Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  He cocked his head, studied her with steadfast eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “The dog needs to do his business,” she blurted.

  He laughed a cool, smooth laugh, refreshing as peppermint. “That explains the pajamas.”

  Holy jungle jaguar! She was in her pajamas, and not just any pajamas, but red and white reindeer pajamas.

  Her cheeks heated and she ducked her head, hurried Fritzi over to the grass. She quelled the urge to snatch the dog into her arms and run back to the houseboat, slam the door, and never come out again.

  He followed her. “It’s Paige, right?”

  “Huh?” She blinked, and glanced over at him. He knew her name. OMG, he’d bothered to find out her name! Her knees swooned.

  He raised both eyebrows. “Your name?”

  “Oh,” she said, like an idiot. “Yes. It’s Paige. That’s me. Paige MacGregor. Paige Hyacinth MacGregor.” God, just shut up.

  “Emma told me who you were,” he explained. “But not the Hyacinth part.”

  “Why?” She couldn’t figure out why a successful, sexy-as-sin cowboy musician would be interested enough to find out her name.

  “Maybe she doesn’t know your middle name is Hyacinth.”

  “Not that ‘why.’ Why did Emma tell you who I was?”

  “Because I asked.” He studied her with those amazing gray eyes the color of smoke and fog and mountaintops.

  “Why did you ask?”

  “You are seriously nosy.”

  “Not any nosier then you.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Asking people’s names and stuff.”

  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened and he looked like a movie version of a romantic outlaw—sexy, handsome, naughty, but not truly bad. “Because it’s not often someone throws me out of an establishment.”

  “Just doing my job.” She could hear her defensiveness.

  “I’m Cash by the way,” he said, and extended his hand. “Cash Henry Colton.”

  She had no choice but to take his hand. His handshake was as firm and reliable as she’d expected it to be, and it shook her up more than she cared to admit. Warm. Friendly. Easy. She dropped that hand as quickly as she could.

  “I know who you are.” She pressed her palm against her side. Felt his residual heat leak through her skin. “You’re kind of a big deal.”

  He made a dismissive face. “Hype.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  He ignored that, squatted beside Fritzi, held out the back of his hand for the poodle to sniff. “Hey there, fella.”

  “So what are you doing here?” she asked, tilting her chin and studying the top of his head, thick with curly black hair that swirled to the right at the crown. “No one gets up this early on Sunday morning around here unless they’re going fishing. You don’t look like you’re going fishing.”

  “You’re right. I’m not fishing.”

  “Then why are you at the marina at six in the morning?”

  “I’m an early riser.”

  “Uh, that surprises me.”

  “Why?”

  “Musicians are infamous for their late night shenanigans.”

  “My shenanigan days are behind me.” He latched on to her gaze and no matter how hard she tried, Paige could not look away. “But musicians’ hours are crazy. When the creative spark wakes up, you work.”

  “And did the creative spark awaken you?”

  He stared at her for so long without answering that a nervous tingle shot up her spine. His gaze doubled down, not just looking and observing, but peering into her, through her, down into the depths of her soul.

  When he spoke it was a shadow of a whisper, low and filled with mysterious meaning. “The creative spark awakened.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that so she dropped her gaze and jiggled Fritzi’s leash, urging him to hurry up.

  “Actually,” Cash said, “I’m moving in.”

  Her pulse shot up, teetered on the verge of bring-out-the-defibrillator. Huh? What? “Where are you moving to? There are no houses near here.”

  Cash got to his feet, sent her a devilish grin that dissolved both her kneecaps and her common sense. “Houseboat.”

  There were only four houseboats on Lake Twilight and they were all moored on this side of the lake. There was Uncle Floyd’s boat where she was living, two more that were the summer homes of Dallasites. And the fourth—the one moored right beside her place—that belonged to Fritzi’s owner, the diving instructor.

  She had a sinking feeling she knew which one. “Sig Gunderson’s houseboat?”

