Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 (3 page)

She swallowed. Something about him made her unhinged. Like the rules of behavior didn’t apply when she was close to him. “It’s just that…since I’ve been home…I’ve been…”
Lonely.
She trailed off, unable to say the word.

He stroked her cheekbone with the knuckle of his index finger then slid his hand behind her neck. The simple move steadied her. “It’s all right.”

And then she was back in his arms. He ran his fingers through her hair and rested his fingertips against the burning bare skin on her neck.

“I’m gonna kiss you back now,” he whispered. “You okay with that?”

She couldn’t speak. She nodded.

He closed his eyes at last and kissed her. He pushed his bottom lip against the corner of her mouth, and when her lips parted, he swept the inside of her lips with his tongue, a soft lick that drew a soft sound from her throat, halfway between a moan and a sigh.

Dean put one hand on her waist and one hand behind her head, bending her backward like a bow. Monica had nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it all.

Overwhelmed, she reached up and grasped Dean’s flexed shoulder with her left hand. Her right arm was crushed between his rock-hard chest and her own wildly beating heart.

In her hometown, she was a spinster, an unmarried girl who gave her mother no shortage of heartache. But the cold, hard truth was also Monica’s biggest secret. Since her train wreck of an engagement, one-night stands were her preferred way to blow off steam back in the Bay Area. No questions, no expectations. Just quick, dirty sex behind closed doors. And in the morning, a kiss or two goodbye before a clean getaway.

None of her hookups had ever kissed her like
this
.

Through gaps in her mental haze, Monica noticed details about Dean MacKinnon’s technique. Passionate but precise. Curious but unhurried. His kiss was a perfect melding of heat and friction. With just a kiss, he summoned the rising tide of her lust, a sweet, hot rush of blood infusing her body like liquid fire.

He pulled away just enough to whisper, “More?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

In the shade of the brim of his cowboy hat, he kissed her again.

Hints of aftershave lingered at the edges of his well-groomed beard. Bay rum, old-fashioned and spicy. The scent got its hooks into her and wouldn’t let go. When she moaned, Dean bit her lower lip gently.

Damn
, she thought.
He
is
good.

After fourteen years, she’d returned to her hometown nothing more than an outsider, disconnected from her family and her faith. For the last three months, she’d had to pretend to be something she wasn’t, something purer and better, caught between worlds like some kind of ghost.

But here and now, she was no ghost. Dean MacKinnon was solid, and he was here, and he was holding her. His kiss obliterated all her worries. With his big arms around her, she felt grounded for the first time in a long time.

His hand, rough as uncut granite, massaged the back of her neck as he slowly explored her mouth with his lips and tongue. He was so strong and calm that his power fed her, and her fluttering spirit alighted in him, hungry for his steadiness.

Dean gently pushed the tip of his tongue between her parted teeth and gave her a sweet, tentative lick. When she licked him back, she felt his grip on her tighten. She dug her fingers into the cotton of his shirt. His body was hard all over, nothing but skin stretched over muscle.

Time passed in heartbeats and quickened breaths until panic bubbled up from some tight place in Monica’s chest. She pulled away.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

No.
Her mind began racing again.
Absolutely not all right. My family is less than a mile away, a hive of cousins and aunties and uncles, a mom who is hell-bent on finding me a proper Sikh husband, and a father who wouldn’t think twice about running you over with a minivan.

Dean grazed her jaw with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head as she looked down at his chest crushed against hers.
You. You big
gora
.
You’re all wrong. Tall and hot and white and Christian and completely, totally, unforgivably wrong.
She was furious at the ungovernable urges of her body. How could she let him affect her this way? Back in the Bay Area, she could do whatever—and whomever—she wanted. No one was watching. Here? Everyone was watching. When it came to a fling with Dean MacKinnon, Monica knew she had to call it what it was.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

He kept his hold on her. “You want it and I want it. How is that a mistake?”

“Trust me. It is.”

“We’re adults. Free souls in a free goddamned country.”

