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

by Kimberly Raye

  She knew the feeling.

  She had her own fears. Losing her job. Giving up her home. Turning into her father. Ending up with a man just like him.

  But Pete wasn’t Mitch Darlington. He cared about people, and while he still lived out of a suitcase and fed his bad-boy image, he wasn’t cold and selfish and afraid of commitment.

  He was afraid of losing control. Of losing everything he’d worked so hard for and winding up the sad, lonely kid he’d once been.

  But things were different now. They were different and it was time to lay the past to rest once and for all.

  And suddenly Wendy knew exactly what she needed to do.

  * * *

  PETE’S HEART DID a double thump as he walked into the television studio bright and early Monday morning as promised.

  Not because he was about to shoot his first commercial and blow his bad-boy image to hell and back by looking like a sellout.

  Wendy would be here.

  “Hells bells, boy.” Eli’s voice drew him around to see the old man coming out of the men’s room. “What in tarnation are you doing here?”

  “Making a commercial.” Pete frowned. The last he’d seen of Eli, the man had said he was heading to Vegas to play the slots before they left for New Mexico and the Turner County Rodeo Finals. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making a commercial of my own.” The minute Eli said the words, Jesse Chisholm walked out of a nearby dressing room, a cowboy hat cocked back on his head, a grin on his face.

  Pete knew immediately that something was up even before he heard the soft, sweet, familiar voice behind him.

  “I see the cat’s out of the bag.”

  Pete turned to see Wendy wearing the yellow and pink sundress she’d tried on in Lost Gun. The one that had been too wholesome and sweet for his peace of mind.

  His breath caught and it was all he could do not to scoop her up and kiss her for all he was worth.

  But something was up and he intended to find out exactly what it was.

  “What’s Jesse doing here?”

  “Making a commercial,” she told him. “The commercial you were supposed to make.”

  “But I signed the papers.”

  “Because I wanted you to.” Her words dared him to deny her and he would have a week ago. “Not because you wanted to. You don’t want this.”

  He didn’t. But not because he feared it would make him look like a sellout. No, he didn’t want it because he wanted her. He wanted to take her back to his ranch and make love and babies.

  “You didn’t sign them for you,” she went on. “And while I appreciate the gesture, I can’t let you give up the next three years to do something you don’t want to do. So I came up with an alternative plan.”

  Her eyes twinkled and he remembered the last time he’d seen her. As bittersweet as the moment had been when Red arrived and he’d committed himself to the Western contract, he’d known that she was up to something. He’d just figured she was excited to keep her job and get back to her life.

  Instead, she’d been planning something.

  “I presented Fred with a new marketing campaign featuring the latest, hottest, wildest bunch on the rodeo circuits.” She smiled. “He bought it and the Lost Boys are now the official spokesmen for Outlaw Outfitters.”

  “So your job is safe.”

  “Actually, it’s not my job anymore. It’s Lisa’s. She’s got plenty of time to deal with everything now that she’s officially out of the dating game, waiting on Mr. Right to come to his senses.” A smile curved her luscious lips. “I turned in my resignation along with the new ad-campaign proposal.”

  “I thought you loved Houston.”

  “I loved the idea of Houston. Of having my own house and painting my own kitchen cabinets and planting roots.” Her gaze locked with his. “But I love you more.” Sincerity gleamed in her gaze along with a shimmer of insecurity because she’d just poured out her heart to a man who’d professed never to believe in love.

  Until now.

  “I suppose we could paint my kitchen cabinets,” he murmured as he pulled her into his arms and held her tight.

  “Does that mean you love me?”

  “I hate yellow but I’m willing to go with it. Hell, I’ll even buy the paint. Does that answer your question?” He pulled back and stared down into her eyes. “I love you, Wendy.”

  “I love you, too.” A serious expression crossed her face and he saw the emotion gleaming in her bright green eyes. “Enough to pack my bags and follow you around if that’s what it takes.”

