Close Enough to Touch
Read Close Enough to Touch Online
Authors: Victoria Dahl
Can a city girl make it in the wild, wild West?
For makeup artist Grace Barrett, Hollywood isn’t the land of
golden opportunity. It’s the land of difficult divas, cheating boyfriends and
unemployment. So when her great-aunt offers her a free place to stay in Jackson
Hole, Grace thinks she’ll spend a little time in the sticks to figure out her
life, and then move somewhere exciting to live out her dreams. But it turns out
that there are a few more thrills in this small town than Grace was
expecting....
Cole Rawlins is a rugged Wyoming cowboy born and bred. Yet he
can’t help but be drawn to the fascinating big-city girl who moves in across
from him. He wants to get close enough to Grace to see past her tough facade,
but if he does, she might see the real Cole. The one with a Hollywood history
gone bad. As they discover a sizzling attraction, it becomes harder for him to
keep his demons at bay—and those fires from long ago may burn them both.
They’ll need more than scorching-hot passion to make this
opposites-attract affair work. But if they can learn to trust one another enough
to reveal their secrets, they just might have a chance at forever.
Praise for the novels of
USA
TODAY
bestselling author
Victoria Dahl
“This is one hot romance.”
—
RT Book
Reviews
on
Good Girls Don’t
“A hot and funny story about a woman many of us can relate
to.”
—
Salon.com
on
Crazy for Love
“
Lead Me On
will have you begging
for a reread even as the story ends.”
—
Romance
Junkies
“[A] hands-down winner, a sensual story filled with memorable
characters.”
—
Booklist
on
Start Me Up
“Dahl has spun a scorching tale about what can happen in the
blink of an eye and what we can do to change our lives.”
—
RT Book Reviews
on
Start Me
Up
“Dahl smartly wraps up a winning tale full of endearing
oddballs, light mystery and plenty of innuendo and passion.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
Talk Me
Down
“Sassy and smokingly sexy,
Talk Me
Down
is one delicious joyride of a book.”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Connie Brockway
“Sparkling, special and oh so sexy—Victoria Dahl is a special
treat!”
—
New York Times
bestselling author
Carly Phillips on
Talk Me Down
Also available from
Victoria Dahl
and Harlequin
HQN
Real Men Will
Bad Boys
Do
Good Girls Don’t
Crazy for Love
Lead Me On
Start Me
Up
Talk Me Down
And coming soon
Too Hot to Handle
This one is for Jodi.
Thanks for keeping me company and
making me laugh.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
T
HIS
MADE
IT
OFFICIAL
:
Grace Barrett’s life was over. Or, at the very least, it was so irrevocably
screwed up that a quick death would be a blessing at this point.
She was twenty-eight, in debt to an angry ex-boyfriend, she had
exactly $37.40, and she was
here.
In Wyoming.
Well, she’d been in Wyoming for hours, actually. Hours of
endless beige hills and barren mountains. Hours of cows. And sheep. And some
strange creature she’d thought was a deer until she’d gotten a better look. Deer
didn’t look as if they had exotic black masks painted on their little faces.
What the heck were those things?
Grace shuddered a little as she stepped out of the bus. Her
feet touched the ground and there was no taking it back now. She really was in
Wyoming. She was standing on it.
“Damn,” she muttered.
The elderly man in front of her turned with a concerned smile.
“Sorry, ma’am?”
Grace crossed her arms in defense. “Sorry about that. I was
just…”
He smiled and put a hand to his balding head as if he meant to
tip a hat. “Beg pardon.”
No one had ever begged her pardon before. Grace crossed her
arms more tightly, unsure how to handle this situation. Thankfully, the man
moved away before she was forced to respond.
Grace glanced warily around. After her years in L.A., she knew
to keep her guard up against anyone who approached her on the street, no matter
how kind and polite the people here might seem. Nobody did, so she edged toward
the driver as he unlocked the luggage compartments of the bus. She was used to
being alone, but she’d been surrounded by people on this bus for nearly two
days. She felt almost panicked with the need to be free.
The driver began unloading the bags, laying them out in neat
rows. Grace kept a sharp eye on his hands, waiting for her ancient camouflage
duffel bag to appear.
No one else seemed to be watching as closely. The other
passengers were hugging friends and family or idly chatting with each other as
their eyes traveled along the horizon. She spared only the barest of glances
toward the view of the mountains. Someone could walk up and grab a bag and be
gone before anybody even noticed.
These folks were obviously not from L.A. Or…maybe their bags
didn’t contain every ridiculous, precious thing in the world that belonged to
them. Maybe their bags were just filled with dirty clothes and cheap souvenirs
from a beach vacation. But when Grace’s bag appeared and was set on the ground,
she jumped forward and dragged it away like a feral animal with a piece of
precious meat. It was nearly too heavy for her to lift, but she’d have to find a
way. She had no car, no spare money for a taxi—if they had such things here—and
she hadn’t told her great-aunt when she’d be arriving. So she was hoofing
it.
