Love With a Perfect Cowboy Read online

  Her heart rate sped up. Calm down.

  “Several movies have been made in and around Cupid,” she said, talking faster. “Giant with Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean, No Country for Old Men, and There Will Be Blood to name a few. There are vineyards and mineral springs and the Marfa Lights. They’re mysterious, unexplained illuminations in the night. There are artists and cowboys and the McDonald Observatory, where you can view the darkest night skies in the entire United States.”

  “Wait a minute. Is this the same hometown you used to badmouth?” Teddy asked.

  “That was youthful ignorance. I didn’t realize what a gem of a place my hometown was until I looked at it from a New Yorker’s perspective. It’s a beautiful oasis, Teddy, nestled in the heart of the Chihuahuan Desert. It’s a throwback to a gentler time. It’s nostalgic and quaint. The kind of place you don’t fully appreciate until you’ve lost that gentle quaintness from your life.”

  Luke loped closer, a smirk on his face. Melody backed up. What was he doing? What did he want?

  “Okay, I’m intrigued,” Teddy admitted.

  Luke was just a few feet away from her now and her back was against the window; she felt the curtains brushing against her shoulders. Nowhere to go.

  What was he intending?

  “Spencer?” Teddy prodded. “You still there?”

  “Huh?” she whispered into the phone, unable to look away from Luke.

  “You sound distracted,” Teddy said. “Should we have this conversation later?”

  “Um, no, no.”

  Luke lowered his head to her ear. “See,” he murmured, “you really do love your hometown.”

  She shivered, closed her eyes, his scent invading her nose, her mind, her entire body. She wanted him. Oh yes! But she was not. Going. To. Go. There.

  “What do you have in mind for Quaker?” Teddy prodded.

  She opened one eye. Luke was still there. Still staring.

  Step off, she mouthed silently.

  He half shrugged, gave a lopsided grin, and sprawled onto the chaise longue a few feet away.

  There. She could finally breathe. “You’ve heard of the Terlingua Chili Cook-­off?”

  “Sure. It’s iconic. Chili cook-­off and a big music festival every November. So what?”

  “Terlingua’s not far from Cupid.”

  “And?”

  “Cornbread.”

  “That’s supposed to intrigue me?”

  “Quaker makes cornmeal.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a country boy. You grew up eating cornbread.”

  “I’ve gone low carb. So has half the country.”

  Crap. She was losing him. Quick. Think of something. But that was a little hard to do when her head was champagne-­woozy and her body was charged up from being around Luke.

  “Don’t you miss it?” she wheedled, her mind scrambling. “That sweet, crumbly yellow bread dipped into the juice of a bowl of black-­eyed peas?”

  “Sometimes,” Teddy admitted.

  “I remember my mother pulling a big pan of cornbread made from Quaker cornmeal out of the oven on a cold winter day and settling it on the kitchen table with a stick of creamy butter and bowls of hearty stew. My family would sit down to dinner together and we’d laugh and joke and tease and share our day with each other. Whenever I smell cornbread baking I think of my family. Their unconditional love and cornbread is forever knitted in my mind. Quaker cornmeal is the starch that binds families together. It’s the symbol of home and hearth. And nothing says family louder than Quaker cornmeal.”

  “Wow,” Teddy said. “Great pitch. Now I can’t wait to visit the place.”

  Gotcha.

  “Think about it. Pillsbury has cornered the market on yeast bread bake-­offs. It’s hard to compete in their arena, but cornbread is wide open. Imagine the Quaker Cornbread Bake-­off held in Cupid. It could become an annual festival just like Terlingua and chili,” she finished, amazing herself at what she’d been able to come up with in a crunch. “Then again,” she said, for good measure. “I could call Pillsbury instead.”

  “Are we talking just cornbread bake-­off?” he said. “Or will there be music like Terlingua?”

  “Oh, definitely a music festival as well,” she promised glibly.

  “How soon are we talking?” Teddy asked.

