Rock Hard Cowboy

by Christina Hovland

  Rock Hard Cowboy

  A Mile High Matched Novella

  Christina Hovland

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Christina Hovland

  Going Down on One Knee

  Going Down on One Knee, Chapter One

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright 2018 by Christina Hovland. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  * * *

  NOTE: This novella was originally published in October 2018 as part of the Christmas with a Colorado Cowboy boxed set.

  * * *

  For rights information, please contact:

  Prospect Agency

  551 Valley Road, PMB 377

  Upper Montclair, NJ 07043

  (718) 788-3217

  * * *

  Holly Ingraham, Development Editor

  First Edition, October 2018

  Second Edition, February 2019

  For my dad.

  I miss you.

  1

  Chapter One

  Two Weeks to Christmas

  Christmas sucked.

  Also, Tucker McKay had great hair. Amazing black hair. Not too long. Not too short. The perfect length for running a girl’s fingers through. And that little bit of a beard? It worked.

  He was tall, dark and…never ever, ever.

  On that thought, Mackenzie Bennett nursed her tall glass of seltzer water with a twist of lime while making herself seen in the newest hoity toity, excessively expensive Los Angeles nightclub. The fizzy bubbles in her drink had disappeared over an hour ago.

  Music pulsed around her, the strobe lights on the dance floor below making the revelers appear as disjointed puppets. Funny that. If there was a disjointed puppet on the premises, it was her. Always doing what she was told. Always standing where directed. Always being someone else.

  She kept a smile plastered on her face and her expression light. That’s what a good actress did. Never show how you really feel when you’re on the job. Always let the character shine through. In that moment, the character was the version of herself the public got to see. The smoky-eyed, shiny-haired starlet who really, deep down, wanted to spend her evening bingeing on Netflix while eating a grilled cheese sandwich created with the most over-processed American cheese product she could find.

  God, she missed food like that.

  She held her gaze on rocker-legend-slash-cowboy Tucker. The way he was propped up in a corner booth in the VIP section. The way his head bopped ever so slightly to the thump of the blaring music. The way his muscled arm was slung along the edge of the booth and his laughter permeated the VIP lounge.

  “You’re not having any fun.” Her best friend and business manager, Leah, waggled a tipsy red-painted fingertip in her direction. Half her nails were red, half green. Very festive and all that.

  “We’re worried about you.” Their not-quite-drunk friend Abby squeezed Kenzie’s arm. “Do I need to call Taylor? Get the whole gang together?”

  “We should do a holiday cheer intervention,” Leah suggested. “We’ll drink eggnog and make her sing ‘Jingle Bells.’”

  Kenzie couldn’t help the smile that played at the corners of her mouth.

  These women made up Kenzie’s entourage. The ones who got the messy reality alongside the Hollywood glam. The ones who knew Kenzie had a secret passion for 1:00 a.m. bubble baths and writing screenplays that would never be produced. The ones who, no matter how adept an actress Kenzie was, would know she was putting up a front.

  They knew her better than she knew herself most times.

  So she didn’t lie.

  “I’m just doing my time.” Kenzie nodded toward a group of women a level down on the dance floor. That group of ladies had been watching her for a solid twenty minutes.

  One of the women waved back tentatively, giggled, and huddled with her friends.

  “Your holiday spirit is seriously lacking.” Leah snagged a martini from the waiter circulating a tray loaded with the drink of the day. Something orange and red—and it probably tasted like pineapple, if Kenzie had to guess.

  “I’ll find my Christmas cheer once the offer comes through.” Kenzie eyed the sunset-colored drink. She wanted one, sure, but she wouldn’t have one. Not when she was in public. Not when she was on a job. Even if the job was stupid. She was being paid an absurd amount of money to be at the club tonight. A club she had absolutely no intention of ever visiting again.

  That wasn’t the point though. Once she was seen somewhere, patrons would show up again and again, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. And since her last two box office receipts had been lacking, she filled in her budget gaps with appearances. Until the next opportunity moseyed along. Which would, she prayed to Lady Luck, be soon. Soon-ish.

  “Any day. They’ll come around any day now,” Abby assured.

  That was easy for her to say. Her life wasn’t publicly and personally entwined in her ability to stay on the big screen. Sure, Kenzie had been smart with her money. Saved it. Invested it. But with the way Hollywood worked, her savings could only take her so far. She needed to nab a new role.

  “Don’t look back. The future is ahead.” Leah made a dramatic hand motion like a soldier heading into battle.

  Negotiations on Kenzie’s latest movie—a romantic comedy about a farm girl in the big city—had fallen apart weeks ago, after her latest film flopped at the box office. Someone from the studio had leaked that they were eyeing other actresses for her part. Kenzie felt like the trap door had dropped open, spilling a washed-up actress just shy of stage left. It was all very, very public.

