Forbidden Cowboy (Rocky Ridge Creek #1)

Chapter Two

LEVI

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“WILDES DON’T WORK with Foxes.” My brother’s growly statement rings in my ears, barking like our father’s stern voice my entire life.

Never let your guard down.

Watch out for those Fox dames and their lust games. That’s how they hook you, and then they destroy you.

I got the memo.

Loud and clear.

So why the hell is my brother glaring at me like I offered to work with a Fox? I didn’t even want to come tonight. And I sure as hell didn’t bring up some sappy love story about our great-great-great grandparents.

Look at the reflection in the mirror, brother.

And then Thomas goes and throws me to the wolves. Or, in this case, the Foxes. I’d rather wrangle a dozen territorial bulls at once.

“Foxes don’t work with Wildes,” Jade retaliates, mirroring my brother.

“Something we agree on.” The way my brother eye fucks her, there’s no mistaking they’ve hooked up.

The room explodes into huge arguments. Everything from their sordid history of murder and hog theft to slapping Knit Happens with a hefty fine for breaking their hours.

I slump back in my chair and rub my temples where the twangs of a headache are starting to develop.

Glancing at the stage, I notice sly smirks pasted on the pesky duo. And pesky those two old birds are. They habitually stick their noses into everyone’s business.

Why do I get the feeling they had something to do with pairing up Hope and me on this pointless project? Honestly, I side with Jade on the topic. Fox or not, I vote to leave the kissing booth in a bed of coals.

If that’s the case, then why is there a fucking ripple of something I don’t want to name coursing through my gut at the idea of working with Hope Fox—the girl next door. My brown-haired, hazel-eyed, tree-climbing best friend. At least she had been free of responsibility and expectations when we were wild kids.

I remember the first time I saw her. She’d given me the same peculiar, curious look she’d given me not ten minutes ago.

I’d been hooked.

Instantly.

While my father prodded me and my brothers against befriending a Fox, I’d been sneaking away from the ranch every afternoon, sun or rain, to secretly climb trees and hike the ridge with the forbidden girl next door.

Until that day, the day everything changed between us. And it all started with the damn kissing booth.

“I propose a vote,” Josie mutters as if trying to disguise her voice. She’s another troublemaker that sly Fox is.

“There’s no vote.” Thomas wipes the beads of sweat from his forehead with a plaid handkerchief.

Jade lifts her hand. “All in favor of eliminating the kissing booth, a show of hands.”

My hand shoots up.

Hart slaps it down. “Hell no.” He points his Stetson at Jade. “The kissing booth stays.”

Hope raises her hand. “I second that vote.”

“There’s no voting.” Thomas’s voice hikes an octave, and he flips over his handkerchief to wipe behind his neck.

“Why don’t we vote and move on?” Rita suggests.

“All battles are fought by scared men who’d rather be someplace else,” Grumpy Wayne says.

“No voting!” Thomas repeats louder.

“We’re voting whether the Wildes or the Foxes reconstruct it.” My brother’s booming voice ricochets off the walls. “All in favor of the Wildes, show of hands.”

My throbbing head feels like it’s going to explode. No wonder I don’t leave the ranch.

My eyes trail to the one person in this room they shouldn’t: Hope.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Long wavy hair as rich brown as the earth. Her tomboy figure has transformed into a helluva curvy woman. My fingers itch to slide under the thin material of her dress. But it’s her smile that gets me. She radiates sunshine, just like I remember. And those luscious lips. I hadn’t known how much I wanted to kiss Hope Fox until we stood across from each other at the fair kissing booth. It didn’t matter that there had been lineups shouting behind me. Or that all eyes had been on us. I’d only seen her, felt her, wanted her.

But Wildes and Foxes are all but outlawed in Rocky Ridge Creek. And it took one kiss with Hope to realize I couldn’t pretend with her anymore. I couldn’t hide our friendship or whatever the hell would transform after that kiss. And I sure as hell couldn’t be the man she deserved.

Those lips have taunted me for years, and now Thomas and the old birds think they’re pairing us up?

Hell no.

