’s no luck involved, sugar. It’s all hard work.”

  “I’m sure signing autographs is hell on the knuckles.”

  If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that she’d struck a nerve. He frowned. “I do a lot more than sign autographs.”

  “I forgot. You also dodge responsibility.”

  Silence stretched for a tense nanosecond as he eyed her. “Apparently I’m not too
good at it because here you are.” His frown turned into a full-blown grin. “Then again, I might be a damned sight better than I give myself credit for—” he motioned to the passing scenery, reminding her of the six and a half hours she’d just slept away “—because here you are.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “Keep up the sweet talk—” he winked “—and I’ll surely be scribbling my signature before breakfast is over.” Challenge gleamed hot and bright in his gaze, daring her to say something else, wanting her to. As if he liked the verbal sparring.

  Crazy.

  Men like Pete usually had a big head to go with their bad-boy reputation. They were used to having their egos stroked, not deflated, but Pete seemed different. Maybe she was imagining things. Even more, she was making her situation that much harder. The point was to coax him into signing, not piss him off.

  She clamped her mouth shut and shifted her attention to the window while he went back to his breakfast. Pastureland stretched endlessly as they rolled along for the next ten minutes before the landscape gave way to haystacks and a sprawling one-story house with a gigantic wraparound porch.

  “Home sweet home,” Pete announced before shoveling in his last bite. He pushed from the table and slid the plate into a nearby sink. The bus took a left and started down the long lane leading up to the house. Pete reached into the stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of what looked like a lime-green slushie. “Margarita chaser,” he offered when she arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

  It figured.

  If the rumors were even close to the truth, he would probably follow that up with a six-pack and then pull a few Hooters’ girls out of the closet.

  She shook her head and he turned his attention back to the pitcher. Without bothering with a glass, he downed half of the container before finally coming up for air.

  “Don’t you think you should slow down a little?” she asked as they started to slow. “I need you sober to sign this.”

  “Don’t worry, sugar. I can do just about anything under the influence. I’m sure I’ll be able to scribble my John Hancock.” He set the remainder of the pitcher on a nearby countertop as they rolled to a complete stop. He grabbed the T-shirt draped across the back of his chair and pulled it on just as the bus door powered open.

  “If you could just do this really fast for me,” she said, blocking his path toward the door. “I’ll be out of here in a flash—”

  “I knew you’d make it!” The excited voice came from the doorway.

  Wendy turned and her elbow slammed into the pitcher, knocking it onto its side. Margarita oozed over the countertop and dripped onto the floor.

  She snatched up a dishrag and wiped at the mess just as a tall, lanky young man bounded onto the bus. He had the same killer-blue eyes as his older brother and the same whiskey-blond hair, which brushed the collar of his red-and-blue plaid Western shirt.

  “A promise is a promise.” Pete grabbed Wade Gunner in a quick bear hug while Wendy wiped at the spilled margarita and frantically scooped as much as she could back into the pitcher.

  “You’re just in time, too,” the young man told Pete. His eyes flashed with excitement. “It’s happening.”

  “Right now?”

  The boy’s head bobbed. “She’s about to pop any friggin’ second.”

  “Hot damn!” Pete exploded. “That’s my girl.” He headed for the door on the heels of his younger brother and panic bolted through Wendy.

  She dumped the last of the iced drink into the sink before her gaze dropped to the pale green stain on the front of her shirt. Great. Now she was going to reek of tequila.

  Except she didn’t.

  She caught a whiff of the almost-empty pitcher and smelled only fresh-squeezed lime juice and the sharp, pungent scent of vitamins.

  Wait a second—

  Her speculation stalled as she realized the counter was clear. Pete had bolted, and taken her contract with him.

  “You forgot the pen—” She started after him, but his long strides had him yards ahead of her by the time she lunged off the bus. He was a man on a mission.

  That’s my girl?

  His words echoed in her head and her throat tightened. In all their meetings on the topic of Pete Gunner, her boss had never mentioned anything about a significant other. Just a long list of temporary flings while he was on the road, including a week with a recent Country Music Association award winner and a few weekends here and there with a Victoria’s Secret pinup.

  She thought of the margarita that wasn’t really a margarita and the Yorkie named Tinkerbell. Maybe Pete Gunner wasn’t half the badass he pretended to be.

  Just as the notion struck, a grizzled voice echoed in her ears. “The name’s Eli,” said the old man who stepped up next to her. “Why don’t you follow me up to the house and I’ll help you get settled into a room?”

  Settled? She shook her head. “No, thanks, Eli. I’ll be leaving shortly. I just need to get that contract back from Pete and then I’m on the next cab out of here.”

