Hard Loving Cowboy

by A. J. Pine

  Violet shook her hand, her brows furrowing. “Family?” To her, family was simply her mother and father. She had grandparents in France whom she’d seen a handful of times growing up when they’d visited, but her grandfather’s health kept them from traveling much now. She also had an aunt she’d never met. After her falling out with her sister, Maman had moved to the United States and had never gone back. It was just the three of them.

  Ava nodded. “It’s a job, sure,” she said. “But when you work for a family business, you’re automatically part of the family.”

  Violet smiled. “I guess that makes sense. My father owns a restaurant. I know his cooks and hostesses better than anyone else in my life, but I guess I never realized they were a family of sorts until now.”

  Ava tapped the home button on her phone and gasped. “Oh wow. Time flies in good company, but I have to run. Dress fitting.” She beamed.

  “You must be really excited.”

  Ava nodded. Her smile turned wistful. “I have been in love with Jack Everett since I was eighteen. Only took us eleven years to finally get it right.”

  Her smile and glow were infectious, and Violet couldn’t help but join her. She was still smiling—and likely glowing—when Ava led her out of the kitchen and around the corner to the hallway that led back to the front door. Ava pulled the door open, and Violet walked smack into a wall of hard man chest.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she inhaled deeply through her nose. She smelled the fresh scent of laundry detergent, the fainter hint of soap or body wash, and something that could only be described as man—a man she’d been this close to not once, not twice, but three times before—and it was a scent she’d never forget. Not that she wanted to.

  Ava cleared her throat, snapping Violet out of her momentary stupor. God she hoped it had only been a moment.

  “You’re right on time,” Ava said as Violet shuffled back a couple of steps.

  “And really close to the door,” Violet added, regaining composure.

  “I was about to knock,” Walker said dryly. “Jack said to pick you up at eleven thirty, and it’s eleven thirty.”

  “And I’m gonna be late!” Ava held up her phone. “Gotta run! Violet, I’m so glad you’re here. We’ll catch up more tomorrow. Thanks for filling in, Walker!” And then, in a flurry of flailing limbs and long auburn waves, she was out the door, leaving Violet and Walker alone in the foyer of the Everett home.

  He looked her up and down, his expression unreadable. So she decided to do the same to him. His blond hair was damp at his nape. She inhaled the familiar scent of soap and how it mixed so deliciously with his skin, confirming her suspicion that he’d just showered and making her mouth water at the same time. His beard was neatly groomed around those commanding lips. He wore a forest green henley and a pair of Levis that looked made to fit his body and his alone. The man himself looked like he stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, the title of which could only be Rugged Hot Man She Wanted to Mount.

  Oh no.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “Chaperone me, I mean. Restaurant supply shopping is in my blood. Ava was in a rush, but I’m sure she gave you all the details of how many glasses they want broken down by type—red wine, white wine, champagne, and so forth. If you want to pass that on to me you can get back to tagging cattle or whatever else requires you to wear a cowboy hat and do cowboy-type things in the field.”

  He crossed his arms, expression impassive. “Cowboy-type things?”

  She shrugged. “Isn’t that what you do? I saw you and your brother with the calves doing the tagging thing. You probably have a horse or something, too.”

  “We have three.”

  Oh God. Now she was imagining him on a horse. In the hat. A T-shirt and jeans more like the ones he was wearing the day she met him—worn and dirty. Worked in. Lived in.

  She swallowed. “Or your chair!” she practically shouted. “Maybe you want time to work on that? I’m just saying I got this stemware thing. I’m good. First day on the job, and I can handle it on my own.”

  Miles away from you and your clean, soapy, manly scent.

  He nodded toward her booties, the ones that made her stand four inches taller than she was. “You dress for carrying boxes of breakable items like you dress for walking a mile with a two-tiered cake.”

  Her gaze dropped to her feet before meeting his eyes—goodness they were so blue—again.

  She grimaced. “It’s my first day on the job, and I wanted to look professional. You’re the only one who met me for the interview, so I wanted to make a good impression. These are my good impression shoes.” She pointed her toes. “You’d never guess they were a thrift store find. My whole wardrobe is.” Heat rushed to her cheeks at the admission. Not because she thought he was judging her, but from the guilt of insinuating that she went without. She never resented her decision to leave school. But sometimes she wondered what it would be like if Maman’s family knew they were struggling. Well—they would soon enough. “Anyway,” she continued, “I didn’t know about the stemware. Or the vineyard tour. Ava let me borrow a pair of her boots and I stepped right into une tarte aux vaches.”

  He raised a brow. “A what now?”

  Violet blew out a breath. “A cow pie,” she mumbled.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. It would have been a perfect opportunity for him to call her Teach, but he didn’t. Which was good because Teach was a nickname from the man who kissed her and played make-believe for a night. Coworkers didn’t give each other nicknames, because coworkers were professional, which was exactly what she was going to be around Walker Everett from here on out, no matter how good he smelled or how much he belonged on the cover of her fictional magazine.

  “You can’t carry boxes of glass in those shoes.”

  He was right. With her booties—no matter how fabulous they were—she was in no shape to be lifting and hauling breakables. Her shoulders sagged. “No, I suppose I can’t.”

