by Elsa Nickle
©️2021 by Elsa Nickle & J.L. Hixon
Cover Design ©️ 2021 by Joshua Oram
Cover photo ©️ J. Smith Photography
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations and or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
A Note From The Authors
Sneak Peek
Wyle Away Ranch Series
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Chapter One
This wasn’t Laurel’s worst first date.
There had been the scowling teacher with breadcrumbs in his beard who whined all evening about how much he despised children. Then there was the pre-law snob from ASU who couldn’t stop bragging about his superior brain, especially when he was flirting with the waitress. Neither of them got a second date, joining the ranks of potential boyfriends that no longer held potential. Still, Laurel kept trying. She sort of had to—it was part of the insane agreement she’d made with her mother.
Laurel smiled across the wooden table at the grungy guy she’d matched with online. So far he had paid for her coffee but hadn’t said much. Striking, colorful art hung on the walls of the café and a freaking claw-foot tub stood in the corner, but he hadn’t used those conversation lifelines like some of Laurel’s former dates. He’d mostly just stared at her for the past ten minutes since they’d met, and it was starting to get weird.
Laurel fidgeted. “The sunset was awesome today, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” Her date glanced toward the large shop windows and picked up his mug. The last light was fading, and a lone streetlamp illuminated the sidewalk outside the coffee shop.
When he didn’t elaborate, she tried again. “I think sunsets are prettiest in the desert. And spring is such a beautiful season.”
The guy shrugged and went back to staring at different parts of her body.
Laurel pushed out a heavy breath. He wasn’t complaining about children, and he wasn’t flirting with other women, but the guy had wandering eyes and didn’t want to talk. So yeah, not the worst date ever, but she wasn’t exactly having the time of her life.
Her online match was a skinny guy named Rusty, and in person, he was not what Laurel expected. In his profile, he boasted about working at a hospital in Tucson, and she had assumed his vibe would be more professional. Her first impression? Rusty smelled of cigarettes and had a slippery handshake. Also, his eyes were shifty.
She wondered what he actually did at the hospital. His profile hinted that he was a doctor, but with his grubby appearance and seemingly terrible people skills, Laurel guessed there was a reason that he hadn’t outright claimed a PhD. Of course his job title didn’t matter to her, at least not much, but it did matter to her mom.
Not having a steady, respectable job would be a deal breaker.
Still, Rusty had driven all the way to Bisbee just to meet Laurel at Bathtub Coffee at the end of his workday, so that was a point in his favor. The drive from Tucson was long—it was surprising that this guy hadn’t asked to meet halfway somewhere, like Tombstone. Laurel was glad though. She was sick of driving, and she had run out of local guys. Bisbee was a small town, and she’d been on dates with every bachelor around, much to her eternal embarrassment. But there was no fighting her mother’s rules, even though Laurel was an adult and this particular rule was stupid. Her mom was a force of nature. And something told Laurel that her mother wouldn’t like the guy sitting across from her, even if he was a doctor.
But she would still be polite. That was another part of the agreement. She had to give each of her dates an actual chance, even if they didn’t seem like her type right away. Laurel had gotten very good at smiling and nodding. Even if her date wasn’t smiling back.
At that moment, the man across from Laurel was studying her hair in a way that made her feel more mannequin than human.
He licked his lips. “You look just like your pictures online.”
Laurel self-consciously patted her wild curls while trying to think of an appropriate response. This guy didn’t look anything like his pictures. Maybe if he got a tan, took a shower, and aged backward five years. Even then, she would have to squint real hard.
Rusty ran a hand over his greasy hair, and smirked. “Yeah, you look like your profile pic. Don’t worry, that’s a good thing. A lot of girls use old pictures—or worse, filters and Photoshop. So it looks like they’re your type, but then when you meet, they’re totally not hot at all. They’ve been lying to you.”
Laurel gave him a flat smile and lowered her eyes to her mug. Maybe they should have spoken on the phone before they met in person.
“Can I touch your hair?” He leaned closer.
Laurel jerked backward, but the way her bench was situated meant that her back was literally against the wall, and there wasn’t much room for retreat. “Um, I’m not sure if …” But he had already reached across the table and put his hand on her head, crushing a mass of her thick locks in his fist.
Okay, so it wasn’t the worst date ever, but so far it ranked in the bottom ten.
Rusty relaxed his hold on her hair but didn’t remove his fingers. “I like blondes. Do you curl it, or is that natural?”
She leaned sideways, away from their point of contact. “Natural.”
He dropped his hand, resting it on her side of the small, round tabletop. “Natural curls are hot.”
Again, she wasn’t sure how to respond to his bluntness. “Thanks.”
She was so used to being overly polite on every bad date, it was her default. That had worked with every other guy so far, but what if tonight it didn’t?
