- -
- 100%
- +
Seriously? Forget Miranda Lambert’s ballsy Gunpowder and Lead—the Barbie theme song. Her sisters really had gone off the deep end.
All the more reason to cut and run.
Now.
She bypassed the buffet and headed through a nearby tent that had been set up to house the food. After a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, she darted into the tent, and nearly collided with a waiter carrying a tray of crab cakes.
She paused to snag a sample before murmuring “Sorry,” and turned to make her way through the massive square-shaped kitchen. Burners and stoves lined the outer perimeter. The inner area was a maze of preparation tables. People clustered here and there, busily arranging everything from trays of speared shrimp to platters of cold vegetables and gourmet cheeses. There wasn’t a hot wing or a fried pickle in sight—none of the usual fare that her mother offered up at the honky-tonk. Even more proof that Raylene was, at this moment, going into shock from the one-eighty her world had taken.
Her mother wasn’t much for gourmet cuisine, which was why Nikki had been lying about taking a pole-dancing class in Austin three times a week. In reality, she made the hour-long drive to attend an advanced gourmet-entrée class to work on her very own twist to the traditional beef Wellington that was sure to win its way onto the menu in one of Houston’s finest.
Fat chance now.
Her life was ruined. Her dream over. Her future tanked.
She fought down a wave of tears and bypassed a woman in a white chef’s hat who fed slices of cake onto individual crystal plates. The sweet, sugary aroma teased her nostrils, promising a temporary distraction.
Forget that. She needed alcohol.
She snagged an open bottle of wine from a nearby tray and took a long swig. Her sisters had gone all out. Forget a box of Pinot Grigio from the local Piggly Wiggly. She was drinking an aged White Zinfandel that slid down her throat with a smooth sweetness that eased the panic for a few seconds and slowed her pounding heart.
Another long drink and she left the service tent behind and headed for the barn that sat several yards away.
A little distance and a lot of wine and maybe, just maybe, she could figure out some way to deal with the disaster that was fast becoming her life.
She could spike her mother’s favorite moonshine three times a week with a couple of Ambien. That, along with the one-hundred-and-eighty proof, would surely be enough to knock her mother out so she could finish the class, ace the exam and get her degree.
And, more than likely, cause some serious brain damage to the one woman who’d endured twenty hours and thirty-three minutes of labor on her behalf.
Of course, the moonshine wasn’t any more an option than the Ambien. She didn’t have a prescription, nor did she have any of Big Earl Jessup’s famous White Lightning. The old man could barely remember his name, much less his prized recipe.
Another all-important fact which had Raylene acting even more desperate. She had over twenty different drinks on her bar menu that featured Big Earl’s classic moonshine. A secret weapon that upped her take at least twenty percent on any given Saturday night and gave her an edge over the bigger, flashier bars popping up along the main interstate. Raylene’s place had long since been a draw not only to the locals, but to the endless string of tourists that passed through Lost Gun. And all because of her Texas Lightning Margarita.
Sure, she told everyone, particularly Sheriff Hooker, that she used an aged tequila, but the folks in Lost Gun knew the taste of old Earl’s premium-grade liquor well enough to know better. And they talked. And that talk lured the tourists. And the tourists kept Raylene in black leather bustiers and salted peanuts. And Raylene’s business was the only thing that kept her too busy to focus on Nikki’s personal life.
Was being the key word.
The smell of hay and leather surrounded her as she fled deep into the massive barn that sat at the far edge of the property, bottle in hand, panic fluttering in her chest.
She took another long, much-needed drink and tried to think of something good. Something calm. Something monotonous. Like chopping Vidalia onions or whipping fresh, scented cream or kneading a blue-cheese brioche—
The thought stalled as she heard the clink of silverware against a plate.
Her gaze went to the ladder that led to the overhead rafters. Another clink and she knew she wasn’t alone in her misery.
Somebody was up there.
Kicking off the hated satin shoes, she mounted the ladder and made her way up to the second floor. Wood groaned as she reached the last step and topped the landing. Her gaze went to the far end where the monstrous shutters had been pushed open and moonlight spilled through the large square. Framed in the opening was a man perched atop a hay bale.