  “I won’t let you do that. I appreciate the offer, but that’s not what you want. Hell, it’s not what I want. You were right about me. I’m getting tired.”

  “And old,” she reminded him.

  “Not that old. Not yet—” He fought down the fear that tightened his throat. “—But I’m getting there. My shoulder hurts like a sonofabitch.” He said the words he’d been dreading, and surprisingly the world didn’t stop spinning. Instead, it felt as if a weight had lifted off of him. “Grow old with me. We’ll go back to my ranch and you can nurse me through a rotator-cuff surgery.” He grinned. “Then we’ll raise horses and babies.”

  “And a little hell every now and then?” she added, her lips curving into a smile and her eyes dancing with a passion that scorched him to the quick.

  “Every night, sugar,” he assured her. “Every night.”

  * * * * *

  Julie Leto

  Hooked

  To Kimberly Raye,

  for inspiring me to write outside my comfort zone and to real cowboys everywhere because...

  well, do we really need a reason?

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Excerpt

  1

  “YOUR DADDY SURE KNOWS how to make an ass of himself.”

  James Hooker shut his eyes and gripped his left hand tight to his four-finger pour of bourbon. Hadn’t he suffered enough humiliation tonight? He’d had to swallow his pride to accept the peace-offering invitation to Pete Gunner’s kid brother’s birthday bonfire, never guessing that his own sister would go AWOL and show up on the arm of the man of honor. Or that their father would go ape-shit in front of a crowd of five hundred when he found out.

  The bad blood between the Gunners and the Hookers had a long and storied history, but James couldn’t be bothered to care. Pete was one of the hottest draws on the circuit. And as the owner of a high-tech arena set to host the next round of Professional Bull Rider events, James didn’t need trouble with Pete or the increasingly popular Lost Boys. He wasn’t thrilled about his sister flirting around Wade, but his ire had nothing to do with his pompous father’s prejudices and everything to do with him not wanting Ginny to make piss-poor decisions just to spite their old man.

  He’d been there, done that.

  “It’s a family trait,” he answered, determined not to look at Allie Barrie just yet. Everyone else in town knew better than to throw the sheriff’s god-awful behavior in his face—especially when he was tucked into his corner spot at the Marooner’s Rock honky-tonk, minding his own business. But his ex, whose voice and perfume he’d recognize if he was blind, deaf and mute, made it her opening salvo.

  He took a swig from his glass, but the fiery burn wasn’t enough to counteract the way his mouth watered just knowing that Allie was standing less than a foot behind him. He knew it was less than a foot because he could feel the press of her ample breasts against his back—breasts he’d buoyed in his palms, breasts he’d sucked pink and raw, breasts that would make any red-blooded cowboy weep with need.

  Allie had that effect on him. Hell, she’d probably have that effect on any man she set her sights on—but she never seemed to look for anyone but
him. In the nine years since their breakup, she’d sidled back into town on a manhunt two or three times a year—and he was, as always, her intended prey.

  Which was why he’d been avoiding her any way he could.

  “You sure left Wade’s party right quick,” she said. “I didn’t even get a chance to ask you to dance.”

  “I wanted no part of my father’s foolishness,” he grumbled, swigging down another swallow of whiskey. “Ginny’s playing with fire hooking up with that Gunner kid, but the only way she’ll learn is to get burned.”

  “That’s the truth. Still, that’s an awful philosophical outlook for you, Hook.”

  He chuckled, but not because her words were funny, though they were a touch ironic. James had once been a big believer in philosophy—or at least, in a man setting up rules to live by that would keep him on a purposeful path.

  Then Allie had come into his life and blown that all to hell.

  She snagged his drink, her bare arm snaked slowly past him, teasing him with the scents of sea salt and vanilla. Even though he knew better, he couldn’t resist turning his head just enough to watch her slide her tongue along the rim of the glass before she threw back what was left of his bourbon in one bold shot.