  “How did you know?”

  She inclined her head toward Fritzi, who was sitting in between them, looking up from Paige to Cash and back again like he was watching a tennis match. “Fritzi belongs to Sig. I’m dog-sitting.”

  “You live nearby?” he asked.

  “Houseboat,” she admitted, saying the word as succinctly as he had.

  And that damn grin of his exploded all over his handsome face, a ballistic missile of a smile. “No kidding.”

  She did her best not to match his over-the-top enthusiasm, and he chuckled like someone had whispered in his ear the most sublime joke ever told.

  “Something funny?” she asked, painfully aware of the thin material of her pajamas, and not just because it was chilly, but mainly from the way he was staring her. As if he was Superman and amusing himself with his X-ray vision.

  Paige crossed her arms over her chest as best she could while still clutching Fritzi’s leash.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I was just thinking that living near you would be a dream come true.”

  Was this really happening? Was Cash Colton standing here in the purplish light of impending dawn flirting with her? It didn’t seem rational. He’d had Simone Bishop. Could have a million Simone Bishops if he wanted them. Why was he coming on to her?

  Okay. This must be the deal. She was still asleep. In bed. Dreaming. Never mind the dewy mist soaking her house slippers.

  Unless she was sleepwalking. Maybe she was sleepwalking.

  She had sleepwalked before. When she was ten. After her mother left. Her dad came home from a twenty-four shift to find her hoeing in the garden. Come to think of it, that had been at dawn as well.

  “Or a nightmare,” she quipped, purely as self-protection. If she wasn’t dreaming and he really was flirting, this had disaster written all over it. She’d had her fill of charming, handsome men. Cash Colton had absolute zero chance of sweeping her off her feet. She was unsweepable. Randy had seen to that.

  He laughed again as if she was the most amusing woman he’d ever met. The sound plucked a truculent string inside her, tight and irritated, although she wasn’t sure why.

  Maybe it was because he was so damn good looking.

  And irresistible.

  And sexy.

  And magnetic.

  And . . . and . . .

  He could absolutely crush her if she allowed it. She was not going to allow it. She had lost almost everything, but the one thing she had going for her was her willpower.

  Well, except for when it came to cookies. She had no willpower around cookies. Luckily, he was not a cookie.

  Unfortunately, he looked as good as cookies tasted. She tried not to check him out, but c’mon, he was the hottest thing in town, and there were a lot of hot guys in Twilight. In fact, the place—with its proximity to the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex, a host of outdoor activities available, and laid-back style—was a hot-guy mecca.

  His jeans fit his body as if they’d been tailor-made. Clinging in all the right places to muscular thighs and a tight, firm butt. Michelangelo himself could not have sculpted a finer figure. Hard. Lean. Tanned.

  She raised her chin, and wow, he was checking her out too. His gaze traveled from her hips to her chest to her lips, and then he was staring straight into her eyes.

  Her breath stumbled, tripped, stopped.
>
  He wasn’t breathing either.

  The silent communication rippling between them had power and heft. I like you, his eyes said. I want to know you better.

  Her leaping heart answered, I’m in. But her troubled brain whispered, Caution! Danger! Here, there be dragons! She didn’t know why she thought that last part, except she’d been reading a book of that title.

  “How . . .” She paused, moistened her lips, not really sure what she was going to say until the words spilled out. “Um, how long are you in town?”

  He shrugged slow and casual as if he had all the time in the world. At her feet, Fritzi had given up on her and was busy gnawing on a stick he’d found in the grass.

  “For starters, until Sig Gunderson comes home. After that . . .” He shrugged again, one shoulder going slightly higher than the other. “Who knows?”

  “You don’t have anywhere else to be?”

  “Nope.” His head rotated at a leisurely pace, matching his languid tone of voice. He could be a hypnotist. He was that mesmerizing. Every cell in her body was drawn to him. It was scary. Damn scary.

  “Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Nothing to get.” His eyes and voice were low and sultry, promising long, hot summer right here in December.