“Next topic is the sponsorship packages. We have Fox Lodge and the Wilde Ranch competing for the top package.

This is the reason my brother’s here.

Hart blabs his rehearsed speech, and Jade counters him. Their competition overtakes any possibility of getting in another word on the kissing booth topic.

I’m done.

Even Peggy-Ann is too distracted to notice when I pass. Thank the heavens. The last thing I need is for her husband having a beef with me.

The humid summer night hits me. Fresh-cut grass and the woody scent of cedar fill my nostrils. The town where I was born and raised, married my high school sweetheart, planned to raise my family, and never leave. Too bad my ex-wife had different plans—home sweet home.

I head to Bucky’s Bar for a nightcap. It'll be empty with practically the whole town at the fair meeting.

The Buckley Brewing Company has been brewing craft beer for generations. Meanwhile, the bar next door belongs to the Wards, who have been distilling whiskey just as long. We have some of the best booze around and another family feud.

I skip over the cobblestone sidewalk and cross the road to Bucky’s Bar. The neon whiskey and beer sign is smack dab in the middle of a row of businesses. Two-story buildings run both sides of the street with arched, ornate windows and decorative brick. Rocky Ridge Creek’s historic district is Downtown, surrounded by endless rows of craftsman houses.

The long, drawn-out howl of Gus, our local stray basset hound, pierces the quiet Main Street. He’s nowhere to be seen but has a local route for scraps and attention.

A bell hanging above the bar’s door jangles my arrival.

“Evening, Bucky.” I nod at old man Bucky.

The lines on his face are as weathered as the long maple counter he’s wiping down. Hundreds of bottles reflect off the mirror covering the wall.

He glances over the rims of his round glasses. His suede vest, long greying ponytail, and facial hair give him a free spirit vibe. “Lo and behold, if my eyes don’t deceive me, it’s Levi Wilde in my bar.”

“Better your bar than mine.” I recognize Kiwi Ward’s voice before I glance to my right.

“That’s new.” I admire the ten-foot-wide unfinished hole dividing the rivalry bars.

The two widowed fools were known for banging on the connecting wall during minor disputes. Clearly, their dust-up had erupted.

I nod my hat at the older lady. “Evening Mrs. Ward.”

Besides a few laugh lines—or growl lines if you’re her enemy—she hasn’t changed much—same cherry red hair tied back with a bandana. Short, stick thin, and all bones. Even in her eighties, she still dresses like a biker babe in leather, studs, and cowboy boots and makes sure the heart tattooed to her arm is on display.

“Don’t you evening, Mrs. Ward me.” The Wards favor the Fox family, while the Buckleys favor the Wilde family.

“Why the hell not?” Bucky slams a closed fist on the counter. “It’s a helluva gorgeous evening out there.”

Kiwi waves her hands at both of us before spinning on her heel and stomping away. “Worthless as gum on a boot heel.”

“Levi!” The sloppy slur comes from the town drunk, Earl. He’s partially slumped over the end of the counter. He raises his empty glass a couple of inches off the wood before it clunks back down. His head lands in the crook of the arm resting on the countertop. Sleep steals him.

Some things never change.

“Old fool.” Bucky pries the empty beer mug out of his fingers. “Comes in skunk-drunk and thinks I’m going to serve him more. Help me move him to a booth, will ya?” He slaps the terry cloth over one shoulder before making his way from behind the bar.

“I got it.”

But the old man clambers around, pushing his bad leg to grab one of Earl’s arms. We drop him in the closest booth with a torn leather seat. He mumbles incoherently before curling over.

Bucky ambles back to the bar, now coddling his limp. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever’s on tap.” I find an empty booth in the corner—the furthest corner in the joint.

It’s only drunken Earl and me, but I’d prefer inconspicuous if anyone else pops in. I hang my hat on the coat hook nailed to the side of the booth before I slide in.

I run my fingers through my hair and rake my hands over my face. A frustrated groan rumbles in my chest.

Hope Fox.

Kissing booth.

Working side-by-side.

Hell no. There’s no debate. It ain’t happening.