  “And I’d advise against pushing a dolly’s worth of boxes in those as well.”

  She adjusted her tote bag and squared her shoulders. “Advisory taken.”

  “And as much as I’d love to be doing ‘cowboy-type things’ instead of shopping, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that you are quite in need of my services today, Ms. Chastain.”

  The ghost of a smile played at his lips, but he didn’t seem to want to give her the satisfaction.

  Violet rolled her eyes. “Can I at least drive?”

  He motioned for the door. “Lead the way. I gotta save my energy for the heavy lifting I’ll be doing in my sturdy boots.”

  She groaned and stalked toward the door, feeling him only inches behind her. When they got outside, she pulled her key fob from her tote and pressed the unlock button for her silver MINI Cooper—a hand-me-down of sorts from one of her father’s early investors who’d barely driven the thing and then tired of it. He’d sold it to her dad for less than he could have purchased it from a dealer. It was before Maman started getting worse—before finances became an issue. And now it was her reminder of an easier time and that everything she was working for now was to somehow get her family back to that place.

  Walker shook his head. “You’re kidding, right? No way I’m going to fit in there, let alone several boxes of stemware.”

  She responded to his comment by opening the driver-side door, putting the key in the ignition, and lowering the vehicle’s soft convertible top.

  “Bet you’ll fit now!” she called to where he stood, stubborn as a statue, outside the ranch house’s door. “And I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with the trunk space.”

  Walker closed his eyes and gave another soft shake of his head, but it was a shake of acquiescence. He had no further argument. She’d actually won.

  He confirmed her victory by running a hand through his damp hair and striding to the passenger door. He opened it, climbed in, and slammed it shut. Violet snorted as
he sat knees to chest before finding the seat controls and sliding his chair as far back as it would go.

  “Where to, boss?” She tied a scarf over her thick, dark hair, protecting her flat ironing work from the salty ocean air. It had only been a few weeks since her blowout—when Ramon had told her he preferred her hair straight, especially if she was working in his restaurant—and she wasn’t going to let Maman’s friend Lisa’s work go to waste. Lisa was a stylist at the salon down the street from her father’s restaurant. For the price of a good meal, she styled Violet’s hair at no charge. She had a feeling Lisa would have done it even if no meal was involved, but that was how her family took care of their own. They kept everyone’s bellies full even when bank accounts were tight.

  He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans—an awkward maneuver for a big man in a small space that he somehow made sexy simply by being him—and punched in the wholesaler’s address.

  She slipped on her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses and pulled out onto the main road and off the Everett property.

  “Shit,” Walker hissed. “Left my aviators at my place when I showered. Turn around and head into town. It’ll only take a second for me—”

  “Got an extra pair in the glove box,” Violet told him, a smile playing at her lips. “We have an appointment, and I hate showing up late.”

  He had to spread his legs to get the glove compartment open.

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?” he said pulling out the heart-shaped frames.

  Violet shrugged, then unsuccessfully suppressed a snort when the sun slashed right across his vision and he was forced to put the glasses on.

  He shoved the glove box closed with a knee and crossed his arms over his chest, the thin cotton of the henley pulled taught over his lean yet defined biceps.

  Then she noticed he hadn’t yet put on his seat belt.

  “Safety first, Mr. Everett,” she said.

  He mumbled something under his breath but then buckled up like he was supposed to.

  With a self-satisfied grin, Violet connected her phone to the car’s Bluetooth and put on her Badass Chicks playlist.

  “Here we go!” she said as “Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys filled the air between them, but Walker’s shoulders and jaw were still tense. She laughed and gave his upper arm a playful push. “It’s a beautiful day, Walker. Try to sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  He leaned his head against the seatback and let out a long breath as she breathed in the salty air, trying not to admit to herself how much more enjoyable her ride would be now that Walker Everett sat in the seat beside her.

  Chapter Seven

  Dorothy, Ava’s contact at the glass distributor, was waiting for them when they arrived. Thankfully the ride had been less than a half hour, so Walker only had to suffer through Violet belting out Adele for mere minutes rather than the better part of two hours.

  Maybe “suffer” wasn’t the right word. It was now evident that Violet had the pipes to sing country and pop. But the sheer joy she seemed to get from it made something in his chest ache, and Walker Everett wasn’t the kind of guy who ached for anyone or anything.

  “You must be Violet and Walker,” Dorothy said as they approached the building’s entrance. “Ava said to keep an eye out for a pretty, dark-haired woman and a slightly younger version of Jack.” She was a petite woman herself, probably a decade or so older than they were, with blond hair that hit below her shoulders and fell in waves atop a blue blouse that had a bow at the collar. “Nice specs, by the way,” she said.

  Violet giggled, and it took Walker a few seconds to realize that he was the punchline of the joke.

  “Aw, hell,” he said as he removed the heart-shaped sunglasses and shoved them in his back pocket.

  The two women shared another laugh, and Walker grimaced—not because he wasn’t confident enough to know he could pull off heart-shaped frames but because he wasn’t all that fond of being laughed at, especially by the woman he’d been thinking about for days.