  “So you might stay in Twilight for a while?”

  “Depends.” His gaze was a drilling derrick and she was an oil well.

  “On what?” Her pulse was a pogo stick, bouncing up and down. Boing. Boing. Boing.

  “How long it takes me to decide what to do with the rest of my life.”

  “I totally get that,” she said. “I’m in a transitory phase myself.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Another thing we have in common.”

  “What’s the first thing?”

  “Both our middle names start with an H.”

  “And?”

  He held up a key. “We both live on houseboats.”

  “So we do.” She laughed against the tight squeeze of her chest muscles and felt both happy and scared.

  “Would you show me the way?”

  “What?” She was so starstruck that she was having trouble paying attention. No wonder everyone was infatuated with Cash Colton. What wasn’t to love?

  “Show me where Sig’s houseboat is moored.”

  “Oh, yes, right, that.” Heat spread up her chest to her neck, chin, cheeks. “This way.”

  Realizing they were finally on the move, Fritzi jumped up and led the way down the metal stairs to the wooden decking between the boat slips. Pastel shades of pink, orange, and purple tinged the eastern sky. Dew dampened her house slippers and she snuggled deeper into her coat, acutely aware that Cash was behind her.

  Paige couldn’t help wondering if he was staring at her butt, and her face flushed even hotter. She tried not thinking about it.

  Failed.

  The vapor lamps were still on, casting the morning mist in a fuzzy Monet hue.

  A fish flopped nearby, breaking the surface of the water, and leaving behind widening ripples.

  They passed Uncle Floyd’s houseboat.

  “Here’s where I live.” She waved. “You’re in the turquoise houseboat next door.”

  “Turquoise?” Cash laughed.

  “Sig’s got a crush on New Mexico.”

  “So why doesn’t he live there?”

  “He’s a diving instructor, and he’s built up a thriving business in Twilight. Besides, I think he likes having New Mexico as his mistress. Moving there would kill the allure.”

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

  “Something like that.”

  Cash sank his hands on his hips, looked out across the lake, inhaled deeply. “It’s eerie quiet here.”

  “It’s dawn and December. Things really hop on a summer afternoon.”

  “How long have you lived on the houseboat?” He nodded at her place.

  “Since Halloween.”

  “Then how do you know what summer’s like?”

  “My uncle, cousins, and grandmother live here. I’ve spent a lot of summers on this lake.”

  He cast her an amused look. “Cinnamon.”

  “What?”

  “Your freckles remind me of cinnamon-dusted apple pie. I love apple pie.” He paused a beat. “And cinnamon.”

  She brought her hand up to cover her nose. Peered at him over her fingertips. She felt self-conscious and wished she wasn’t in her reindeer pajamas. “I’ve always hated my freckles.”

  “That’s like Mona Lisa hating her smile,” he said. “The smile is what makes the picture.”

  “You’re saying the freckles make me who I am?”

  “I’m saying”—he inclined his head in a sexy way—“I find them adorable.”

  Holy felines! He was totally flirting with her.

  “Well, there you are,” she mumbled. “Home sweet home until Sig gets back.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to leave.

  He was blocking her way. Not in a threatening manner. He was just there and it was a small space.

  “Oops,” she said, feeling crazy breathless, and stepped the other way, sending Fritzi dancing in circles.

  But Cash moved at the same time.

  When she moved again, he waltzed right along with her, and she wondered if he was doing it on purpose to tease her.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, and did not meet his eyes.

  He made a soft sound of amusement and stepped aside. “Thanks for showing me to the houseboat.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her heart was a bongo—thump, thump, thump, thump. Fritzi was busy sniffing the leg of his jeans. “Have a good day.”

  “You too.” His voice was rich and smooth and full of promise.

  “C’mon, Fritzi.”

  The dog sat down on Cash’s boots, and gave Paige an I-ain’t-goin’-nowhere-sister expression.