  “Well, since I’ve had my fill—” he tipped the brim of his Stetson “—you have yourself a good night.”

  He swiveled his barstool toward the door, but he’d barely gotten to his feet when she was standing in front of him.

  “Don’t take off in such a hurry, Hook. The jukebox is humming. How about that dance?”

  “I don’t dance anymore, Allie.”

  “Why not? That bull crushed your hand, Hook, not your hips.”

  His stare seemed enough to force her to change course. His career-ending injury was a sore spot between them. Not the sorest, but close.

  “Then we’ll just talk,” she suggested, her volume rising. Between the chatter of the full-to-capacity bar and the bluegrass music blaring from the jukebox, a private conversation was near to impossible.

  But that wouldn’t stop her. Nothing stopped her. Nothing but him beating a path to the door.

  “You and me don’t talk, Allie.”

  “We used to,” she answered, her gulf-green eyes flashing with determination. “All the time. Remember?”

  He squinted, wondering if she’d lost her grip. “Allie, the only time you and I did nothing but talk was when we hadn’t yet found out there were a lot more interesting things a boy and girl could do together.”

  That revelation had come shortly after she’d turned sixteen. Two years later, she’d finally cottoned on to what her classmates had been doing behind the barns during square dances or up in the haylofts when their daddies were off riding cattle or following the circuit. Once she’d figured it out, she’d been insatiable—luckily, just with him.

  Until it had all fallen apart.

  Nostalgia bent his knees, but even as he moved to sit, he came to his senses and stood again. He was trouble. Allie Barrie was trouble. Together, they were a shit-storm that could wreck even the most secure future plans. He had a mangled hand to prove that much—and a torn-apart life he was only now starting to rebuild.

  Not that he’d been sailing around rudderless since she’d packed up for the coast. In nine years, he’d changed course and built a new life for himself. Did he really want to go backward with Allie? Even for just a few minutes?

  He was all set to walk out when she dipped her chin. Her long brown hair swept across his shoulders as she turned on the full power of her green eyes. The irises started to swirl in spirals of emerald, jade and pine. He was transfixed. Hypnotized. God almighty, he’d lost hours staring into them once upon a time, watching for that key moment right before the color glazed over and she lost her mind to pleasure. The victorious euphoria that had shot through his system with each of her hard-won orgasms nearly matched the triumph of meeting the requisite eight seconds on the back of a bull.

  Nearly.

  “Allie, gimme a break. We’ve talked it all out. Ain’t nothing left for us to say to each other.”

  “That’s not true,” she insisted. “We haven’t talked. You never let me talk! All you do is say that you forgive me and that it wasn’t my fault and then you take off. I don’t get it, Hook. You don’t run from anything. Not two-ton bulls, not your asshole daddy or, hell, not a failing economy into which no one in their right mind would sink their entire future on the off-chance they can turn an old plot of used-up ranch land into something more than dirt. But you run from me. Every damned time.”

  So, she knew about his latest venture. No big surprise. Lost Gun wasn’t a big place and though Allie had moved away for college, she still had plenty of friends and family to keep her informed about the goings-on at the J. Roger Ranch—not to mention the fact that she rarely went more than six months without coming home. He had indeed invested what was left of his savings into transforming the ranch he’d inherited from his uncle into a premiere rodeo destination. However, that fortune hadn’t amounted to much more than the land and what was left of his rodeo winnings after he’d paid for business school.

  But he had a dream. Well, he had a second dream, his ambition of becoming a top-rated bull rider having gone to hell under the hoof of a two-thousand-pound beast. And he wasn’t about to let Allie distract him now by rehashing sins that were best kept in the past.

  “I don’t run,” he said. “But I learn from my mistakes. You and me, we’re better off apart. Far apart.”

  But before he could establish major mileage between her location and his, she snagged him by the sleeve. “That wasn’t always true.”

