Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  “I get it. You hate to grovel. It makes you pissy.”

  “I’m not piss—” Her voice came out too high and loud, proving his point. She lowered her tone and pitch, smiled as if her lips were spun from sugar. “The woman I work for, the woman who gave me a job when no one else would, is a big fan of yours. Lord knows why, but she is.”

  He did not respond the way she hoped he would, which was, Sure thing, whatever you need. Instead, he said, “Why wouldn’t anyone else give you a job?”

  “We’re not talking about me. Kiley—that’s her name, Kiley Bullock—wants to know if you can come talk to the kids this week for career day.”

  “They have career day for three-year-olds?”

  “They do now.”

  “Because of me?” He looked inordinately pleased.

  “She’s hoping you’ll bring your guitar. Play a song or two. Maybe even read them a story.”

  “Me? Read a book?”

  “You do know how, don’t you?”

  “Cute.” He chuckled. “I did get my GED.”

  “Good for you. So I can put you down for story time?”

  “I’ll sing. That should be enough.”

  “I get it. You have to move your lips when you read,” she teased.

  He chuffed. “What book?”

  “I dunno. You’re the celebrity. Everyone Poops?”

  “Ha. Ha. Good one. Creative.”

  “It’s a real book.”

  He looked startled. “I know that.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Okay, I was trying to be cool. How was I supposed to know there was a children’s book about pooping?”

  “Try trusting someone who works with three-year-olds.”

  “You have my sympathy.”

  “You don’t like kids?”

  “I don’t like reading books about poop.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Read the pooping book? No, I don’t think so.”

  “No.” She snorted. “Will you come to the school and talk to the kids and play kid songs for them? I’ll take poop books off the table.”

  “That’s a relief. No one wants poop on the table.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  He lowered his lashes, lazily pulling in his pole, paused a long time. Oh crap, he wasn’t going to do it. Finally, he raised his head, and shot her a sizzling stare. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Kiley’s undying gratitude.”

  “Well, you see . . .” He paused again, his gaze doing that thing where he looked up and down her body. “Since I don’t know who Kiley is, that’s really not going to work for me. I need more incentive.”

  “Then do it for the kids. Think of the fans you’ll gain. Not only the little tykes, but their parents.”

  “From the size of the audience last night, I’d say I already have plenty of fans in this town.”

  Paige sighed heavily. “What do you want?”

  A wicked smiled played at his lips. “You.”

  “Huh?” She was so shocked by his audacity she assumed she must have heard him wrong.

  “Have dinner with me.”

  She tilted her head back. Looked up at the sky, and spread her arms wide. “Why?”

  “Because you’re awesome and I want to get to know you better and you need a favor and we both need to eat.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, a shield, a guard, holding him out. “When do you want this dinner to happen?”

  “You name the—”

  “Is it when I come in from the day care center at four-thirty, walk Fritzi, and then get ready for the evening performance at the theater?” Okay, she had to get rid of the sarcastic tone or she’d never convince him to come speak to the class.

  “How about after you get off work at the theater?”

  “I go visit my grandmother in the nursing home from nine to ten every night. We could go after ten, I suppose. But no restaurant in Twilight stays open after ten except for fast food joints. You wanna meet at Whataburger, say ten-fifteen-ish?”

  “What about the weekend?”

  “Two shows at the theater.”

  “Saturday morning?”

  “I have a third job waiting tables for my uncle Floyd at Froggy’s restaurant on Saturday morning in exchange for the rent.”

  “Sunday morning?”

  “Church. You can come to church with me.”

  “Pass.”

  “Whataburger is looking like the date.” She rubbed her palms together, pretending it was the optimal choice.

  He scratched his chin. “When do you have time for yourself?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Time is a commodity.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If there’s a will, there’s a way. You’re the one who needs the favor,” he drawled, long and sweet as if he had honey wrapped around his tongue. “I’m telling you the price. Up to you to figure out how you can afford it.”

  She bit her bottom lip. Thought about it. She should have been peeved, but instead she was beguiled. What was wrong with her? “You’ve got a bit of the devil in you, Cash Colton.”

  His grin turned diablo-pepper hot. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Dinner, huh?”

  “I tell you what, since you’re so busy, I’ll make dinner for you.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You can cook?”

  He thrust out his chest, lifted his chin. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

  His voice was black velvet caressing her skin, spreading goose bumps with each syllable. Soft and smooth and dark and elongated. Seductive, hypnotic. A spiderweb of words twining stickily to lure her in. A silky Gordian knot.

  Her mind’s eye got sneaky and she saw him in a frivolous apron emblazoned with “I’m the Reason Santa Has a Naughty List,” deftly chopping vegetables with a chef’s knife, happily humming one of the Christmas songs he’d sung last night. It shook her, that sweet, domestic image.

  “So you’ll come talk to the kids on Thursday?”

  “All right. And for you, dinner. Friday night. Give me time to prepare,” he said. “Ten o’clock. We can pretend we’re in Spain.”

  “Spain?”

  “They eat dinner at ten.”