“Hoofing it,” she breathed, managing a laugh as she glanced
around to see if there were any cows standing next to her. Unlike the rest of
Wyoming, the town of Jackson seemed to be blessedly cow-free. It was also
slightly larger than she’d expected, dashing her hope that she could simply
wander down the main street until she spotted the address she was looking for.
She’d have to ask for help. The idea made her grimace as she took a deep breath
and looked around. Maybe she could just find a free map.
“Bingo,” she muttered as her eye fell on a big sign that
spelled out
Jackson Hole Information!
in old-timey
wooden letters. Grace had lived in Hollywood a long time. If there was one thing
she knew, it was how to work a tourist trap.
She dragged her bag across the asphalt and onto the
wooden…sidewalk? Grace blinked and looked down the street, then turned to look
in the other direction. Yes, as far as the eye could see, the sidewalks were
wooden, like an Old West town.
“Wow,” she muttered. These people were really trying hard, even
if she had to admit that it was cute. Shaking her head, she pulled her bag down
the sidewalk until she got to the brochure stand.
“Do you have a free map of the area?” she asked the matronly
woman who’d turned away to straighten papers.
“Oh, hello!” the woman called as she spun around. “Good
afternoon!”
“Hi. Um. I just need a map of the town. Something simple.”
The woman’s eyes flicked up to Grace’s hair for a moment, and
Grace wondered what she must think of a purple-haired girl in combat boots
asking about Jackson, but the woman’s smile didn’t waver. “Well, I won’t lie.
There are a lot of choices. Here’s the official town map.” She laid out a folded
brochure. “But—and don’t tell anyone I said this—I actually like the one the
restaurant association puts out a little better.”
“Thanks.” Grace took both the brochures and opened the one the
woman had recommended.
“What are you looking for, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? Grace glanced down at her T-shirt. Yep. It still
advertised an old L.A. burlesque club. “Just a street,” she said softly, hoping
not to invite more questions.
“Which street?”
Grace cleared her throat and shifted, her gaze desperately
boring into the map, hoping she could just find it herself. “Um, Sagebrush.”
“Sagebrush. That’s a long one. What’s the address?” The woman’s
pink fingernail pointed toward the map, but it moved before Grace could register
which street she was pointing to.
“Six-O-five West Sagebrush,” she said, sighing.
“Oh, that’s way over here!” The woman pointed again, and this
time Grace saw it. A long line that meandered all the way through town and then
followed the curve of a stream before it ended. It looked like quite a haul.
“Thank you,” Grace said. She folded the map and hefted her bag
up, biting back a grunt as she worked the strap over her shoulder. “This way?”
She tilted her head in the direction she thought she needed to go. She’d always
been pretty good with that sort of thing.
“Yep!”
Grace took a deep breath and started walking. Her boots clomped
on the wood.
“Oh, honey!”
Grace pretended she didn’t hear.
“Sweetie, stop! You can’t walk all that way.”
“I’m fine,” she called.
“But there’s a free bus!”
Her boots stopped clomping. “Free?”
“Totally free. In fact, it’ll stop right here in a few minutes.
Comes every half hour.”
Grace turned back and eyed the woman suspiciously. “Will I have
to go tour a new condo complex or something?”
“What? Oh, heavens no. It’s the town bus. It’ll stop just a few
blocks from where you’re going. Six-O-five West Sagebrush. That’s the Stud Farm,
isn’t it?”
“The what?” She dropped the bag. She’d heard tales that her
great-aunt was a crazy old lady, but…
“What?”
“Oh, never mind me.” The woman laughed. “That’s just a silly
local nickname.”
“For
what?
”
“The building.”
Just as Grace was opening her mouth to demand a real answer, a
hiss of brakes sounded from the curb. The bus had arrived, and she didn’t have
time to get more information. She hauled up her bag, wrestled it onto her
shoulder and jogged for the bus. As promised, there didn’t seem to be a fee. The
driver glanced at her impatiently, and she felt a small jolt of comfort at that.
The bus might be free, but the driver was just as jaded as every bus driver in
L.A.
Slightly less suspicious, Grace took a seat close to the front
so she wouldn’t have to haul the bag any farther, then dug the map back out to
see which intersection she was looking for.
A few blocks later, the wooden walkways were replaced with
cement, and the two-story buildings with front porches became less common. By
the time they reached the right intersection, they’d passed a strip mall and a
big grocery store. She felt slightly less disoriented as she grabbed the
bellpull and hauled her bag down the steps.
She didn’t dare stop and look around as the bus pulled away.
Her shoulders were already aching and the bag wasn’t getting any lighter, so she
set off down the side street with her head down. Sagebrush was only four blocks
down. No problem.