  She tugged lightly on the leash.

  The dog balked, dug in.

  “Aww, Fritzi, come on,” she coaxed, heard the rising anxiety in her voice. Stopped. Took a deep breath. The dog sensed when she was upset.

  Fritzi wagged his tail, but didn’t move.

  She tugged a little firmer. “Come, come, Fritzi. Let’s go home.”

  The poodle didn’t budge. Barked, a short, declarative yelp. I am home. Technically, he was home, but not for the month of December.

  Feeling desperate, she squatted to the dog’s level, attempted to bribe him by sticking her fingers into her pocket and pretending to pull out food. “Treat?”

  The dog narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, nose twitching to smell if she really did have a treat, discovered she was trying to pull the wool over this eyes, sat back on the toes of Cash’s boots, and sent her a scathing look of betrayal.

  Impatience tightened her muscles. The dog was small enough for her to pick up and carry him back to the houseboat without his permission, but she didn’t want to look pushy in front of Cash.

  “You’ve certainly got a way with animals,” he said, sounding thoroughly entertained.

  Her impatience turned to irritation, because she was actually pretty good with animals, but then she realized he was joking.

  She softened. Stood up. Smiled. Met his bold gaze again. “Yep, that’s me. A real Francine of Assisi.”

  His lively eyes studied her for several long seconds, and his lips parted slightly.

  She didn’t know what to say or do next.

  Full dawn broke.

  The peep of sun cast his face in an easy light. She now saw clearly the faint ring of beard stubble at his chiseled jaw, the small but jagged scar at his left temple, and the mesmerizing, pulse-pounding look in his eyes that said, If there wasn’t a dog on my foot I just might kiss you.

  Or maybe she was projecting since she wanted to kiss him.

  Projection. That had to be it. Why would this stranger, this famous handsome stranger, want to kiss a rather ordinary girl like her?

  Because, said her healthy self-esteem, you’re kind of awesome to
o.

  And gullible. Don’t forget gullible. Look what had happened the last time she kissed a man she thought was out of her league.

  That was just it. She had been out of Randy’s league and couldn’t even see the truth of it because he’d been so good looking and charming.

  Just like this guy.

  Not that she thought Cash was a con-man identity thief, but she’d been naive before. Randy had taught her a thing or two. Be careful in love. Don’t give your heart away too fast.

  Love? What in the jackhammer was she thinking?

  Was she attracted to him? Oh for sure. Did she want to sleep with him? You bet. Was he the love of her life? Hells to the no.

  She took a deep breath. No hurry. No rush. No sweat. Savor the moment.

  Which was kind of nice and kind of awkward and full of new beginnings and aching awareness.

  Cash gently nudged Fritzi off the toe of his boot. “Go on, boy.”

  The poodle hopped right to his feet. Paige trolled him toward her with the leash. Fritzi shot a longing glance over his shoulder at Cash.

  “Go on.” Cash nodded.

  Fritzi lowered his head as if he was very sad, but went with Paige.

  “What are you? Some kind of dog whisperer?”

  “I worked at an animal shelter when I was a kid.” He lowered his lashes. “My first job besides working on my grandparents’ ranch. What was your first job?”

  “Besides babysitting?”

  “Besides babysitting.”

  “I worked at a dance studio.”

  “As an instructor?” He lifted an eyebrow, sent her a measured expression as if reevaluating her.

  “Don’t look so impressed. I taught tap dancing to toddlers. Not much different from babysitting.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “You must have been pretty damn good to teach dancing at sixteen.”

  “Did you miss the part about my students being toddlers?”

  “That sounds way harder than teaching adults,” he said. “And you’ve got all those parents breathing down your neck.”

  “Oh my gosh, it was.” She felt her tongue loosening. Told herself to shut up. Ignored it. “Especially with the Toddlers and Tiaras set. Talk about demanding! Those stage parents can be fierce.”

  “So do you still teach dance when you’re not playing Santa Baby at the theater?”