  “You’ve been to Spain?” she asked, hearing the wistful sigh in her tone. She’d always wanted to travel. Never had the chance.

  “Several times on tour. We’ll have tapas.”

  She thought at first he said “topless,” but that made no sense. She had no idea what tapas were but she wasn’t going to ask and look like a rube.

  Instead, she said, “My houseboat or yours?”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about. C’mon on over to my place.” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

  “What? Why?”

  “So I can program my number in and you can give it to your friend to call me about toddler day.”

  “Oh. Right. Okay.” She passed him her phone.

  He tapped in his number, eyed her with a gleaming smile, and handed the phone back to her. It was still warm from his body heat. “Feel free to call me anytime.”

  “You can be annoying. You know that? But I’ll overlook it for the sake of the children.”

  “Big of you.” A sprinkling of cookie crumbs dusted the corner of his mouth, and she couldn’t help thinking about last night and his kiss and how delicious he had tasted.

  Absentmindedly, she reached up to finger her own lips.

  His eyes tracked her movements, settled on her mouth. Was he remembering too? Would he try to kiss her again when they had dinner? Maybe she should backtrack. Tell Kiley she tried, but his price was too high?

  She dropped her hands to her sides.

  His scrutiny deepened. Lingered. Twisted her up inside. That tornado of emotions that had kept her awake all night. His eyes turned wily, wolfish, and she just knew without a shadow of a doubt he was picturing her naked.

  He swiped a hand over his mouth, dislodgin
g the sugar. Stood up. The wooden dock creaked from the shift of his weight. His gaze was a lawn mower, sheared right over her. Scalped. Clipped.

  Left her raw and vulnerable.

  Paige felt as if she was naked. Nipples beaded taut. Chill bumps covering every inch of her body.

  She’d made her share of mistakes in life, but she wasn’t about to make one with him. Not when he had the ability to flamethrower her heart to ashes. “We need some ground rules for this dinner.”

  “Wait a minute, you didn’t say anything about ground rules when you were asking for a favor.”

  “I’m bringing them up now,” she said. “You’ve demonstrated unpredictable behavior and I want to circumvent any misunderstandings.”

  “Unpredictable?”

  “You called me up onstage. You burst into my house—”

  “I didn’t burst, I persuaded you to let me in.”

  “You coerced your way in—”

  “To apologize.”

  “Cards on the table—”

  “We’re playing poker?” He pushed back the Stetson.

  She gave him a chiding glance, even as she secretly reveled in his teasing. It felt as if they’d known each other for a thousand years. His every gesture, every expression, vibrated with familiarity.

  “We both know you could have any woman you wanted and you’re only chasing me because I’m not after you. I’m a challenge and you love that.”

  “So, you barely know me, and already you know what I love?” he asked.

  Love? God, why had she said that word?

  “You love attention.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not the way you do.”

  “You just haven’t been receiving the right kind of attention.” His voice, his eyes, his mouth. Silk. All of it was smooth, soft silk.

  She folded her arms up tight underneath her breasts. “I’ll have dinner with you if you promise not to kiss me again.”

  “What if you kiss me first?” he said.

  “I won’t.”

  “But if you did . . .” He dipped his head, leaned in closer.

  “I won’t.” Instead of sounding staunchly adamant as she intended, her voice cracked. Making it seem as if she was easily breakable.

  “But if you were to kiss me first, it’s okay for me to kiss back?”

  “It’s. Not. Going. To. Happen.”

  “But if . . .”

  “Fine. If I take complete leave of my senses and fling myself into your arms, you can kiss me back. But I won’t.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  “It’s not a challenge—” She snorted, rolled her eyes. “Oh never mind.”

  “Never mind about dinner or coming to the kids’ school or—”

  “Come to school. I’ll come to dinner.”

  “But we won’t come together?” He smirked, clearly trying to get her goat.

  And succeeding quite spectacularly. Now all she could think about was him, her, a mattress . . .

  She refused to blush. “Now you’ve got it.”

  “You know, I’m not as big of a skirt-chaser as you think I am. I know you’ve been looking me up online, buying into the rumors. But here’s the deal, just because women—and a few men too—chase after me doesn’t mean I give in.”

  “Regular choirboy, are you?” She kept her words dry and chalky.

  “Now, darlin’,” he drawled, whipping out his country twang honed sharp for the groupies. “I never said I was celibate.”

  “I get it. You only want what you can’t have.”

  “You sure like putting people in neat little boxes, dontcha?”

  Paige startled. Did she? The comment struck a bit close to the bone. “We both know this isn’t going anywhere.”

  “We do?”

  “Don’t be coy. You’re so far out of my league I couldn’t reach you with an extension ladder.”

  His eyes and tone softened. “Aww, honey, you have no idea what rock I crawled out from under. You’re the one who’s out of my league.”

  She felt flattered and that was awesomely weird. “Yeah, right. Mr. Multimillionaire Country-and-Western Star and the woman who works three jobs and still can’t afford to buy her own car.”

  “I’m not talking about fame and fortune. I’m talking about strength of character. You’ve got more in your little toe than I’ve got in my entire body.”