  “Come on inside,” Dorothy said. “I’ve pulled a selection for you to start with based on what Ava said the winery was looking for. I’ve even got us a little sampling set up so you can try the merchandise as it’s intended to be used.”

  A sampling? What was she talking about? They were here to buy glasses and leave. End of story. No one said anything about trying the merchandise.

  Dorothy led them into the building, which was basically a small warehouse. She took them down an aisle of tumblers and steins and through a back door that opened into an office—presumably hers—that boasted a table lined two rows deep with wineglasses in all different heights and sizes. Next to the line of stemware stood a bottle of red, a bottle of white, and a small silver bucket.

  “We don’t normally do this,” Dorothy said, “but when Ava told me she was sending a sommelier, I thought you might enjoy it.”

  Shit.

  “Oooh, this is going to be more fun than I expected!” Violet said as she bounced on the toes of her sexy-as-hell ankle boots that were basically the reason he was here staring at a table full of alcohol begging for him to drink it.

  Damn it, Ava and Jenna and everyone who thinks I need to be around more people. Because this was what happened when he came out of hiding.

  Walker barely moved past the threshold of the door. “You really think it’s a good idea to get all liquored up and then drive that sardine can back to the ranch?”

  Violet waved him off. “You don’t drink wine when you taste it, silly. You swirl it around in your mouth and spit it here.” She walked to the table and held up the silver bucket.

  He shook his head. “I don’t taste it, and I don’t spit it,” he said evenly, but he could feel the threads of his control loosening by the second. It wasn’t just being put in this position. He’d managed Violet’s parents’ party because he was able to focus all of his attention on her—on their one-night-only make-believe relationship. But this was different. If he stayed in this room, he’d be expected to sample or explain why he couldn’t. Even if they were only employer/employee from here on out, Violet didn’t know him as the mess he was a few months ago, and he sure as hell didn’t plan on her finding out now.

  Violet placed her hands on her hips. “You’re going to be harvesting grapes to make wine soon. For the vineyard you own. And the tasting room I’m going to help run. I know wine might not be your favorite thing, but you can’t sell the product if you don’t know it, right?” She held up a goblet that looked to be made of a thick, sturdy glass and compared it with a stemless glass that had a slanted base. “Let me show you my skills while we decide to go with or without stems.”

  Dorothy was busying herself shuffling papers on the desk behind the table, likely trying to stay out of an increasingly uncomfortable situation. Though it didn’t seem as if Violet was getting the message.

  “I don’t give a shit about stems or no stems,” he said. “I’m here to carry boxes. You pick what you think works best, and I’ll meet you up front.”

  Violet’s mouth fell open, and he watched the sparkle in her brown eyes morph to something resembling hurt. It didn’t matter. He needed out of this room, out of the building in general.

  “But—” she finally managed.

  He slapped the Crossroads business credit card on the table before she could protest any further. “See you up front.” Then he stalked out the door, back through the warehouse and out to the parking lot. But instead of waiting at the car, he rounded the side of the building and slapped his palm hard against the brick.

  “Shit!” He beat against the brick wall again. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Ava’s family had worked with this company for their own vineyard. Was this how they always conducted business—liquoring up their clients?

  He shook out his hand and paced. Ava didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. There was no way she would have sent him with Violet if she had any idea what he’d be walking into after not even three months of sob
riety.

  But it took several minutes of pacing for his breathing to slow, for logic to fully re-enter the situation.

  This was his life now. This was the shit he’d have to deal with from here on out if he was going to make sobriety stick. The thing was, though, that it’d be so much easier to go back to who he was before—to the numbness that had gotten him from one day to the next for the past ten years.

  Except he seemed to care what a certain high-heel-wearing, car-ride-singing, smart-as-hell knockout thought about him. That, as much as saying no to free drinks in Dorothy’s office, was entirely new to him.

  Eventually he made his way back to the MINI, using the trunk as a bench where he sat and waited for Violet to emerge from the building. He wore his heart-rimmed sunglasses with pride—and out of necessity because there wasn’t a damn cloud in the sky—and tried to think of an excuse for his behavior that didn’t involve him using the “A word”—alcoholic—just yet.

  It was Dorothy who pushed through the door first. She motioned for Walker to come back inside.

  “She picked some great stuff!” Dorothy called to him. “Got a dolly of boxes here with your name on ’em.”

  He dutifully retrieved the dolly as Dorothy and Violet said their good-byes. The two women hugged, and Walker heard snatches of conversation that mentioned a recipe and Paris and Dorothy coming to Santa Barbara for a visit.

  Walker shook his head and laughed, not that he was surprised. Violet Chastain could charm the pants off anyone who crossed her path. He was speaking from experience.

  He pushed the dolly out the propped-open door and headed to the car. Violet must have been close behind because the MINI’s trunk popped open as he reached it. He peered inside.

  “Huh,” he said to himself. “That is some decent trunk space.” All the boxes would actually fit, which meant he wouldn’t be stuck holding a stack in his lap like Violet and the giant cake last weekend.

  He fought the smile tugging at his lips, the one that might have him admitting to himself that he’d enjoyed pretending with Ms. Chastain a little more than he should have.