The Hard-to-Get Cowboy

by Crystal Green

  He knocked, and she counted to five, grabbed her coat from the sofa, blew a kiss to Lord Vader, then answered.

  She opened the door to find Jackson standing there just as long and lean and cocky as usual. But then…

  Something happened.

  She couldn’t explain it, other than that it was a change in the cool air, a shift of feeling and perception.

  He looked her up and down, took off his cowboy hat and held it over his chest.

  “Laila,” he said.

  And she couldn’t even say his reaction was caused by how gussied up she was. He had worn the same look yesterday morning, when he had caught her walking back to her apartment in her sweats.

  It was almost as if she took his breath away just by standing near him…?.

  Normally, she would’ve handled the situation with aplomb. She was used to compliments, although she appreciated the sentiments that went behind every single one of them.

  But this?

  This was something else.

  She didn’t know what to do but say, “I decided against the sweatsuit tonight.”

  His gaze seemed hazy, and she even thought she saw him swallow with more difficulty than usual.

  Without saying anything more, he reached out his free hand.

  His gesture seemed to mean much more than just helping her out the door. Taking his hand seemed to signal that she was going someplace new, different.

  Impulsively, she nestled her hand in his and, right away, a kick of desire jarred her.

  All he had to do was touch her and she got shaky.

  Good heavens.

  After closing her door, they walked the short distance to his pickup. During the ride up to the resort, he turned on the radio, covering their lack of conversation.

  By the time they got there, Laila had composed herself, silently repeating again and again that she had dated plenty of good-looking guys before, that she had always been in control of romantic situations and she should have no problem doing that now.

  The Gallatin Room, which had a muted ambiance, featured a spectacular view of the mountains. The maître d’ sat them at the best table in the house, in front of the window, candlelight flickering from a frosted-glass sconce.

  Laila opened the menu, having no idea what she would order, even though she had been here a couple of times before—neither of which had made her freak out like this.

  “I don’t know if I’m excessively spoiled,” Jackson said, pulling her out of her jitters, “but I’ve been to so many fancy restaurants that I always know what I want straight off.”

  His voice, low and mellow, went a long way toward smoothing out her anxiety, and she lowered the menu. “This is what you do for Traub Oil? Take people out to nice places?”

  “It’s what I did do at Traub Oil in Texas. As you can imagine, I’m pretty good at courting clients.”

  Um, yeah. She imagined he had cornered the market on courting a long time ago.

  “And what exactly do you do now, here in Montana?” she asked.

  “They call it community outreach. See, one of your local boys, Austin Anderson, has got an engineering background, and he’s working on more environmentally beneficial ways to extract oil from the Bakken Shale. I’m in charge of educating people about the developments on that front. And I’m here to be a liaison between Traub Oil Montana and the people we leased or bought land from in the Shale.”

  It was a more mature position than he’d had before, she realized. “How do you like the switch?”

  “From party boy to responsible citizen?” He grinned. “It’s working so far, as long as I don’t meet up with Woody Paulson again.”

  “And as long as you don’t have any more brothers who get married?”

  “A point to the lady.”

  His gaze glittered in the candlelight, and she had to glance back at her menu before she slid down in her chair like wax going hot and slippery under the heat of fire.

  She still couldn’t make up her mind about the food, but being unable to make decisions wasn’t exactly a new thing when she was around Jackson. “The coq au vin is always good,” he said.

  “Sounds perfect to me.” She wasn’t exactly sure what it was since the description didn’t offer many details, but she trusted him.

  She shut her menu, just in time for the waiter to arrive and introduce himself, plus the specials of the night. When the sommelier came, she recommended a Pinot Noir from Oregon to be paired with the coq au vin, which Jackson was also having.

  Soon, they were breaking artisan bread from a basket, dipping it in olive oil. All the while, Laila couldn’t keep her mind straight, since it kept wandering to places it shouldn’t stray: places like the boathouse, where she had let him—and herself—go way too far. Like the front seat of his pickup, where she wondered if he was going to try to kiss her again tonight.

  Like the bedroom, where, if she wasn’t careful, they might end up.

  But they wouldn’t. God help her, they couldn’t, because even if he wasn’t in Thunder Canyon long term, that didn’t mean she would suddenly forget her pride and become someone who slept with anyone.

  Still, she couldn’t stop thinking of Jackson’s fingertips on her skin, stroking over her until the hair raised on her arms and until she went tight in her belly, warm and curdled…

  “What’s going through that head of yours?” Jackson asked, and it seemed to come out of the blue of her fantasies.

  She sat up in her chair, dabbing the napkin over her mouth to buy herself some time. If she said anything right now, she just might stammer.

  “Nothing much,” she finally managed.

  “Aw, don’t tell me that, Laila. You’re a complex woman.”

  Slowly, she looked up at him. Complex?

  She remembered how he hadn’t seemed to care that she had been wearing a sweatsuit yesterday, how he had looked at her as if she was, for all the world, perfect in his eyes.