  Very, very humiliating.

  “I’m not looking back.” No, she was looking straight at Tucker.

  Kenzie’s gaze slid the length of him. He might be a rock ’n’ roll legend, but he was also muscled, charming, and a total jerk.

  A jerk she’d shared a moment with at her premier last month. It was like in one of her movies, where the heroine sees the hero from across the room. They trace each other with their eyes, up then down, both liking what they see. And then something more—a connection—forms. Love at first sight? No, that doesn’t happen. But definitely more than lust.

  They’d chatted about the business, his music, her movies. He’d told her about his family, his ranch. She’d shared about her dreams of time away from the world, where she wouldn’t always be the focus. Her job was her passion, but sometimes she dreamed of a break. Those were the times she’d doodle out a scene or two of her own creation. She’d told him that bit, too. Only those closest to her knew about her writing.

  He was entirely too easy to talk to.

  For a glimmer of a second, she’d thought what she and Tucker had between them was real. Not even the Hollywood brand of real, but out-of-the-spotlight real.

  When she’d searched him out later that night to make a move, he was gone.

  Then he told the press she was a crappy actress.

  Then her movie lost a shit to
n of money at the box office.

  So, yeah, she was a little raw about it all.

  That treatment from nearly anyone else? She’d merely smile and move along. She’d been in the business long enough to understand everyone had an opinion. But, for some reason, Tucker’s mattered. His criticism stung. Tonight, she would remedy that. As soon as she figured out what to say.

  “You should dance.” Leah slipped her arm through Kenzie’s and tugged her toward the VIP dance floor.

  Abby linked her other arm and helped Leah scoot her along.

  Not nearly as packed as the one downstairs, this dance floor was created for visibility throughout the club. Kenzie was being paid to attend tonight, and it was expected she appear to have a fabulous time.

  Her contract said so.

  “In a sec. I’m gonna talk to Tucker first.” Kenzie disentangled her arms, stood tall on her stiletto heels, and weaved through the crowd toward him.

  “That’s a bad idea…” Leah continued talking but Kenzie ignored her.

  What she was going to say? She had no idea. But she was going to tell him…something. Find out why he’d said mean things about her, what she’d done to offend him. That kind of thing. She’d figure it out.

  Maybe something about how he’d hurt her feelings and he should apologize.

  Yes, that’s what she’d say. And she’d say it with style, and class.

  The nearly transparent dress her stylist had outfitted her in made hustling anywhere practically impossible. The heels didn’t help. So she took her time sauntering across the VIP section. Her bodyguard shadowed her movements. He was behind her, but she knew he was there. He was always there when she did these appearances.

  “Tucker?” she asked, approaching his table.

  His gaze lifted to hers. It softened for a split second. “Hey.”

  “I came by to say hello.” She fidgeted with her glass. Which was unacceptable. She set it on the table and nudged it from the edge with her finger.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to the other side of the booth. The guy sitting there scooted over to make room for her.

  She didn’t sit.

  “I was thinking we could chat alone, about some of the things you mentioned to a reporter about my movie.”

  “Oh. That.” He ran a hand over his neck. The movement made the defined muscles of his triceps bunch.

  Dammit. She wasn’t over here to check out his arms.

  “Have your people call his people,” one of his people said.

  Kenzie leaned toward Tucker, ignoring his entourage. “I’d really like a conversation.”

  “Look.” His eyes were soft again. He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “Magazines print what magazines print.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I just think—” Someone—a bulky someone—bumped her from behind.

  The stilettos wobbled, her balance precarious. She threw her arm wide to catch herself. It didn’t work.

  Her knees buckled.

  Damn. This was going to hurt.

  She fell forward.

  “Shit.” Tucker moved to grab her.

  Too late. The momentum caught her.

  And that’s how, two weeks before Christmas, she found herself face-first in Tucker McKay’s crotch.

  “No.” Absolutely not.

  Tucker McKay might be willing to do a lot of things. Hell, he’d even put on a beat-up trucker hat because the damn stylist his record label assigned said it worked with his Justin cowboy boots. He may have once been the lead singer of a rock band, but he wasn’t giving up his boots. Or his denim.

  Especially for the leather pants and eyeliner they’d tried to force on him. That had been a hard no.

  So, sure, he might do a lot of things, but not this. Not with her.

  Even sellouts had limits.

  And right now, his hard limit was being the arm candy of America’s Hollywood Sweetheart—Mackenzie Bennett.

  “You don’t have a choice.” His manager, Jessica, spread Kenzie’s headshots across the shiny conference room table in the Los Angeles high-rise. He itched for his ranch in Colorado.

