Page 14 of Bringing Home A Cowboy
“James,” she whispers, “this was supposed to be pretend.”
“Maybe it still is,” I say softly. “Or maybe we just forgot how to fake it.”
Her smile trembles, caught somewhere between fear and something far deeper. “You always this sure of yourself?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, brushing a thumb over her jaw. “Just this sure about you. Even if I’m the only fool at this party wearing a bolo tie and a cowboy hat.”
I hold her tight and close to me as the wind picks up on the balcony. Olivia feels like something I lost, but didn't realize until now that I needed. Lights shimmer from the New York skyline, but in my heart I want her back in Colorado with me standing under a million stars.
Chapter 9
Olivia
Iwake up smiling and immediately realize that’s new for me. Below, the usual city noises I’m so used to rise between the buildings. The dress from last night hangs over a chair, sequins catching stray sunlight like proof that none of it was a dream. We kissed. We really kissed.
And the worst part? I liked it.
I roll onto my side, half expecting to hear him moving around the kitchen. James is probably dressed and put together. Meanwhile, I’m tangled in sheets and thoughts I shouldn’t be having about how warm and safe he felt when he held me.
I wonder about the comfort of the couch for a big tall cowboy like James. He slept out there because he’s that kind of man. He didn’t make any other advances last night. Not because he didn’t want to … I saw the way he looked at me. I felt the wayhe held me on that balcony. No, he didn’t because he wanted to too much. And maybe I did too. That’s the problem.
A soft knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts.
“You awake?”
“I am,” I call back, voice muffled by the blanket.
“Coffee’s delivered” he says. “Figured you could use it.”
“You read minds now?”
“Just yours.”
The words land warm and dangerous, curling under my skin. I pull myself up, knotting my robe tight before opening the door. He’s standing there holding two cups from the café across the street, hat in hand with that lazy grin of his. The morning light hits his shoulders just right, picking up the rough lines of his jaw and the edge of that black suede jacket.
“Morning,” he says, offering one.
“You braved the city this early?”
“Almost died three times crossing traffic. But the lady at the corner bakery said these would fix any regrets I might have.”
“She was right.” I take a sip. “You’ve already found your way to caffeine diplomacy.”
“Guess I’m adaptable,” he says.
He looks out the window, the skyline catching in his eyes. The contrast almost hurts. He’s a man built for wide horizons standing against a cage of glass and concrete. His reflection in the window looks out of place, like the city’s trying to borrow a little of his wild.
“Never seen anything like this. Pretty, but noisy.”
“That’s New York.”
“Doesn’t sound like it sleeps much.”
“It doesn’t,” I admit, setting my cup down. “That’s why people here drink too much coffee.”
He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, about last night …”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “It was heat of the moment.”