She licked her lips again and looked up at him. “It’s not that simple.”

For a moment, he searched her face with his remarkable eyes. “You have obligations. I can’t fault you for that,” he said softly. “But it’d be fun. Monica, it’d be a hell of a good time.” He lowered his lips to her ear. “I could see it in your eyes the moment you walked into the Silver Spur. I can feel it rising off you now.”

She closed her eyes again as his warm breath washed over her skin. “What?”

“You’re a woman in need of lovin’. I could help you with that. I’d love you up good.”

The man was a beast. Her eyes fluttered open. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Rumors are rumors.” He paused. “I’d take care of you, though. Then you’d see.”

“See what?”

“If the rumors are true.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she smiled in spite of the loopy way he made her feel.

“Tell you what,” he said, “you and me, we’re going to work together, that’s for sure. I want to help you with the rodeo.” When he stroked her cheek, his fingertips pressed lightly against her jaw. “But I want us to play together too. You’re not planning on staying and neither am I. So no strings attached. How’s that grab you? Can I spend some time convincing you?”

He’d read her mind aloud.

“Let me…let me think about it,” she said quietly.

He nodded.

They shared one last slow-simmering kiss before he let her go. Without a word, they walked back to her Prius. Monica’s legs were shaking as she drove them down the highway to MacKinnon Ranch. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

When she exited the highway, he caught her looking at him, but he didn’t say anything, just smirked behind his hand as he rubbed his beard.

Cocky bastard.

She drove through the open gates of MacKinnon Ranch and down to the small compound of buildings at the end of the driveway. No one was around.

Dean leaned forward, tipped his head and kissed her cheek. A quick peck, but still her body throbbed at the contact. She wanted more—more touching, more kissing, more secrets, more Dean.

She willed her voice not to tremble. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“What do you need?”

You. More of you.
“I need your help reviewing the contracts and streamlining the association’s list of action items.”

“‘Action items’, huh?” Another smirk. “All right. Tomorrow at eleven. The diner.”

He got out of the car, shut the door and went inside the big house without looking back.

* * * * *

Monica could barely keep their names straight.

First was Aphra, the knockout blonde who worked at the hair salon and came into the diner for a cup of coffee before dropping her toddler son off at daycare. Percy was the pretty, older hippie, a local masseuse and physical therapist who sold essential oils and crystals at the farmers’ market. Heather was the mayor’s trophy wife, a Kim Basinger lookalike from Massachusetts who had somehow ended up in a dusty California cow town. Then there was Demi, the stone-faced but beautiful widowed wife of a local farmer who now managed operations on her own. She came in with her friends Addison, a CPA who looked and dressed like a naughty librarian, and Andrea, the equine vet tech from Oklahoma, a willowy girl with long, dark braids.

Each one stopped at the booth where Monica and Dean worked, an endless parade of salivating women. And each one looked at Dean like he was today’s blue-plate special. He’d introduce each one to Monica, and then they’d start on their schtick.

First the windup.

“Long time no see,” they all said in their own way, smiling flirtatiously. “You’re looking good, Dean. Yeah, things are going well. You know, same old, same old.” Then they’d drop their voices. “How’s your dad doing? Oh, I’m so glad he’s better. Tell your mother I said hello. She’s such a strong woman.” They’d take a subtle step forward, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. “You know…”

And then the pitch.

“My sister’s in town this weekend and she’ll be watching Tyler. You and me should grab a cup of coffee.” Or, “Is your leg still bothering you? I could take a look at it again, if you wanted.” Or, “Harvey’s on another hunting trip this week. It gets
so
boring at home by myself!” Or, “I’ll be out on the lake with some girlfriends next Wednesday if you’re not busy. They’d love to meet you. They’re big bull riding fans.” Or, simply, “Call me. Let’s catch up.”

When the last woman walked out of the diner, Dean looked at Monica and raised his eyebrows. “What?”

