Forbidden Cowboy (Rocky Ridge Creek #1)

Broken Cowboy Chapter One

LENA

––––––––

I WAKE UP next to a cowboy’s naked body wrapped around mine like he owns me.

What did I do?

I know what I didn’t do. I didn’t stay in my room last night and prepare for today’s busy schedule.

Flashes of last night buzz in my hung-over mind.

The bar.

The drinks.

The dancing.

And the sexy cowboy who flirted his way into my pants. Like it was difficult. After a few shots, the crappy life I’ve been slugging through suddenly brightened into sunshine that I haven’t felt in almost a year.

Now, here I am, naked and spooning with a complete stranger. Whose big, solid body I fit perfectly alongside. One of his rock-hard arms is under the crook of my neck, surprisingly comforting and snuggly. The other arm is draped over my middle. He clutches my side, even in his sleep, as if he never wants to let go.

Good lord, this is the beginning scenario of a bazillion rom-com books I’ve written. Situations I’ve giggled or laughed about so hard tears streamed down my face.

Today, I don’t find the humor.

And my pounding head isn’t helping.

I close my eyes until my breathing settles. Until I notice it settles in rhythm with the man beside me. I also notice how much I’m enjoying lying here.

Crap! No!

Get out.

I slant my head to face him.

Mistake.

His head snuggles into my shoulder. His slightly parted lips remind me of how wicked they can be. I’m grateful to find his eyes closed. Eyelashes sweep over his skin hiding the dark gems beneath. He’s handsome, even in his sleep. Waves of dark hair. Sand-rough stubble. Concrete jaw. I need to get the heck out of here.

I lift his arm, ignoring the pangs of heat pooling below. I wiggle free of his grasp and roll off the bed. Yes, buck naked, half asleep and hung-over like I’ve never experienced in my life.

The carpeted floor cushions my knees and palms. A wave of nausea threatens to bring up last night’s delicious dinner. I’m sure Buffalo wings don’t taste nearly as good coming up. Although, I wouldn’t know. This is my first real hangover.

You know that girl who sits in her pyjamas reading and writing all day? That girl is me. I’m that girl. Jumping into a stranger’s bed is not on my regular everyday agenda. A glass of wine and a good book are all I need.

The thought of wine brings another roll of gut rot. “Breathe,” I whisper to myself.

When the feeling passes, I crawl across the floor searching for last night clothes. I snatch my bra from under the bed. If you can even call the flimsy thing a bra. I spot the little black dress my sister convinced me to wear last night. I prefer comfy pants and tees. I’ve never been on top of fashion like my fashionista sister.

I inwardly scold myself at how cliché rom-com that entire thought sounds.

I yank the stretchy lace masterpiece over my head and down my curvy hips. I have to rearrange the upper half to keep my girls from flopping out.

I steal a look at the man stretched out on the bed. His golden skin runs everywhere except over his ass cheeks. And those cheeks are tight and taut. His whole body is a temple of muscles and grooves and mounds my fingers would love to be reacquainted with.

Am I drooling?

There’s the writer in me, ogling over my hero. But my heroes are fictional characters I craft and mold into perfection. This man is real. And I had sex with him. And now I’m trying to escape before he awakes.

Fricken rom-com to the max.

I quietly sprint across the room. I snatch my panties off a potted plant and grab the door handle.

“Not a breakfast gal?”

My hand freezes. My body warms. His southern drawl does something to my city girl head. Turns it to mush and makes me want to crawl right back into bed with him.

Taking a deep breath, I plaster a smile on my lips before turning to face him.

He’s half sitting, propped up with an arm resting on the headboard behind his head. The floral linen sheet is draped over his manhood, but it’s not hiding much. His morning wood erects a teepee. I try not to stare. He’s making it impossible lying there all smug and confident in his morning gorgeousness.

I have difficulty finding the words. Funny, considering I write for a living. “Last night was fun.” Understatement. “But let’s just keep it in this room.”

His lips curve into a wickedly hot grin that heats my core. “Sweetheart, in that case, what’s your hurry? The morning promises plenty more fun.”