A few teenage girls sat at a table near the back of the tiny café, completely absorbed in their phones and their half-sugar drinks. Laurel felt like she was broadcasting a low level of distress, but nobody looked her way. If this guy turned out to be a creep, she probably wouldn’t be able to count on any of those girls to help. And the fella working behind the counter looked like a teenager as well—gangly and unsure. Too bad this coffee shop wasn’t filled with good-Samaritan biker gangs on Friday nights.
Rusty sniffed loudly. “You know, it took me almost two hours to get here.”
Laurel grasped her hands together under the table. “Yeah, that’s a long drive. Thanks for coming all this way.”
His eyes slid down her loose white shirt and back up to her lips. “I’m sure you’ll be worth it.”
Ew. And yikes.
Her cheeks flamed. Laurel needed to change the subject. Maybe if she got Rusty to focus on something other than her looks, she could turn this around. Maybe he was a nice guy, and every time he met a woman, he said and did all the wrong things. Or maybe a frat boy had given him dating advice, and he just needed to unlearn bad flirting habits.
Probably not, but an abrupt change in conversation would hopefully give Rusty a polite clue that she didn’t like what he was doing. And hey, if they found their footing with her favorite subject, maybe the rest of this date could be bearable.
Rusty leaned in closer, smooth as a snake. “You really are gorgeous.”
Laurel pushed her back against the wall and forced a cheery smile. “Do you know what’s gorgeous in here? The art!”
Rusty stopped his forward momentum, a confused expression on his face. His gaze slid to the walls above Laurel’s head, then back to Laurel. At least now he was looking her in the eyes.
It was a step in the right direction.
Laurel twisted to her right and dug into the paint-splattered canvas satchel on the bench beside her—the bag she brought everywhere nowadays—and unearthed her sketchbook. “I’m really into art, actually. Which I guess isn’t that shocking in a town like Bisbee, but, well, I also like to draw and paint.” She grasped the thick, spiral-bound book and set it on the table. “I’m trying to be an artist.”
Rusty blinked slowly, then cocked his head to one side. He reached for the sketchbook and flipped it to face himself.
She gestured to the book. “Go ahead, check it out. If you want to know more about me, it’s in there.” The truth was, it was usually hard for Laurel to share her art like this. But he was a complete stranger that she would hopefully never see again, so this was good practice. She was going to have to let people judge her work if she wanted to go to East Coast Art Academy.
He raised his eyebrows, looked down, and began leafing through Laurel’s book. “You like sunsets, huh?”
“Yeah. There’s something about the light in Bisbee. The colors are really beautiful.”
Rusty nodded vigorously in a way that didn’t score him any points. He was either faking enthusiasm or making fun of her. Still, at least he had stopped staring at her. And he was turning the pages.
But he didn’t look very interested. Actually, it seemed like he was trying to get through her sketchbook as quickly as possible. His lack of interest hurt more than Laurel expected, but she also felt a dash of righteous anger—she’d made it past the first cut at ECAA for Pete’s sake. These weren’t a child’s scribbles. She had talent.
But … did she? She hadn’t been accepted into the program quite yet. There was still one hurdle to go. Maybe she wasn’t as good as she thought.
The need to explain herself scratched at her insides. “They’re just sketches and preliminaries. I’m working on some paintings that are much better. But I know I’ll never be truly good until I go to art school.”
He was treating her sketches like a flip book now, giving pages mere seconds before he moved on. “Bisbee is an artsy town, right?”
“Yep.”
“Do you sell your art here?”
That was a sore subject. She had only tried once, and that had been a disaster. “I probably need more training before I try. I’ve done a few trades—”
“Trades?” He cocked one eyebrow and peered at Laurel suggestively. “What do you trade for?”
Laurel tightened her hands around her coffee mug, suppressing the desire to slap him. “Usually just other people’s art.”
“Do you do any self-portraits?” He licked his lips. “Any—what do you call it—figure drawing?”
Laurel couldn’t help it, her jaw dropped. That’s why he went so quickly through her book. He was looking for a specific kind of art. The kind where people didn’t have their clothes on. Of course he was.
She shook her head and reached for her sketchbook. “Nope. I don’t usually paint people, just boring old objects and the boring old desert.”
He shrugged. “Well, if you wanted to really put me on the fast track to getting to know you—”
The look Laurel shot Rusty should have given him frost bite. She grabbed her sketchbook from his hands, too fiercely.
And he let go, too easily.
The momentum of the book could not be stopped. It knocked straight into her coffee cup, tipping hot liquid onto her shirt.
“Ouch! Shoot!” The coffee wasn’t scalding, but it was still uncomfortably hot. Laurel’s torso stung. She wanted to lift up her shirt and check her skin, but there was no way she was doing that in front of this guy.