  “The sooner the better.” Her tongue was running away from her. She didn’t know what she was going to say next. “How about the Fourth of July?”

  “That’s a little soon, but maybe. Can you get the Food Network involved with celebrity judges? I know you’re tight with the execs over there.”

  “If Quaker commits. You betcha.” Adrenaline rushed; the high of closing a deal burned off the alcohol circulating through her system.

  Teddy laughed. “You betcha? Your Texas roots are showing.”

  “So are you in?”

  “I do owe you one. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll run it by management in the morning. You work on the Food Network judges and get a proposal to me.”

  “On it.”

  “Have a good night, Spencer.” Teddy hung up.

  She switched off the phone, and sank down on the end of the bed once more. From the chaise, Luke’s booted feet were thrust out and crossed at the ankle. He looked as rebellious as James Dean.

  “Your mother doesn’t cook,” he commented.

  “So? I was creating an image.”

  “In other words, lying your pretty little ass off.”

  “It’s not a lie. Not really. Cupid is about home and hearth and there are plenty of moms in town cooking cornbread.”

  “Just not yours.”

  “So what? It’s advertising. Everyone knows advertising embroiders the truth. Put your best foot forward.” This was what her boss had been trying to tell her. The picture you painted in the customers’ minds was more important than reality.

  He said nothing, but his eyelids lowered to half-­mast. Was he judging her? Thinking she had compromised her principles? If he only knew, she had not compromised them nearly enough.

  Feeling defensive, she sank her hands on her hips. “What?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re a force of nature.”

  “Like a hurricane?”

  “Something along those lines. Maybe a tornado. Either one, you blow me away. One minute we’re staggering into the room holding each other up after a significant amount of alcohol—­”

  “I wouldn’t say significant,” she protested, and then promptly hiccupped like Otis in Sheriff Taylor’s cell at Mayberry.

  “And the next minute,” he continued, “you’ve got a brilliant idea and you’re brokering a deal to prop up your hometown.”

  “Why are you so impressed? That’s the reason why you came to see me, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “But I had no idea you were so good at what you do. What in the hell is wrong with those ­people at Tribalgate?”

  “Don’t count your chickens,” she cautioned. “This thing with Quaker is not a done deal. Not by a long shot.”

  “But it’s a solid start.”

  “It’s a nibble. We’re a long way from setting the hook.”

  He yawned. Stretched. “I don’t know about you, but it’s way past my bedtime. I can hardly hold my head up. Which side of the bed do you want?”

  “You expect me to sleep here? I’m not sleeping here. We came here to talk and strategize about how to save Cupid. That’s it.”

  “Sorry. I assumed that since you didn’t have a place to stay and your shoe was busted that you were going to crash here tonight, save some money, and regroup in the morning, but suit yourself. Get your own room.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.” She picked up the phone and called the front desk, only to discover that there was a dentist convention in town and the Hilton was sold out of rooms.

  Fine. She’d just find another hotel and grab a taxi.

&nbs
p; And run around town in a broken shoe?

  Great. She’d left her sneakers, which she always carried with her whenever she wore heels, back in the box with her things from the office.

  “Look,” Luke said. “I promise to keep my hands to myself. Let’s just get some sleep.” He yawned again and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  Startled by a glimpse of his muscular bare chest, Melody rushed to the bathroom and shut the door. Her heart pounded in her ears and she sank back against the door.

  Okay, what now? She had no pajamas, no toothbrush or toothpaste, not even any makeup remover.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Unnerved, she jumped. “Yes?”

  “You might need these.”

  She opened up the door and peeked out. Luke was holding a bag of toiletries. Everything she needed, even cold cream.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Told you. I’m always prepared.”

  “With makeup remover?”

  “I bought the overnight kit at the airport. The cold cream came with it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and took the toiletries, because what else was there to say? She shut the door.

  He knocked again.

  She opened it again. “What?”