  “It’s true now. More than ever.”

  “Why? Because when we’re together, sparks fly? Sparks that turn into a hot, bone-melting attraction that neither one of us can forget about, even when there are hundreds of miles between us?”

  His gut tightened. He didn’t want to hurt her again. He’d done his damage when he’d cruelly blamed her for distracting him so that he’d made crucial errors during a ride that had resulted in the destruction of the bones in his right hand. He and Allie were history—and if there was one thing he’d learned from those highfalutin professors at Texas Tech, it was that taking stock of past mistakes was the only way mankind was going to survive.

  Hell, it was the only way he would survive.

  “When we’re together, neither one of us can think straight, that much is true. But I need my head right now. I’ve got a lot going on and the last person I want around is you.”

  * * *

  WHEN JAMES HOOKER MEANT to hurt, he didn’t miss. His words sliced through her like a blade, stunning her into shocked stillness long enough for him to mutter an unconvincing, “Sorry,” toss a couple of bills on the bar and disappear into the night.

  Or at least, disappear into the parking lot. Allie had endured enough of the man’s whetted barbs to recover quickly. So he was angry with her. That was nothing new. Ever since that first outburst hours after the doctors had declared his hand unrepairable, he’d made himself scarce whenever she was around. On the few times she’d managed to corner him, he’d claimed that he no longer blamed her for her part in the destruction of what might have been a long, profitable career.

  But he had never been very convincing and Allie had had enough of his dismissive assurances. They’d been inseparable nearly their whole lives, first as friends, then as first-love lovers. The rails around the ring where he’d ridden his first bull probably still had the permanent nail marks, just like the spot below her right hip bone still had a miniscule tattoo he’d bought her for her seventeenth birthday—a sideways number eight.

  He’d said it was to commemorate the miraculous eight seconds it took for a cowboy to reach nirvana, but she’d known better. It was the symbol of infinity—the eternity they might have spent together if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.

  When she’d seen the pink line, she’d freaked. She hadn’t thought about how springing the
news on him right before a ride might mess with his head. His legendary concentration shot to hell, he’d made a rookie error. He’d been bucked off hard and the bull had crushed Hook’s hand.

  That had been a long time ago. Since then, she’d gone to college, gotten a degree in marine biology, a master’s in marine ecosystem dynamics and was one dissertation away from her doctorate in the same. Her graduate advisor had recommended her for a once-in-a-lifetime job at an eco-friendly marine-themed hotel in the Caribbean—a sweet offer she just couldn’t bring herself to take just yet.

  Not when James Hooker still occupied parts of her soul.

  But that’s precisely why she’d delayed accepting. Despite the half-dozen messages Dr. Eric Rayburn had left for her, she’d eschewed the summer-break fun in Port Aransas in order to come back home and put her feelings for Hook to rest.

  She slapped through the honky-tonk’s hokey double doors and headed straight toward Hook’s beat-up Ford truck. She’d parked right next to him. She wished she’d thought to block him in, but she wouldn’t put it past Hook to simply roll his four-wheel drive right over her cute little convertible coupe in his haste to escape.

  Instead, she whistled in the way her daddy’d taught her.

  “We’re not done!”

  When his back taillights flashed, she jogged the rest of the distance, launched herself onto the running board and slapped her palm on the driver’s-side window.

  “I’m not kidding around this time, Hook. I’m not leaving until we put this bad blood behind us.”

  He rolled down the window and cursed. “Why are you doing this to me, Allie?”

  The fact that he hadn’t just driven off, forcing her to either jump clear or hang on for dear life, gave her enough hope to tease him with a smile, despite her flip-flopping stomach.

  “Doing what?”

  “You wanna talk or you wanna flirt?”

  “I remember when you loved that I could do both.”

  “That was a hell of a long time ago,” he said, his finger pointed for emphasis. “I’m not going back there. And neither should you.”