The man.
The object of way too many fantasies over the years.
But then she was only human, and Cole Chisholm was a one-hundred-percent, certified beefcake.
A small lantern hung nearby, casting a pale yellow glow that fell across his face as she neared where he sat.
He held a plate of half-eaten white cake in one hand and fork in the other. A black tuxedo jacket accented his broad shoulders. His crisp white shirt hugged the strong column of his throat and provided a stark contrast against his deeply tanned skin. Light brown hair streaked with gold hung past his collar and framed his strong face.
Hay crunched beneath her feet. He lifted his head and swiveled toward her.
Familiar violet eyes collided with hers and his expression went from irritation to pure delight in one fast, furious heartbeat, as if he were covering up his initial dismay. His full lips curved into a grin. A dimple cut into his shadowed cheek. His gaze glittered in the dim barn light.
A wave of heat went through her. Her breath caught and her tummy hollowed out, and for a split second, she forgot that Cole Chisholm wasn’t her type.
With the wine numbing her senses and her mother a safe distance away, the only thing she could think was that he was the most scrumptious thing she’d seen all day.
And boy, oh, boy, would she like to take a bite.
But then he opened his mouth, his deep Southern drawl sweet and dripping with charm, and the moment faded as she remembered why she’d opted for culinary school in lieu of burning the midnight oil at the honky-tonk.
Because it kept her far, far away from men like Cole Chisholm. The sexy, charming, let’s-get-naked-in-the-backseat types that oozed sex appeal and sweet compliments. The ones who were here today, gone tomorrow. The exact type her mother specialized in.
His sensual lips hinted at the most heart-stopping grin. “I knew it was just a matter of time before some pretty young thing followed me up here.” He patted the seat next to him. “Plant one right here, sugar. I’m all yours.”
2
COLE UNGER CHISHOLM wasn’t the kind of man to let a little misfortune ruin his entire day.
Hell, no. He was an optimist. A the-beer-bottle-is-half-full kind of guy. He just dodged the bullets of bad luck that fate aimed at him and kept moving.
The ordinary .22 kind. One shot. One hit.
But damned if it didn’t seem as if he was dodging a spray of buckshot tonight.
Sure, they’d found the last of the money out at Big Earl’s, but it would be another week and a half before they could actually turn it over to the sheriff. It seemed the man had been called out of town on a statewide manhunt that had started in Beaumont and was currently making its way toward Brownsville. All available law enforcement within a hundred-mile radius had been summoned to the scene. Since the most action Sheriff Hooker usually saw was the occasional Friday night drunk, he’d been more than ready to pack up his car and head for the real action, leaving his deputies in charge. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Needless to say, Jesse had decided to wait until the sheriff returned to hand over the bank-heist money. Which meant Cole would not be rolling out of town tonight.
Even worse, he was stuck at the wedding for the next several hours until Jimmy and Jake tossed the garter and headed for the airport. Three more freakin’ hours. Why, Millie Van Horten had already cornered him twice to ask him to dance. Shae Rigby had brought him not one, but two slices of cake. And Jamie Lee Milburn had offered to give him a back rub.
And the really bad part was that he’d been this close to taking her up on her offer. His shoulders hurt like a sonofabitch after all that digging and a few magic fingers might actually make things bearable.
Thankfully, he’d come to his senses and told her he’d already promised his own back rub to Mary Lou Canter and Sharon Jenkins. And Christie Somerville. The idea? To show her what a disreputable guy he was and discourage her.
Like hell.
The more he played the wild and wicked player, the more determined each woman became to be the one to rope him in. It made sense. He was smack-dab in the middle of a wedding, for heaven’s sake. Every man in his right mind knew that women got a little crazy at weddings.
They saw the cake and bam, they wanted to be right there, cutting into the decadent layers, feeding it to the man of their dreams—that is, the nearest available bachelor.
Since his two brothers and every other member of the notorious Lost Boys were now officially spoken for, Cole was the only one still on the market.