The door jangles. I feel irritation lace my insides. I don’t want to talk, chat, gossip, or anything. I expect the place to fill up once the meeting adjourns, but I thought maybe I’d get a minute to drink my beer alone.

I steal a hooded glance. And instantly regret it.

A white lace wrap drapes down Hope’s bare shoulders. I imagine my lips trailing a path over her soft skin.

I should look away.

I don’t.

Her floral dress sways from her curvy hips to precisely above her knees. My fingers itch to climb those legs. I fist my hands together on top of the table and fight the desire to want to yank that dress over her head and kiss her wherever the fuck I want. Hell, I’d like to do a whole lot more than kissing. But kissing is what put us in this damn predicament. If we hadn’t smooched at the kissing booth, I might have never discovered my feelings for a Fox. Especially not my best friend.

My gaze locks with hers. I hate how damn natural it feels. How I never felt anything close to these feelings with my ex-wife. Like how Hope’s eyes seem to soothe my soul.

“Bucky, I’ll have what he’s having.” She doesn’t take her eyes off me. Doesn’t ask to sit with me before sliding into the seat across from me. She doesn’t jump when our knees touch beneath the table. She doesn’t seem unnerved by my presence, the way she’s rattled the fuck out of me.

Bucky arrives with our brimming liquid gold. His eyes dart from mine to Hope. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was preparing to spread some gossip.

“Anything else? I got some wings ready to go hot and fresh for after tonight’s meeting.”

“We’re good—”

“I would love some wings.” Hope smiles sweetly at him. Her real smile. The one I’ve longed to see again.

“Coming right up.” Bucky squeezes Hope’s shoulder and winces. “My knee tells me there’s a storm coming.”

When we’re alone, I sip my beer. “What will people say, you sitting with a Wilde?”

“What will people say, you drinking alone?”

“I like to drink alone.”

“No one likes to drink alone.” She raises her mug in a salute before pressing the glass against her lips. She slugs back a hefty mouthful.

Her shoulders appear stiff, her eyes shifty. Maybe she’s not as unfazed as I originally thought.

“When did you and Bucky get so friendly?”

“I don’t play the feud hand, and Bucky is one of the few who also doesn’t.” Her wide smile is back, and damned if it doesn’t melt every wall I’ve built.

“I’m here to discuss the kissing booth.” She licks away the foam from her upper lip. I’m so goddam jealous of that foam.

“Since you made yourself crystal clear, you’re against resurrecting the booth; I’m here to let you off the hook.”

Her words shock me. But not nearly as much as my reaction, which should be, damn straight, you’re letting me off the hook.

It’s not.

Disappointment.

Anger.

Regret.

I say nothing and sip my beer.

“I’ve already been discussing the project with Wyatt Ashwood. You know Wyatt, his family owns the lumber yard.”

I know I want to give Wyatt a shiner. Or a broken arm. Or both.

“The Ashwoods agreed to donate the wood for the kissing booth. I had an entire proposal prepared to present to the committee.” She sighs, a sweet melody to my ears.

No sweet melody. Dammit!

“But I guess they didn’t need to see my proposal to give the go-ahead, and Wyatt already offered to help, so that lets you off the hook.”

“Who said I wanted to be let off the hook?” My big mouth is speaking without permission.

Hope’s chin dips down. Her teeth clamp her lower lip for a quick second before she regains herself—enough of a second to drive me wild inside.

“You did. Obviously, the kissing booth holds bad memories for you.”

My gaze slides to her lips. She has no clue about the good memories the kissing booth holds for me.

When I meet her gaze, I notice a hue of pink staining her cheeks. “What kind of memories does the kissing booth hold for you?” I ask.

I don’t need her to say the kiss changed the way she looks at me. I saw the desire reflecting in her eyes that day. I saw our friendship shift to something different. I want her to say it. And from heaven to hell, I don’t know why.

Something changes in the way she’s looking at me now. From the friendly, sweet Hope I remember to something I’m not entirely familiar with. Pain, regret—anger. And I’m not so sure I like it.

“The kissing booth reminds me never to trust a man.”