  As if she didn’t have to dress in anything but herself for him.

  “I’m thinking,” she said, turning her gaze to the window and the view, “that this is a really good night, Jackson, and that I’m glad I came.”

  When she turned to him again, she saw that he had gotten that roguish grin on his face, and she knew that he was just as happy to get away from serious subjects as she was.

  “The night’s hardly over,” he said softly, making her stomach whirl.

  Making her wonder, once more, what would come at the end of this date.

  Chapter Six

  The night was like a stretch of never-ending torture for Jackson as he sat across from Laila in the Gallatin Room, yearning for her with such ferocity that he thought he might be pulled apart long before he drove her home.

  He managed to last through the main course, dessert, the slow walk they took through the boutique hall of the resort, then to his truck.

  It was yet another quiet ride home, but unlike the last time, on the way back to town from Silver Stallion Lake, the silence was weighted with something other than hard feelings.

  He could feel the air just about vibrating between them, humming with possibility, and he knew she was wondering what kind of moves he planned to make.

  Part of Jackson wanted to go for it—seduce her as he would seduce any other woman. But, with Laila, he didn’t want this anticipation to end. It was too enjoyable, like a fine bourbon you would nurse, reveling in the taste, the warmth slipping down from throat to belly.

  When they reached her apartment building, he pulled into a different parking space than he normally used; around the corner, away from the windows, near a maple tree that somewhat blocked them from view.

  He allowed the engine to idle, leaving on the radio, which was playing an old Charlie Rich tune. The singer was mulling about what happens behind closed doors, after two people find themselves alone for the night.

  Just like now.

  Laila hadn’t opened her door yet, and Jackson wondered how long he could keep
her here, her citrus-breeze scent filling the truck’s cab.

  She finally glanced at him from under those lush eyelashes, smiling a little. “Thanks for tonight. It was nice.”

  Lord knew how she did it, but she made his heart buck.

  “Nice,” he said, repeating her description. “That’s all it was?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She tucked a long blond strand that had escaped from her upswept style behind her ear just as Charlie Rich sang the part about how his woman lets her hair hang down…and how she makes him feel glad that he’s a man.

  And Jackson felt all man right about now, too, with his heartbeat traveling downward, lower and lower until it pained him.

  Take it slow, he reminded himself. No reason to rush when the buildup is so good.

  Laila gave him another long look, and she must have seen what she was doing to him, because she got a glint in her eyes—the kind of glint Jackson was known for. At least, that was what they told him.

  It was confident.

  Bold.

  Jackson’s pulse double-timed.

  “So,” she said, her voice low and throaty. “I guess we’ve fulfilled our date quota.”

  “A quota.”

  “You asked for just one more, and here it was.”

  He wanted to say that it wasn’t enough—that he couldn’t even think of being in Thunder Canyon, knowing she was there, too, yet never seeing her again.

  “Laila,” he said softly, resting his arm on the back of the seat, his hand so close to her shoulder that his fingertips tingled. “There can be a lot more to come.”

  She swallowed, and he noticed that the windows around them were paling from the bottom up with the beginnings of steam.

  Before she could give him a sassy rejoinder, he eased closer to her, subtly yet surely.

  He was so near that he could hear her intake of breath as if it was his own.

  “We’re going to see each other again,” he said. “Don’t you doubt it.”

  “You assume quite a bit,” she whispered.

  He drew even closer, to where he knew she would feel his breath on her mouth.

  “I assume enough to know what you’re dying for me to do right now.”

  And he leaned in the rest of the way, fitting his mouth over hers.

  In a roaring burst, he was enveloped in passion and heat, her lips parting, responding. Her hands gripping his coat and pulling him closer.

  Without thinking, he wrapped her in his arms, dipping her back against the door as she bent her leg, nestling even nearer to him.

  A flash of desire split him in two, and he felt as if they were in that boathouse again, with him losing all mental faculties, with him needing her so damn much that it scared the wits out of him.

  He pulled back a little from her, looking down at this woman who captivated him and made him want to say things he shouldn’t ever say to anyone. He looked at that beauty-queen face, but it wasn’t her prettiness that got to him—there was something in her gaze that pulled him in with even more inexplicable force.

  It was deep inside her, down in the blue of her eyes. There, he thought he might even be able to see a quality that she had never shown anyone else before, though he couldn’t be sure.

  The sight of it shook Jackson to the core, causing him to stop altogether.

  Too far, he thought. One more step, one more kiss, and he was going to cross a line he might never be able to go back over.

  And what would he do with her then?

  What would she do with him, once he started to disappoint her with his inability to commit?

  Gently, he tweaked her cheek with a finger, then let her go, moving to his side of the truck with a grin that covered his disappointment at having to pull back.

  Some men were born to be good for others. He wasn’t one of those. Never had been, never would be.

  The furrow of Laila’s brow made him all the more rankled until she gathered herself, smoothing out her dress and buttoning her coat.

  “Well, Jackson,” she said, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re a pro at playing hard to get.”