The biggest catch this side of the Rio Grande or so the local About Town reporter had just scribbled on her pad during an interview a few minutes ago. No doubt tomorrow’s headline in the local Sunday paper. As if things weren’t bad enough already. Once tomorrow hit, he would be even more sought after than a hot, fresh-from-the-oven biscuit at a no-carbs convention. Every woman in town would be trying to drag him to the weekly church picnic.
While he liked a good barbecue as much as the next guy, he had no intention of showing up with any woman. That would be like hanging a sign on his back. Ready, willing and marriageable. He was none of the above, especially with less than four weeks until the national saddle-bronc championship. He was this close to winning another title—the title that would put him in the record books and solidify a spot in the saddle-bronc Hall of Fame—and he didn’t need any distractions. Even more, he wasn’t the marrying kind any more than his no-good, no-account father had been. The difference was, Cole had no problem admitting it.
Not that anyone seemed to believe it.
Despite the fact that he’d spent the past hour doing his damnedest to beef up his bad boy image and kiss goodbye his husband potential. He’d sucked down a few shots and danced it up with as many women as possible. But then his calves had started aching and his stomach had grumbled, and so he was here.
And so was she.
Nikki Barbie wasn’t wearing her usual black leather miniskirt or tight T-shirt, but she still looked every bit as sexy. She had long blond hair, bright blue eyes and a curvaceous body that did the Barbie name justice. Dark eye makeup emphasized her blue eyes and gave her that “come and do me” look. Pale pink lipstick plumped her already full lips. Everything about her screamed sex, which suited him to a T.
When he had his game face on, that is.
But he wasn’t beefing up his image at the moment. He was hiding from it.
Cole pasted on his most charming grin and hid the cake plate behind his back.
“Hey there, sugar.” He summoned his best panty-dropping drawl. “Nice dress.” He winked and went the extra mile to lay it on thick. “Or it would be if there was a lot less of it.”
“In your dreams.”
He grinned. “Every night.”
* * *
If only.
The thought struck Nikki just as Cole smiled again, and heat spiraled through her.
A crazy reaction considering Nikki was an ice queen when it came to men like Cole Chisholm. He dropped lines faster than a cow dropped patties. She knew it because she dropped a few of her own when she was out in public. Just to keep her image in check and her mother at arm’s length.
But it was useless flirtation that didn’t really mean anything, and no way should she actually be blushing because of it.
Because of him.
“Are you eating cake?” Nikki noticed the speck of frosting at the corner of his mouth.
He looked as if he wanted to deny it, but instead he finally shrugged. His right arm came around, revealing a crystal plate and a half-eaten piece of fluffy white cake. “Nothing wrong with a man enjoying a good dessert.”
Her gaze shifted to what looked like a large glass of chocolate milk sitting on the hay bale next to him. She arched an eyebrow. “A Back Burner? A Brown Cow? A Russian Six Shot?” She ticked off a few alcoholic drink possibilities because this was Cole Chisholm, of all people.
Wild.
Wicked.
Reckless.
He grinned. “You know it.”
“Which one?”
“The first one.”
Something about the way he said the words roused her suspicion. She stepped toward him, grabbed the glass before he could snatch it out of her reach and lifted it to her lips. “You’re drinking plain old chocolate milk,” she said after a quick whiff.
“Says you. I’ve got a ton of Everclear in there, sugar. That’s why you can’t smell it.”
“No, you don’t.” Understanding dawned. “You’re hiding in here so that no one will see you drinking chocolate milk and eating plain old wedding cake.”
“Darlin’, there’s nothing plain or old about this cake.”
“It’s vanilla. No filling. Plain.”
“And just what would you have done differently?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a chocolate ganache with a raspberry-liquor filling. A little crème fraîche on the side.”
“You’re a food snob.”
“I am not.” She averted her gaze. “I like a plain old piece of cake as much as the next person. I’m just not hungry right now.” Her gaze met his again. “Stop trying to change the subject.”
“Which is?”
“You’re hiding.”
“Says you.” He glanced past her. “No one saw you come out here, did they?”
“You are hiding.”
“It’s called self-preservation. There’s something going around out there and I don’t intend to catch it.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Strep? Flu? Meningitis?”
“Mary Lou Harwell.” He shook his head. “She won’t leave me alone.”
“She’s young and nice and pretty. Trust me, you could have worse problems.”