She shook her head slowly. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

“They’re
my
thoughts. I don’t have to tell you anything.” She pursed her lips and met his gaze. His eyes were full of silent laughter. Curiosity got the better of her. “Did you really sleep with all those women?” she whispered. “Is that what that was all about?”

“Is that what you think?”

“Did you?”

“How do I say this without being rude?” He smiled and took a sip of coffee. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

She frowned at him.

The lunch crowd was in full swing by the time Monica and Dean finished up their paperwork. Dean ordered a burger and Monica ordered a chicken salad sandwich. While they waited for their food, Monica put all her papers and contracts away, turned off her tablet and tucked it into her tote bag. She thought again of all those women, all seeking him out for what would probably be another dynamite roll in the hay.

“Must be nice,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“Having your business out in the open like that without worrying about what other people think about you.”

“What business?” he asked. “All those women did was say hello.”

“Yes, but it was the
way
they said hello. I have a mind to ask the waitress for a mop and a wet floor sign to put next to the table.”

He laughed at that. “For the record, they came to me. I didn’t call them over.” As he studied her face, heat rose in her cheeks. She fought to keep her expression neutral. “You know,” he said, “not worrying about what other people think isn’t a God-given gift. It’s a conscious choice. You can make it too.”

Monica shook her head. “Actually, no, I can’t. Just sitting here with you, a white man, by myself—that’s already pushing boundaries. Even if it’s for work.” She leaned back and studied the room. Familiar faces, but all strangers. “Being back home makes me feel…I don’t know. Like too many people are watching me. I just want to hide.”

Their food came. Dean doused his fries with ketchup and offered some to her. She took a couple. Then she took a couple more.

“Sometimes I feel the same way,” he admitted, to her surprise. “I haven’t stayed in one place this long since…I can’t remember when.” He paused. “My father, he’s gone through this two times in the past. He’s got lots of fight in him yet, but he’s not as young as he used to be. And each relapse—it takes its toll.”

As he spoke, Monica regretted complaining about feeling stifled. A mother who spent her time on dating websites trying to find her daughter a husband was nothing compared to having a sick parent. Monica didn’t know if she had the strength or emotional maturity to cope with something like that.

Deflated by guilt, she asked in a softer voice, “So when it gets to be overwhelming, what do you do to relax?” When he waggled his eyebrows at her, she rolled her eyes and said, “I mean, besides
that
.”

“To blow off steam? I work on the ranch. There’s never a shortage of things to do. But to relax?” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Riding is always good. And my brothers and me, we lift weights, try to outdo each other.”

Monica had to admit that that particular hobby was paying out good dividends. “How many brothers have you got anyway?” Anywhere she went in Oleander, she seemed to run into a big, buff MacKinnon brother.

“Three,” said Dean. “I’m the oldest. Daniel’s number two. Clark—you met Clark—he’s number three. And last is Caleb. My baby brother. He’s twenty-two.”

“That’s a big age difference between you two.”

He shrugged. “We call him
Oops
behind his back. Among other things.”

She took a big bite of her sandwich. It was tasty. “So riding and lifting. Is that it?”

“Let’s see. Um, my sister-in-law’s got a huge library in the house. It’s great, ’cuz I like to read.”

“You?” she asked. “You like to read?”

“That surprise you?” He smiled. “We’re not all illiterate Okies, you know. We don’t spend all our time shootin’ rats at the dump.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

He hesitated. “Okay, maybe after we shoot rats at the dump, we pick up a book or two.”

She laughed and stole another fry from his plate.

“I got into the habit on the road,” Dean continued. “A book’s easy to carry. It’s cheap, and TV only turns my gears so far. I guess I needed more. Much more.” He paused and looked at her across the table. The seats of the booth were upholstered in robin’s-egg vinyl that set off the blue fire in his eyes. He’d hung his hat on the hat rack. His dark, disheveled hair and neatly trimmed dark beard only made his eyes look more feral. Monica had to look down at her half-eaten sandwich to keep from falling into his gaze as though it were a deep well or a high cliff next to the ocean.

Someone should post a sign on his forehead. “Danger. Falling women.”