  He belted out a laugh. “First off, darlin’, there ain’t no cabs around these parts. And second, if you’re thinking to disturb Pete, you’d better think again. When he’s with DeeDee, he don’t like to be bothered.”

  “Which one is she? The singer? The lingerie model?”

  “Hell’s bells, gal, DeeDee ain’t no singer and she sure-as-hell ain’t no dad-blasted underpants model.” The man laughed again, his belly shaking with the effort this time. “She’s his horse.”

  * * *

  “EASY, GIRL.” PETE SOOTHED the animal and gathered the slippery bundle in his arms for one more tug. The animal gave a loud snort and the foal slipped out in a tangle of arms and legs.

  He handed over the animal to the vet who’d driven out for the occasion and turned his attention back to the black cutting horse stretched out in front of him.

  DeeDee whinnied and lifted her head before settling it back down on a pile of straw.

  “I know, girl.” Pete stroked her smooth flank. “You’re plum tuckered out.”

  He knew the feeling. Six hours of sleep and he could still feel the exhaustion tugging at his muscles. Which made no sense whatsoever because Pete Gunner was the friggin’ Energizer bunny. He’d pulled all-nighters time and time again. Hell, he’d be pulling one tonight once the celebration for Wade’s birthday got under way. They had fireworks. Barbecue. Music. It was going to be one hell of a party and he was damned excited about it.

  His heart sure wasn’t pumping overtime because of Wendy.

  Sure, he liked the way she smelled and the way she wiggled her nose when she slept and he even liked her smart mouth. Despite the fact that she wanted something from him, she wasn’t the least bit anxious to impress him. A fact that stirred his curiosity.

  But not his lust.

  At least that’s what he tried to tell himself for the next few moments as he soothed his tired horse.

  Seriously, she was a pain in the ass. Sneaking onto his bus. Cornering him in the shower. Bullying him while he ate his pancakes. Following him all the way home. Just who did she think she was? All she had to do was send him the damned papers and he’d sign them. He would sign them.

  Not this set in particular, of course. His gaze went to the discarded paperwork lying next to DeeDee and the slimy substances blurring the words. He’d meant to be more careful, but then DeeDee had crowned and he’d forgotten everything except the foal. Western would just have to send out another one.

  Then he would sign. Probably.

  And then it was on to another PBR title, even if half the world expected him to give it up once he had the Western money in his pocket. That’s what battered veterans did. They gave in to their aches and pains, signed endorsements and stepped aside to give the newbies their shot. Not Pete. Bull riding was his thing. The one thing that had kept him going in the early days when having his own ranch had been just a pipe dream and he’d been living in a trailer in Lost Gun with h
is five-year-old brother and his alcoholic mother. She’d rammed her truck into a telephone pole on the way to the liquor store when he was barely sixteen. He and Wade had been on their own ever since.

  But he’d made it. He’d started riding in local rodeos for whatever purse had been offered, and he’d kept riding all the way clear to his first championship. And he’d kept going after that, not just because of the money, but because when he was on the back of that bull, he felt as though he was in control of his life, a master of his own destiny, and that meant everything to a kid who’d watched his mother slip away night after night, powerless to stop her downward spiral. She’d taken him and his brother down with her, until Pete had managed to climb atop that first bull.

  “Everybody’s comin’ tonight,” Wade said, effectively drawing his attention and distracting him from his thoughts. “Even Ginny.”

  Ginny Hooker was the daughter of J. R. Hooker, the local sheriff and the meanest son of a bitch Pete had ever had the misfortune to run into. J.R. was strict, holier-than-thou and he hated the Gunners and the Lost Boys.

  A feeling that had been born way back when Pete was thirteen and he’d “borrowed” old man Riddle’s horse and ridden it down Main Street, right up to the fountain in the town square. The animal had taken a crap just inches from the water and J.R. had hated him for that ever since. Even worse, Pete had taken in a handful of lowlifes—at least that’s what J.R. called them—and given them a second chance.

  The Lost Boys had been just that at one time—lost, lonely, destitute. Boys without a home or a family or a purpose. Pete knew what is was like to be alone and struggling, and so he’d given them a place to stay and a chance to make something of themselves. They were now the hottest riders on the circuit and the family he’d never had.

  J.R. didn’t see it that way. He despised the Lost Boys, and Pete even more for being their leader.

  Rightly so. The whole town knew that Pete went out of his way to yank the sheriff’s chain. Partly because J.R. was a pompous ass who thought he was better than everyone, but mostly because it was just so much fun.

  Why, he would have ridden DeeDee down Main Street tonight if she’d been in any kind of shape.