  She didn’t sound angry this time, maybe because she had already known what she was in for with him. And, oddly enough, that made Jackson feel the slightest bit better. If they both knew what to expect from each other, there would be no more disappointment.

  “You’ve got me,” he said, holding out his hands, as if in surrender.

  “Do I?”

  She said it with a bubbled laugh, and if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that there was a pop of frustration beneath it.

  For a moment, he got more serious than he had ever intended.

  “Yeah, Laila. You’ve definitely got me.”

  The air seemed to go still, probably because he meant it—at least in the heat of this moment.

  He didn’t trust himself to mean it tomorrow…or anywhere down the road.

  She opened the door, snapping the tension apart. “Thanks again. I really am glad we went out.”

  He watched her get out of the truck, then stroll away. Common sense told him to stay put, to leave her be, but then he found himself climbing out of the cab, too, walking toward her door, where he’d just say a last goodnight then leave.

  She was unlocking her front door when he approached her bottom step, and he remained there, all too certain that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from going inside if she gave him even the slightest indication that this was where she wanted to take the date.

  It was as if she knew better than to ask him in, too, and she gave him a little grin.

  “Drive home safe,” she said, taking her time in closing the door while the light from behind her made her hair golden.

  “Just promise me you’re going to kick some butt at that bank tomorrow,” he said, as if he couldn’t stand for the night to end.

  She paused, apparently remembering their conversation a couple days ago during their picnic.

  Then she shrugged. “I’ll kick butt only if you refrain from it. How’s that for a deal?”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  She laughed, shut the door all the way, and when the lock clicked into place, it was as if something inside Jackson had been closed, too, just begging to be opened again.

  Jackson had gone home and taken a good cold shower. It had done its part in getting his head—and the rest of him—back together, but the next day during work, he found himself at his desk, staring out the window in the direction of Laila’s bank.

  Of course, he couldn’t see it from here, but just knowing that she was merely five minutes away was killing him.

  He got through a day of setting up meetings with some of the families that Traub Oil Montana was leasing land from, but he called off work when his brother, Ethan, stuck his head inside the door.

  “Got a minute?” he asked.

  “Today I have more minutes than I know what to do with,” Jackson said, thinking of all the time he would have to fill when he went back to his condo tonight. Every one of those minutes would be punctuated by his longing to see Laila again.

  “We’ve got an impromptu family meeting going on in the conference room,” Ethan said.

  Without any more information, his sibling disappeared. Jackson got up from his desk, thankful for the interruption until he walked into the conference room to see his brothers, Dillon and Corey, plus Dax, at one end of the long table. His younger sister, Rose, who had been in PR and communications for Traub Oil until she’d begun working in Mayor Bo Clifton’s office, was standing just under a mounted TV screen, her arms crossed. Their expressions were stoic enough, but the look on DJ’s face was the worst.

  Jackson took a seat next to his cousin. “What’s going on?”

  Corey said, “We’re here to hammer out what we’re going to do about this brewing rib war once and for all.”

  DJ said, “After our last meeting, Dillon reminded me that this shady business maneuver f
rom LipSmackin’ Ribs wasn’t the first—just the most blatant. You all know Zane Gunther’s fiancée, Jeannette, used to work at the other joint for a time.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Dillon, who was good friends with Zane, took over. “Jeannette had told me that, before she left her job with LipSmackin’ Ribs, she was asked to spy on DJ’s Rib Shack.”

  “I didn’t take it seriously at the time,” DJ said.

  Corey jumped in. “But then their ribs started tasting like DJ’s. They must have found someone who agreed to spy on the Rib Shack.”

  Ethan rested a shoulder against the wall, near a window. “In hindsight, now we know that Jeannette’s news should’ve been taken more seriously.”

  “How seriously are we going to take it now?” Jackson’s blood was beginning to simmer again, just as it had the night when he had gone to talk to Woody at the Hitching Post. And seeing DJ with his expression so solemn only made Jackson’s temper rise all the more, even though he had promised to control it.

  But that felt nearly impossible.

  “I’m with Jackson,” Dax said, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned forward. Then he addressed the whole family. “I’ve been telling DJ since our last meeting that LipSmackin’ Ribs is going beyond traditional competitive marketplace tactics. And we’re here now because I, for one, think that Woody Paulson made this whole thing very personal when he threw a punch at Jackson. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not just business.”

  “Hey, now,” Dillon said. “I’m sure that both Woody and Jackson would admit that things just got out of hand between them.”

  In other words, the fight hadn’t been entirely Woody’s fault, Jackson thought. Half of him wanted to sink down in his seat at that, anticipating the looks he might get from his family. But the other half?

  It wanted to fight, not only for DJ, but for the entire family’s honor.

  “So what are we going to do about LipSmackin’ Ribs then?” Jackson asked.

  No one spoke.

  He stopped short of hitting the table to shake them all into action. “They’ve declared war on us. Are we just going to wait until they fire another shot?”