“She wants me to father her children.”
She shrugged. “No one’s perfect.”
He grinned and her stomach hollowed out again. “So what’s the big deal with the cake and the milk? I could see if you were eating bean sprouts or quiche or something equally unmanly, but it’s just cake.”
“It’s cake and whole chocolate milk. As in wholesome.” His mouth drew into a thin line and he shook his head, as if he’d already said more than he wanted to.
“And Cole Chisholm can’t be wholesome?” she heard herself ask. As if she didn’t already know the answer. She’d spent more than one night with a beer bottle full of ginger ale back at the honky-tonk.
Cole didn’t seem as if he wanted to talk, but then he finally shrugged. “I’ve got an image to think of.” He walked back over to the hay bale and retrieved his plate.
“So chase the cake with a few whiskey shots and you’re good to go.”
He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “A man can’t eat cake with whiskey. Do you know how awful that would taste?”
“Apparently you’ve never had a good whiskey sauce poured over buttered pound cake.” Did she just say that out loud? “Not that I’ve ever tried anything like that. I’m more of a Twinkie girl.” Her hands tightened around the wine bottle and she barely resisted the urge to take another swig. But she’d already destroyed enough brain cells. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be spouting nonsense about whiskey sauce and crème fraîche, or any other dead giveaway that she was more than just a bar cook at the local honky-tonk. No, if she’d been thinking clearly, she would have kept her mouth shut. Even more, she would have turned on her heel and on Cole without so much as a backward glance.
At the moment, however, she couldn’t not look at him as he forked some cake and took a bite. The speck of sweet, decadent frosting still sat at the corner of his mouth as he chewed.
Nikki had the sudden urge to cross the few feet between them and taste the sweet icing. Her mouth watered and she tightened her fingers against the fierce hunger.
This is totally whacked. He’s not your type, remember? Even more, she had a refined palate. She’d sworn off any and all nongourmet when she’d registered for her first culinary class two years ago. She didn’t do cake. And she certainly didn’t do men like Cole Chisholm.
Unfortunately, her hormones had a very short memory and they couldn’t seem to get past the warmth in his smile and the twinkle in his violet eyes and the fact that she’d been totally celibate for much too long—since her one and only one-night stand with Mitch Schaeffer. The one-night stand that had simply confirmed what she’d already known in her heart. He’d been her first and her last.
Because Nikki wanted more than a few hours of hot, breath-stealing sex. She wanted a real boyfriend. A man to bring her flowers and make her breakfast and make her feel like more than just a sex object.
Not right now, of course. The last thing she needed was to tie herself down.
She had a future waiting for her, one well beyond the city limits of her desperately small town.
But someday...
Someday she would meet a good man, a faithful, honest and true sort who didn’t spend his Friday nights lighting it up at the local honky-tonk. She saw too many of those every weekend and it didn’t bode well for a healthy, monogamous relationship. No, when she settled down, it would be with a solid, dependable, tame man.
Cole Chisholm, with his womanizing reputation and his “here today, gone tomorrow” mentality, did not make the grade. Even if he did like whole chocolate milk.
Still, wrong or not, Cole Chisholm did smell terribly nice. Her nostrils flared and the butterflies in her stomach did a few somersaults.
She drew a deep breath and tried to ignore the crazy tilt to the floor. “I think I need to sit down.”
Cole grinned and patted the seat next to him. “Take a load off.”
She hesitated. “I’m not having sex with you.”
“See?” He held up the glass of milk. “I told you this stuff kills the old image.”
“I’m not having sex with you because I’ve had way too much sex tonight and I’m really tired.”
“Is that so?”
She shrugged. “A girl has to have some down time. Not that I don’t want to have sex with you. I totally would if my feet weren’t hurting so bad.” She wasn’t sure why she kept rambling except that with the music playing in the distance and his close proximity there seemed something oddly surreal about the moment. “I’d be all over you.”
“Ditto,” he murmured, downing a huge swallow of milk. He took a bite of cake and his eyes closed as if savoring the medley of flavors.
“It’s got real vanilla bean,” she blurted.
His eyes opened and collided with hers. “What?”