  Oh God, he was being nice. Why was he being nice? She could handle him so much better when he was wearing his cocky musician persona. This sincerity was harder to guard against.

  “Paige,” he said, his tone full of kindness and understanding. “I can tell you’re struggling with something. I’ll stop teasing you. I’ll do the kid thing. You don’t owe me dinner. You don’t owe me anything. If anything, I owe you.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “A deal’s a deal. I agreed to dinner and I always keep my word. No matter how much I might end up regretting it.”

  Chapter 11

  Parody: A composition based on previous work. A common technique used in medieval and Renaissance music.

  It was Thursday the seventh, six days after he’d rolled into town. He hadn’t seen Paige much in the past two days since their conversation on his houseboat. He was busy putting the song together that had come over him the day he met her. And she was busy with her multiple jobs. But each morning, he made a point to go jogging when she walked Fritzi before work. He’d wave and jog on by and pretend it was coincidence. He didn’t know if she bought it or not.

  Give Cash a stadium packed with country-and-western fans and he was in his element. He could perform for hours.

  But a roomful of three-year-olds?

  Not so much.

  Twelve sticky-fingered toddlers sat around him in a semicircle, staring blankly. They weren’t impressed.

  “Class, this is Cash Colton.” Kiley Bullock clasped her hands and interlaced her fingers. The raven-haired preschool owner stood beside him. He’d already given her an autographed head shot at her request and she’d oozed all over him. “He’s a musician.”

  One kid yawned. Another picked his nose. A third bared his teeth at Cash like he was an ankle-biter for real.

  Cash gulped, forced a smile. Why the hell had he agreed to this?

  Oh yeah, Paige.

  Paige stood at the back of the room looking well and truly pleased by his discomfort. She wore dark wash skinny jeans, a long sage-colored cardigan over her blue sweater that played up the green in her hazel eyes, ankle boots, and a let’s-see-your-fame-get-you-out-of-this-one grin.

  Just the sight of her cheered him up and bolstered his courage. He was falling for her. No doubt about it. Honestly, who wouldn’t fall for her? That irresistible smile. The curvy body. Her delicious scent that made him think of maple syrup drizzled over hot pancakes.

  And then there was the way she took care of people—her grandmother, her boss, these kids. She had an appealing down-to-earth, levelheaded quality that stirred him.

  And then there was the way she stoked his creative muse. Hell, was his muse. Whenever he was around her, his creative synapses fired on all cylinders, revved up and ready to roll.

  And of course there was that red-letter kiss . . .

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the taste of her lips, the heat of her mouth, and the sound of her soft sigh.

  The woman was something special.

  If he were smart, he’d pull the plug on the houseboat rental and find somewhere else to hole up and finish writing his song. But would his creativity fail him without her?

  Paige motioned toward the children with a jerk of her head and he realized he’d been woolgathering and his audience had grown restless. One little girl pulled the tail of her shirt up over her head. A boy was kicking the rungs of his chair. Another boy was blowing spit bubbles.

  He raised a palm. “Hey, kids.”

  “Hay is for horses,” the little girl with the shirt over her face quipped.

  Cash shot
Paige a desperate glance. Help! I’m in over my head.

  Paige pantomimed playing a guitar.

  Whew. Yeah. Right. That’s why he was here. The music. Well, from what he could tell, he was really here because Kiley Bullock had a crush on him. But music had saved him throughout his life. When in doubt, go with what works.

  He picked up his guitar, settled it on his knee. It felt comfy, familiar. He plucked a couple of chords.

  That got their attention. The kids sat up straighter. The little girl pulled her shirt down.

  “Instead of doing a bunch of blabbing. Let me show you what I do for a living. Anyone know ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’?”

  All twelve hands shot in the air.

  “Smart kids,” he said, and launched into the ditty.

  Old MacDonald worked his magic and they were off. Cash singing and playing, the kids joining in making animal noises, clapping their hands, and stomping their feet in time to the music.

  “And an oink, oink here, and an oink, oink there. Here an oink. There an oink. Everywhere an oink, oink,” Cash sang.

  Paige gave him a you-get-a-gold-star smile and he knew he’d pleased her and suddenly everything was easy.

  “On your feet boys and girls,” he hollered, and stood up. He led them around the room like the Pied Piper. The kids marched and tromped behind him. Kiley and Paige joined their barnyard conga line.

  Around and around the room they went.

  It was going swell until he sang, “And on this farm he had a goat . . .” Cash paused, stopped, looked around at the children—who all belatedly put on their brakes and ended up smacking into each other. Chain reaction crashes.

  Oops.

  Cash strummed a few more chords while everyone shook off the body slams. “Anyone know what the goat says?”

  “Baa!” hollered the ankle-biter.

  “That’s right,” Cash said. “Baa.”

  One little girl scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. “A sheep goes ‘baa,’ not a goat.”

  “Psstt.” Kiley leaned over to whisper in Cash’s ear, casually grazing her shoulder against his in the process. “Lily’s dad is a goat farmer. She knows her stuff.”

  “If a goat doesn’t say ‘baa’ what sound does he make?” Cash asked Lily.