My eyes land on his teepee. I can’t help it. Half the night may be a bit of a blur, but I remember rocking that shaft.

No. No. No.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“While that’s tempting, I’m running late. You know, things to do, people to meet. Horses to ride.” I can think of someone else I’d like to see ride.

“I don’t mind sharing a shower.”

My eyes flutter to the adjoined bathroom. The clear shower walls beckon me to let him pin me against them and slam me until we’re both crying out in orgasmic relief. My insides scream go for it. My brain shuts it all down. Fantasies aren’t realistic and are meant for the pages of my books.

“Maybe another time.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Right.” I won’t be seeing this cowboy ever again. One-night stands are just that, one night. “Have a good day.”

Have a good life.

I shut the door behind me. A sigh of relief blasts out of me. I lean against the door and take a deep breath.

That’s when it hits me.

He’s in my room!

WHEELER

––––––––

I RUB ONE out in the shower.

It isn’t difficult with the sweet little city lady fresh in my mind.

Tousled copper caramel hair.

Sleepy blue eyes the color of a cloudless day.

Pouty lips that drove my body wild with hunger last night.

I have a rule: fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. Not fall asleep in their bed and invite them for seconds.

Hell no.

When I saw her creeping around, I should’ve let her sneak out the door, words unspoken, never to be seen again.

But I didn’t.

Then I enjoyed the sleepy morning surprise written across her face when she cautiously eyed me. And I wanted to drag that fine curvy body back to bed with me and ravish her all over again.

Fuck me.

If I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m going to be rock fucking hard again.

I towel dry faster than I ever have. Last night’s clothes smell like liquor and sex. I drag them on, ignoring the tropical coconut scent lingering from the city girl. I expected her to be saturated in some expensive perfume, not dipped in beach waves.

“Where the hell is my hat?” I grumble to myself, scanning the room. “Ah-ha.” It’s made itself at home on one of the four bed posts.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from my brother Dean. You missed breakfast. Must’ve been one helluva a fuck.

I slide my phone away not planning to give him any details. It’s not a common night I get out to Bucky’s bar, unlike Dean who’s there every night. However, with my six-year-old daughter at horse camp for the next two weeks, my nights have opened up. I planned to take as many opportunities to enjoy the company of a tourist and a quickie. If they all end with me crashing at the Quilt House B&B, I might have to re-think my plan.

I drag my fingers through my hair as I skip down the carpeted stairs. The bed and breakfast has the frilliest, crimped, and ruffled decor I’ve ever seen. Lace curtains, ruffled throw pillows, and flower arrangements on all flat surfaces. Everything seems to have a shade of pink in it and don’t forget the quilts hung on every wall. It’s overkill on a regular day. Sporting my headache is taking the 3D masterpiece to a whole new level.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Wilma Quylt, proprietor and local busybody, materializes at the bottom of the stairs. A single arm holds a giant mixing bowl while her other arm savagely whips the batter.

My feet stumble at the third last step. “Mornin’, Wilma.” There’s nothing worse than being busted by one of the Quylt sisters doing the walk of shame. Although, I’m not ashamed. Last night was fucking awesome. Still, Rocky Ridge Creek is a small town, and I don’t need rumours of whom I’ve banged twisting down the grapevine. I purposely choose tourists to avoid town confrontation. One-night stands are all I want. Ever since Libby’s mom died, I’ve had no interest in starting another relationship.

“You’re here earlier than I expected.”

“I wasn’t coming around at all today, and I’m just on my way out.” I try to slip around her, but she sidesteps straight into my path, forcing me back up a step.

“I talked to your father at the beginning of the week, and he said you were picking up Dianna Jenkins today after lunch to give her the ranch experience.”

“Shit, that’s today?” I rake my hands through my hair. The weekend flew by.

Wilma arches a silver eyebrow. “Had a little too much to drink last night?”

“He had a little too much fun, is what he had. And it’s past due and well deserved.” Faye Quylt winks a sparkly pink eyelid at me as she bumps Wilma’s hip. She’s bright today. A fuchsia pink tea dress and her Kentucky derby hat springs out oodles of feathers.

