Page 11 of Her Jolly Cowboy
I bend to retrieve my clipboard, cheeks burning so hot I could melt the snow outside. My hands are shaking. I can still taste him.
I’m a professional. I have planned weddings for senators and rock stars. I once saved a ceremony in the middle of a hurricane with duct tape.
The rest of the afternoon is torture. Every time I turn around, someone is grinning at me. Grandma Martha winks every time I walk past. One of the ranch hands asks if the mistletoe comes with an encore. Frankie keeps humming “Kiss the Girl” under her breath.
Luke, the bastard, acts like nothing happened. He hauls boxes, hangs garland, and every time our eyes meet, he gives me this slow, secret smile that makes my stomach flip.
By dusk, I’m a jittery mess. I hide in the tack room pretending to count chairs, trying to get my head straight.
Sleeping with Luke was a mistake. A glorious, toe-curling, multiple-orgasm mistake, but still a mistake. I don’t do this. I don’t do snowed-in flings with flannel-wearing cowboys who call me Boss Lady and kiss me like they’re staking a claim.
I have a life in Denver. A business, a reputation, and a five-year plan that definitely does not include falling for a man who thinks schedules are cute.
I’m spiraling so hard I don’t hear the door open.
“Hey.” Luke’s voice, low and careful, whispers into the quiet room.
I spin around. He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, snowflakes melting in his hair.
I cross my arms like armor. “What do you want?”
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The tack room suddenly feels tiny.
“Making sure you’re okay,” he says. “You’ve been hiding for an hour.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re freaking out.” I open my mouth to deny it. Close it.
He takes another step. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, chin high. “It was mistletoe. Tradition. Meaningless.”
His eyes narrow. “Meaningless.”
“Exactly.”
He moves closer, slow, deliberate. “So the last two days, every time I had you screaming my name, that was meaningless too?”
Heat floods my face. “That was stress relief.”
“Stress relief,” he repeats, voice dangerously soft.
“Yes.”
He stops a foot away. “Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing.”
I try. God, I try. The words stick in my throat.
He waits.
I break first. “I can’t do this, Luke.”
“Do what?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is. I don’t—I don’t know how to be this person.”
“What person?”