By the time she reached the next street, she was gasping for
air. “Good Lord,” she muttered, stopping to take a few deep breaths. It didn’t
help. Altitude, she reminded herself, finally giving in and setting the bag
down. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on oxygen, and without the weight of
the bag, she was breathing normally within a few moments.
Had she really thought she was going to walk all the way from
the bus station to the apartment? Laughing at the image of herself crawling down
the street with the bag balanced on her back, Grace opened her eyes and took a
deeper breath.
“Mmm,” she hummed. The air smelled…nice. Really nice. Crisp and
fresh and clean. Maybe she could live with less oxygen. Just for a little while.
It wasn’t like she was going to stay in this ridiculous little town.
It was cute, though. The Old West part of town had morphed into
a slightly Victorian feel. Little gingerbread houses, separated by the
occasional 1960s ranch house. Grace had never lived in a small town before.
Maybe it would be okay, temporarily.
As if to show her just how wrong she was, the jingle of a bike
bell interrupted her thoughts. A bicycle passed by. An honest-to-goodness
bicycle built for two. Both riders waved as they rode away. Grace grimaced at
what looked like an advertisement for happiness. This town was going to rub her
own misery in her face.
Once the bike had passed, she lifted the bag and trudged on.
Another bike appeared, this one with only one rider, but with an old-fashioned
bike horn that the rider honked before he waved. Yeah, L.A. was bad enough with
all the sunshine, but this town was just too much.
Vancouver would be better, hopefully. There was a big enough
movie industry there. She had a job waiting for her if she could get there in
six weeks. And if she did a good job, maybe she could get steady work as a
makeup artist up there where nobody knew she was difficult to work with.
Difficult,
as in she wouldn’t put up with handsy
actors or abusive bosses. That seemed totally reasonable to her, but in L.A.,
ass kissing was a way of life.
Grace turned onto Sagebrush and started watching the
addresses.
When she finally spotted number 605, she was pleasantly
surprised. The Victorian building didn’t look like it had anything to do with a
farm. Or studs. It wasn’t the prettiest house on the block, but the paint was
fresh and bright royal-blue. The trim around the windows and the porch was vivid
white. The place looked perfectly respectable.
Then her eyes slid to the building next door.
The
saloon
next door.
She knew it was a saloon because of the wide plank of wood over
the door that screamed SALOON in big black letters. Barstools lined the ancient
porch and, unlike the building Grace was standing in front of, this place looked
as though it hadn’t been painted since 1902. In fact, it looked like a
barn
that hadn’t been painted since 1902. She was
pretty sure that was some sort of hayloft door near the roof.
Grace’s shoulders were protesting the delay, so she adjusted
the bag’s strap and walked up the sidewalk to the house. As soon as she stepped
in, she saw two doors marked A and B. The only other possible route was a wide
staircase that led to the second floor. Grace dropped the bag and dug out the
letter from her great-aunt, praying that her apartment was on the ground floor.
She wasn’t sure she could make it up the stairs without passing out.
“Apartment A,” she breathed. “Thank God.”
She was reaching for the door when she realized the mistake and
paused. She didn’t have a key. And—she looked at the letter again—her aunt
hadn’t given a phone number.
Feeling stupid for even trying, she reached for the knob and
tested it. It didn’t budge, of course. Who would leave a vacant apartment
unlocked?
“Crap.”
Grace stood on her tiptoes and ran her fingers above the door
frame. Nothing.
“Shit.”
When she looked down, she saw that her black boots were planted
right in the middle of a doormat that said Howdy! inside a circled lasso. Her
last hope was this rectangle of Western kitsch. Holding her breath, she stepped
off and picked it up. Nothing.
“Damn it,” she groaned, letting her lungs empty on a growl of
frustration as she glared down at the envelope in her hand. Her aunt’s return
address was a P.O. box. She’d communicated only via letter to the friend’s
address that Grace had used for return mail. And Grandma Rose never answered her
cell phone.
On the off chance that it was the one time of day that her
grandmother turned her cell on to check messages, Grace pulled out her crappy
pay-as-you-go phone and dialed Grandma’s number. A few seconds later, Grace
heard the beep of the voice-mail message starting, and her heart dropped.
However Grandma eventually went, it wasn’t going to be from “radio wave brain
cancer,” at least according to her.
Grace looked back to the letter in her hand, feeling hopeless.
What was she going to do? Wander around town asking everyone if they knew her
aunt? She’d been on a bus for two days. She’d thought she was about to get a
break. Just a few hours to rest and let her guard down.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” She hauled back one boot and
kicked her bag as hard as she could. It wasn’t hard enough. She pulled back her
foot to do it again. The bag held everything she owned in the world, but right
now, that seemed like the perfect reason to kick it. This was her life. Right
here. Her whole crappy life in this beat-up, dirty camouflage bag.
“Damn it!” she screamed one more time as she kicked it hard
enough to slide it six inches across the floor.