Page 12 of Bringing Home A Cowboy
Fifteen minutes later, we’re wobbling our way onto the ice. He takes to it faster than I expect. James is fairly steady and controlled with his movements. Every now and then, he reaches out when I stumble. The first time, his hand lands on my waist. His large hand feels solid on me and a little too grounding. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just … well, this is a fake marriage. I wonder what he’s thinking though and glance up. He’s smiling ear to ear.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.” His smile is pure trouble. “Never thought I’d be doing this in a city where the snow smells like exhaust.”
I laugh, pushing him lightly. “Welcome to New York.”
“Reckon I’ll take your kind of welcome any day.”
We skate until our fingers go numb, then duck into a holiday market where every booth glitters with handmade ornaments and overpriced cocoa. He stops at one stall selling carved wood figures — tiny horses, trees, even a cowboy hat small enough to fit in his palm.
“Reminds me of home,” he says quietly.
The way he says it tugs at me. Because home, for me, has never been one fixed place. It’s always been something I’m chasing.
He catches me watching him. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” I smile quickly. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit,” he says, but the warmth in his eyes softens the words.
When we step back into the cold, the city lights blur against the falling snow. For a moment, I let my hand brush his. He doesn’t pull away—just curls his fingers around mine, easy and sure.
And even surrounded by a million people, I’ve never felt less alone.
“What do you usually do for Christmas?” I ask as we pass a bakery window glowing with gingerbread men.
“Big celebration in Cady Springs right up until Christmas Eve with special dinners and desserts. Everyone pretty much knows one another. It’s neighbors, kids and holiday cheer. You?”
“Emails, deadlines, takeout dinners.”
“Sounds tragic,” he says, dead serious.
“It is.”
“Then we’ll fix that.”
“James, I want you to do me a favor. I’d like you to attend my company’s holiday party with me. Would you?”
“Are spouses invited?” he asks, with a smirk.
“Mine is.” I tell him with a wink.
He tilts his head, smile tugging slow and sure. “Guess I’d better find a tie that matches your city shine.”
I laugh. “You own a tie?”
“One. Somewhere between the feed store and the glove box.”
The image makes me grin all the way back to my apartment. Perhaps the idea of showing him my world doesn’t terrify me. It feels right somehow. He’s getting to see where I do my dealings — what my life revolves around. Because even when he’s no longer my husband, he’ll be my ranch hand.
That’s the story I keep telling myself, anyway.
Chapter 8
James
The suit itches. I told Olivia that twice before we even left the apartment, but she said I looked good. Then she smiled in a way that shuts a man right up. Still, I show a little cowboy rebellion by ditching that tie and putting on the bolo I brought with me. To top it off, my hat. If there’s one thing I won’t do for any woman, not even one I’m married to, it’s change who and what I am.