  He held out a burnt orange University of Texas T-­shirt in his hand. “You’ll need something to wear unless you sleep naked.”

  He’d actually said the word “naked.” She could hardly speak. “Nope, I’m a nightshirt kind of gal. Your T-­shirt will work just fine.”

  “I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.” There was a faint smile at his lips, or maybe it was her imagination.

  “If you have a pair of clean ladies’ panties in your pocket I’m going to have to go to the Cosmo Web site and nominate you as sleepover companion of the year.” Crap! Why had she mentioned panties?

  “No ladies’ panties,” he said, “but if you give me a minute, I’ll try to rustle some up. What size?”

  “I’m kidding. Joke. Ha-­ha.” She snatched the T-­shirt from his hand. Their knuckles brushed and her knees, well damn, they were just overcooked linguini. She slammed the door closed. Great. Now he was going to think he’d gotten to her.

  Um, he did get to you.

  She took an extra-­long time in the bathroom. Showered. Shaved her legs. Flossed. Brushed. Took off her makeup.

  Ulp.

  Now he would see her barefaced in the morning because the only makeup she had in her purse was a tube of lip gloss.

  Note to self. Always carry full makeup. You never know when you’re going to have an unplanned sleepover.

  She went back into the bedroom. All the lights were off except for the nightlight on the far side of the bed.

  Luke’s side.

  He lay on his back against the pillow, cradling his head in his upturned, interlaced palms.

  She hesitated, unable to make herself cross the room. This was more than she bargained for.

  “You look all of fifteen years old.”

  Melody ran a hand through her hair. “I’m a long way from fifteen. There’s a lot of water under that bridge.”

  “You’re more beautiful than ever.” His voice was strangely husky. “Now come to bed.”

  “A Capulet in bed with a Montague,” she quipped nervously. “It would be a scandal in Cupid.”

  “Good thing we’re not in Cupid.” He patted the spot beside him. “Besides, it’s not the first time a Montague slept with a Capulet.”

  “Ah, but if you recall, things ended badly for Romeo and Juliet.”

  “We’re just going to sleep, Melody. That’s all.”

  The words were so innocent, his voice soft and gentle, but as she climbed into bed with him, she couldn’t help feeling there was nothing innocent about this.

  Nothing innocent at all.

  Chapter 6

  MELODY slid between the covers, her lithe body barely making a ripple against the soft cotton sheet. Instantly, the temperature in the bed shot up ten degrees.

  Luke swallowed hard. Twice. He was acutely aware of every gorgeous inch of her.

  Why did it have to be a queen-­sized bed? Why couldn’t it have been a king where he could have scooted far enough away from her so they wouldn’t run the risk of touching accidentally during the night?

  She turned over on her side.

  Facing him.

  He stared up at the ceiling, heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He was so turned on that he couldn’t think straight. Hell, face facts. He was downright out of his mind for getting into bed with her in the first place. What sane man would do such a thing knowing he had to keep his hands to himself?

  Sleep.

  He needed to just close his eyes and sleep. He’d been yawning his head off ten minutes ago. Why was he now wide-­awake?

  Because he was in bed with the enemy, that was why.

  Except in spite of their family history, he felt absolutely no animosity toward her. In fact, what he felt was the polar opposite of animosity. Goodwill. Benevolence. Concern. That’s what he was feeling.

  And, oh yeah, horny as all get-­out.

  The covers were making a tent. Or rather, his dick was making a tent of the covers. He rolled away, putting his back to her just in case she happened to look over and see Mr. Happy puffing out all proud of himself.

  A few minutes ticked by. His dick did not deflate. In fact, if anything, he was harder than ever.

  She sighed.

  Luke held his breath.

  She flopped over, punched her pillow, and finally stilled.

  Air leaked from his lungs. Slowly, his muscles relaxed and he took a long, deep breath.

  Inhaled her scent.

  Gone was the exotic perfume. In its place she smelled fresh, clean, honest. Soap. Damp skin. Familiar.