“The cake. That faint hint of flavor is vanilla bean. It’s April and Crystal’s favorite. They commissioned a baker in Austin to do it.” Even though Nikki could have totally nailed it herself. Her flavors had all been there, but she’d been nervous about her decorating skills. We’re talking a wedding cake, for heaven’s sake. That, and the last thing she needed was to tell the world that she’d been cooking up more in the honky-tonk’s kitchen than crispy fried pickles. “I’m working on my culinary degree,” she heard herself add when he kept staring at her.
What was she doing?
She wasn’t supposed to be blurting out her life story. She had an image to protect. A facade to perpetuate. She had to keep her game face on.
In front of a man drinking whole chocolate milk?
The truth registered and while she knew he was all about lovin’ and leavin’, he wasn’t going anywhere at the moment. No, he was looking at her as if he wanted to hear what she had to say. As if he wasn’t half as surprised as he was interested.
“I didn’t know you were going to culinary school.”
“No one does.” When he arched an eyebrow, she added, “My mother would freak. She thinks women have fought too hard to get out of the kitchen. She hates to cook. She watched my grandmother cook and clean herself into an early grave and she swore she wouldn’t make the same mistake. Cooking is right up there with being barefoot and pregnant.” A big no-no in Raylene’s book. Which was why Nikki and her sisters had grown up eating fast food.
Her mother would never understand her career choice any more than she would accept the fact that Nikki was breaking Barbie tradition and leaving home after finals.
Especially now that her sisters were married and Nikki was the only one left.
The enormity of the situation pressed down on her and she slumped on the hay bale next to Cole Chisholm. “What the hell am I going to do?” She swallowed against the huge lump rising in her throat. “I’ve got finals in two weeks. I need to concentrate. To focus. I can’t focus with my mother all over me, which means I need to figure out a way to get her off my back. And all because my sisters tied the knot.”
“I hear ya. I’m ready to pack up and leave today, but I can’t. I’ve got business here in town with my brothers and I’m stuck for at least a week. Meanwhile there are at least two dozen women hot on my heels.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Only two dozen, huh?”
He grinned. “Give or take a few.”
Nikki wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the warmth of Cole’s hard body that sparked the next thought. Maybe a little of both. Regardless, an idea rooted and she found herself smiling.
“I should get married,” she told him. “My mother’s given up on Crystal and April because they did. If I jumped ship, too, and married some man that she totally disapproves of—which is basically every man—then she wouldn’t have any reason to hold out hope.” Nikki’s gaze shifted to Cole with his wicked good looks and his charming smile and his empty glass of chocolate milk. “I’ve got an idea that might save us both.”
3
“I DO,” NIKKI SAID a half hour later as she stood in the far corner of the monstrous wedding tent and faced Cole.
Crystal and April had already left with their grooms in a flurry of bubbles to catch a plane to Hawaii for their honeymoons, and so Nikki had lucked out. She wouldn’t have to explain anything to her sisters tonight.
Likewise, Cole’s brothers had already left with their fiancées. Only a handful of guests remained and a few reporters. They stood on the sidelines, snapping pictures of the spontaneous wedding between Lost Gun’s hottest bachelor and the town’s most notorious bad girl.
Now Cole was officially off the market, which meant every single female in town would stop gunning for him. Likewise, Raylene Barbie would be so horrified that her youngest daughter had done the unthinkable, that she would stop sending texts and badgering her about the family business.
Nikki could have some peace to focus on finishing her degree and Cole could spend the next week or so in town without having a horde of women breathing down his neck and bringing him potluck. It was extreme, but it would actually work.
After Nikki’s proposition and Cole’s acceptance, they’d ironed out the details of their “marriage.”
An arrangement in name only since they didn’t actually have a license, nor did they intend to get one.
Not that anyone else knew that.
No, in the eyes of everyone in Lost Gun, their marriage would be legal and binding.
For the next few weeks, that is.
Until Cole aced the championship in Vegas and secured himself a place in the history books and Nikki took her final exams. Then they would go their separate ways and leak the word that they’d split. Nikki would head to Houston for her internship and Cole would bask in the glow of his sixth championship buckle.