  He glanced to the photos—as if he didn’t already know what she looked like.

  The pink-lipped mouth that launched a thousand wet dreams. The signature long red hair. The green eyes so bright they drew in millions of movie goers, and so sharp they’d shredded dozens of Hollywood hearts before tossing them aside like worn-out vinyl records.

  Oh, he knew what she looked like, all right.

  The clear twinkle lights on the Christmas tree in the corner flashed at him: You’re screwed. You’re screwed. You’re screwed.

  Then there were the photos of Kenzie’s face dive into his pants three nights before. Someone had gotten a cell phone photo, and they’d wasted no time in selling it to the highest bidder. The gossip magazines went crazy with the image.

  Tucker glanced to the closed door to ensure no one else played witness to Jessica’s insanity. Just the two of them—figuring out how to extract him from the limelight without his last public image being Kenzie’s head in his lap.

  He’d started his career with a solid footing: refusing drugs, keeping his head down while he wrote music and performed for stadiums of screaming fans.

  Then one day his muse walked out on him.

  Everyone said there was a reason when you couldn’t get the lyrics to flow. A bad breakup. Illness. You name it.

  None of that had happened to him.

  One day the pencil refused to work. The signature lyrics that had catapulted him to stardom wouldn’t come. Boom. Done. No more music making for you, Tucker. Oh, you have a career? Sorry, not sorry.

  Without new songs, there were no new records. He’d refused to spend the rest of his career rehashing the same old hits.

  His band had imploded. Broken up. No more concerts, no more tours.

  And for Tucker, no more music.

  So he’d officially retired and was heading back to Colorado to run the ranch he’d bought years ago. He’d made an extraction plan that would allow him to return to music, if he ever desired. Not that he expected to be able to return, but Jessica convinced him not to close that door permanently. For the past six months, Tucker did what she’d said. Had been seen where she’d said to be seen. Dated who she’d said to date. And on the eve of his retreat back to Colorado, Kenzie faceplanted on his fly in the most public place possible.

  Now, Jessica wanted America’s Sweetheart to be his savior.

  Most men would sell their left testicle to be Kenzie’s arm candy.

  He wasn’t most men.

  “Do you know what happened to Stefano Moretti?” Jessica asked, her tone all business.

  Who the hell was Stefano Moretti? He gave Jessica his best, I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about look.

  She clearly got the vibe. “Fashion icon. Daytime television star.”

  Still didn’t ring a bell. He shook his head.

  “Stefano had it all. Just like you. Then, as he was about to retire, he went to one of those outdoor Shakespeare theaters. The lady behind him accidentally spilled soda all over his head.”

  What in the actual hell was Jessica talking about?

  “Photos were taken. The whole thing was plastered on all the covers of all the magazines,” she continued.

  What did a fashion model and a soda have to do with him?

  “When you look up Stefano, you don’t see the thousands of hours of work he put in on the catwalk. Or the daytime Emmy he won. You see photos of Stefano with soda in his hair.” She paused, apparently for dramatic effect. “Kenzie with her face in your lap is precisely the same thing. You don’t fix this? Change the dialogue? Change the images? Then when you’re able to make music again, you’ll have an uphill battle to fight, trying to get back into an industry that will only remember you as the guy with Mackenzie Bennett’s face in your fly.”

  “When you put it like that…” He rolled his eyes toward
the Christmas ornaments dangling on clear strings from the ceiling.

  “Tucker.” Jessica’s expression firmed, even if the severe ponytail she always wore made certain there was no movement of the nearly non-existent creases of her forehead. “Deflecting the press is our only goal right now. A few public appearances with Ms. Bennett and you can both move on with your lives.”

  “I already moved on.” If he spent too much time with Kenzie, he’d fall head over heart for her. He’d known it the first moment he’d seen her, and he couldn’t take that risk. Not when he was leaving music. Not when he was packing it up and going back to the place where reality wasn’t plastic.

  The last thing he needed was to play with the fire that would burn them both.

  Now he was here, in a conference room, starting it all again. “Fine. I’ll do some dates. Pick someone else. Anyone.”

  “It’s her, Tucker. A few very public appearances before Christmas is all we need to get the rumor mill rolling. By the new year, we’ll announce you’ve decided to stay at your ranch in Colorado. The stress of the long-distance relationship will take its toll, and Mactuck will be over by the spring. You can continue on in whatever it is you plan to do, until you decide to come back.”

  Mac. Tuck. She couldn’t be serious with this one. “You gave us a supercouple name.”

  It wasn’t phrased as a question but rather a statement. Because, fuck it all, he knew she’d already tossed that bone to the two-dollar-rag magazines.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Of course I did.”