Wilma doesn’t budge and now the two are hip-tight leaving no space for me to pass. This is why I like harvest season when I spend all my time in the tractor. Away from people. Away from gossip.

“Our walls are rather thin.” Wilma brushes feathers away from her face and shifts the bowl into her other arm. “I thought Levi and Hope’s lovemaking was loud, but lord have mercy, I was wrong. You take the cake. And wouldn’t you think after a month of living together, their noisy moans would lessen.”

I rub my fingers over my eyes. “Don’t need to hear about my brother’s sex life.”

Both of Wilma’s eyebrows hike skyward. “Didn’t need to hear yours.”

I plop my Stetson on my head, hoping the ladies take it as the indication I’m leaving. “And yet, here we are, making sure to have a full-on conversation about just that.” I take another step down.

Faye ruffles closer, like a peacock outstretching its feathers. “Aren’t you thrilled Dianna Jenkins is here, in our little town, doing research for her next romance series.” She thrusts a book in my face. I blink at the turquoise cover and a man’s bare torso. It’s entitled The Wrong Groomsman.

“Her new series is going to be a western romance series. Her books are very steamy.”

Faye leans closer, as if that’s even physically possible at this point. “Very very steamy.”

“The cover says it all,” I agree.

“Moans, screams and grunts much like the noises coming from your room last night.”

They’ve pushed me to my damn limit. “Y’all sit outside our room having a goddam tea party?” I growl. “I have places to be, if you don’t mind.”

“I own all Dianna Jenkins books.” Faye clutches the book against her chest.

“And we’re not going to overwhelm her into signing them all in one day.”

The two continue on as if I’m not standing here trying to escape. Much like my copper caramel goddess last night. Another bout of desire runs through me.

Faye flicks her head and her wide-brimmed hat smacks Wilma in the face. “She’s an author. Why wouldn’t she love signing her books?”

“She hasn’t written a new book in over a year —” Wilma’s spatula scrapes the sides of the bowl. “It’s quite possible she’s not as excited to sign or write books like you seem to think.”

“She’s been doing research.”

“Or she has writers block.”

I hadn’t realized when I’d agreed to showing a romance author around the ranch I’d been agreeing to listening to every mundane detail of her life. I can clearly see from the cover, she writes women’s smut and Faye is her number one fan. Also, from the way Faye is swooning over her, the two old birds will likely become best friends and cut my tour short. If I’m lucky.

“I think I’ll just head home, change and then meet Miss or Mrs—”

“Miss,” Faye supplies. “She’s very single. Her husband passed away last year. She’s a widow.”

Again, way more information than I need to know. And a part of me breaks for the older woman, as I recognize the pain of losing a spouse.

“I’ll be back to meet Miss. Jenkins at our arranged time.”

“Actually it’s Miss. Thorpe.”

I’m about to lose my shit. “What?” I grit through my clenched teeth.

“Her pen name is Jenkins.”

“What the hell is a pen name?”

“A pseudonym for her books. Her real last name is Thorpe.”

I’m so fucking lost I feel like my head’s going to explode. I might need to stop by Bucky’s Bar for a morning shot. “I’ll see y’all in a bit.” I step down to wedge my way through them, but the two sister’s stand strong like a steel wall.

“Why don’t you stay for lunch? We’re having Apple fritters for dessert.”

“Sounds delicious, but—”

“But nothing.” Faye loops her arm in mine. “You’ve already showered and who doesn’t like a man’s morning scruff.”

I consciously rub my chin. It’s never clean shaven.

“Why not have ahearty lunch and take Dianna Jenkins—Miss. Thorpe—to the ranch from here.”

Ah hell. An apple fritter sure does sound appetizing. And I missed breakfast at the ranch—a tradition my daughter and I have maintained since the day she was born. Why not have a hearty lunch before my day of entertaining an old, widowed spinster.

Who knows, maybe my copper-haired beauty will make an appearance before I head out.

Not that I want her to.

Hell no.

Then why the hell can’t I get her out of my head?