  Normally, he slept buck-­naked. In concession to the situation, he’d worn his boxer briefs to bed. She was in his T-­shirt, and from the conversation they’d had earlier, probably wasn’t wearing panties.

  He bit down on his cheek to suppress the groan that rolled up from his throat. Shit, how hard could a man get and not explode?

  “Is something wrong?” she whispered.

  That was a loaded question. “I’m dumb as a fence post.”

  “I hear you. We should never have gotten into bed together. Or even gone out to dinner, for that matter.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t go that far. To tell you the truth I had a really good time tonight. Best I’ve had in a long while.”

  “Me too.”

  “It was good seeing you again.” Lame, Nielson. So lame. Sounds like you’re shaking her hand after a church social.

  “Isn’t it weird after getting fired and dumped, I still enjoyed myself this evening?”

  “You did, huh?”

  “Yes and it was all because of you.”

  Luke grinned. “Did you mean what you said to that friend of yours on the phone or was it just an advertising pitch?”

  “Which part?”

  “The part about Cupid being a gem.”

  “It is a unique place.”

  “Do you ever see yourself moving back home permanently?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Silence was the answer. ’Nuff said. Big old no. But then he heard the soft sound of slow steady breathing. Had she fallen asleep? Probably so. He should try and do the same. He cleared his dry throat, closed his eyes, coughed.

  From underneath the covers, he felt a hand on his shoulder blade and he almost jumped out of his skin.

  “Cotton mouth?” she whispered. “Me too. I could drink a gallon of water.”

  Should he answer or pretend he was sound asleep?

  “I’ll get it,” he offered, but then realized he’d have to stand up with a hard-­on and she could plainly see what he was so desperate to hide.

  “Thank you.” Another touch of her hand, this time on his forearm.

  He was sweating. “Ice. I’ll go for ice.”
>
  Getting ice gave him an excuse to cool down and if he were smart, he’d put a dozen ice cubes in his shorts for good measure. He flung off the covers and stretched long to reach for the jeans that he’d left draped over his suitcase.

  “It doesn’t have to be ice water,” she said. “No need for you to go running around the hotel in the middle of the night.”

  “No problem.”

  He stuck his feet into his jeans, yanked them up fast, making sure to keep his back to her as he wrangled with pulling up the zipper over his erection. Not bothering with socks, he jammed his feet into his boots and slipped on his shirt. Desperate to put some distance between them, he blew off buttoning up, grabbed the key card and the ice bucket from the top of the dresser, and got the hell out of there.

  MELODY WISHED SHE could twitch her nose and fall magically asleep and avoid this awkwardness. Then again, if she were going for Bewitched talents, why not twitch her nose and transport Luke all the way back to Cupid? Problem solved.

  Maybe she should just pretend to be asleep when he got back. But that was childish and he’d gallantly gone after ice for her because she was thirsty.

  Of course she could leave, but it was even later than it had been before and the heel of her shoe was still broken and her head had gone from fuzzy to achy, and although for the most part, the alcohol had worn off, inertia held her tethered to the mattress.

  The door opened and Luke returned, backlit by the corridor lights. A recalcitrant cowlick stuck up from the back of his head and he held the ice bucket clutched to his bare chest framed by his unbuttoned shirt. The door snapped closed behind him, shuttering the room in darkness once again, except for the nightlight plugged into the socket on his side of the bed.

  She heard more than saw him set the ice bucket on the dresser, scoop ice into glasses, and fill them with tap water from the bathroom sink. He brought her a glass, and held one for himself. She sat up, watching him in the dim light while he drank, head back, Adam’s apple moving up and down.

  How silly was it that she was turned on by the way he swallowed?

  The water was cold against her feverishly hot lips.

  He toed off his boots, positioned them at the foot of the bed, shrugged out of his shirt, and reached for the snap of his jeans. He looked so masculine, so utterly male. This situation was far too intimate. She was inviting trouble. She knew it. She didn’t care.