Rusty let out a surprised snort. “Whoa, let me get some napkins or something.” He ran to the counter. At least he was being useful.
The sketchbook, mercifully, only had a few tiny splashes on the cover. Laurel set it on the other side of her bag, on the bench, as far away from the mess as she could.
Rusty hurried back to their table with a towel. He skipped the mess around the cup and went straight for Laurel, squatting to the side of the table, close to her legs. “Here, let me help.” He held the towel to the stain on her torso … and dabbed a little higher than he needed to. Then, higher still.
Unbelievable.
“No, I got it.” Laurel grabbed the towel from him and scooted away, down the bench.
He smirked and sat next to her. “Only trying to help. Hey, maybe we could run your shirt under the faucet of that bathtub over there to get the stain out—”
Laurel couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling. “I doubt it’s a working tub.” She couldn’t imagine this guy’s suggestion to get her white shirt wet was altruistic. She had given Rusty a lot of chances, but it was time to call it. “Listen, I’m pretty sure I burned myself. I should probably go home and take care of it. Sorry to cut our date short.”
He slid closer to her. “We don’t have to cut the date short. I can go home with you and help you. I can take care of a burn. I work in a hospital, remember?”
“What do you do there, exactly?” His proximity was making her uncomfortable. His everything was making her uncomfortable.
He skirted the question. “I know how to take care of a little burn. And I know how to take your mind off of that burn too.”
Laurel was so shocked at his forwardness, she almost laughed. This guy was not going to give up. Obviously they wanted very different things out of this date. “No, I can take care of myself. Thanks for offering to help though. And it was nice to meet you.” Ugh, her words were still stuck in politeness mode, even if her tone wasn’t. Nice to meet you? It was a lie but hopefully a firm indicator that this date was over.
Laurel reached for her sketchbook and stuffed it into her bag, hoping for a speedy exit.
But she froze when Rusty put his hand on her thigh.
All of her politeness vanished. “Don’t touch me.”
He didn’t just ignore her—he squeezed her thigh tighter. “Don’t you think someone should see you safely home?”
The fact was, Laurel was beginning to wonder about her safety. She had finally broken through her preprogrammed niceness, and Rusty hadn’t listened. He had, very forcefully, done the opposite of what she asked. Was she going to need help with this guy?
She scanned the room. The teenage girls were still staring mindlessly into their phones, and she had no idea where the café’s lone employee had gone. What if Rusty followed her home? Her mom was working a shift, and all of her friends were still at college, far away. Who could help her if she needed it? Her mind spun.
Laurel pushed Rusty’s hand off her leg. “You’re right. I’ll call my brother.”
Rusty twisted his body toward her and tilted his head. “I thought your profile said you were an only child.”
Called out on her lie, and so soon. Why in the world did she write that she was an only child instead of talking about her love of art? “Well, yeah. I was raised as an only child, but I have a stepbrother who lives in town. He’s my mom’s husband’s son.” Her mom didn’t have a husband, but this guy would never know that. “He’ll help me out—don’t worry about me. I think he said he was going to be downtown tonight too. He should be close by.” She couldn’t stop talking. The lie was sounding worse and worse, but she was committed to it now.
Her unwanted date leaned aga
inst the wall, crossing his arms tighter. He waited for a beat. “So are you going to call him, or what?” He smirked, seeming to enjoy this predicament.
To buy herself time to think, Laurel grabbed her bag and moved it to her lap. She fumbled inside for her phone, wondering if she should embarrass herself and call one of her friends from ASU, or if she should pretend to make a call. Nobody was going to be able to actually help her from two hundred miles away, and pretending to call someone that didn’t exist sounded like a bad plan. There had to be a solution. Her eyes scanned the room one last time.
Just then, a man walked past the café. He stopped in front of the glass windows and squinted at the bathtub in confusion.
He was maybe a bit older than Laurel, and he looked tall, capable, and strong. Which was a plus in this situation, as long as he was a nice guy. And he did look like a nice guy—clean cut and polished and basically the opposite of her current date. A couple and their golden retriever walked by, and the dog sniffed Mr. Nice Guy and wagged its tail.
It took Laurel less than a second to decide. She slung her bag over her shoulder and slid down the bench, in the opposite direction of her date, escaping out the other side. “Speak of the devil, there he is.”
She didn’t check to see if Rusty believed her. She ran outside as quickly as she could. If she stopped for even a moment, she would lose her nerve. Everything was in fast motion, and she only had time to think of a fake name for this guy before she was right in front of him.
She threw her shoulders back. “Clint!”
The man was a more handsome version of a young, and already handsome, Clint Eastwood. And now he appeared very confused. Laurel closed in on the poor guy and flung her arms around him, angling her torso to protect her burn.
He stiffened. “Uh, ma’am, I think—”
