Nico didn’t deliberately set out to push herself out of her comfort zone tonight by entering a saloon—it was actually called that, Grey’s Saloon, the oldest building in town. The saloon—who even knew those still existed—had been operating as a saloon since before Montana was a state and before the railroad. It had always been run ruthlessly and effectively by a Grey family member.
She had been curious after distracting herself this afternoon with an indulgent shopping trip at a western wear store where the manager, Joanie, chatted about the rodeo, town history, sights, and local restaurants, as she brought Nico pair after pair of R.E.A.L Ariat jeans in slightly different washes and styles to try on.
She bought four pairs of jeans, the price of which combined didn’t come close to what she usually spent on one pair of skinny jeans. One pair by Cowgirl Tuff, which was the screamingly opposite of what she was, had embroidery on the back pockets and around the cuffs of the jeans. Nico had never considered buying jeans with a boot cut. She preferred boots—when she wore them—that went over her knee with leggings or skinny jeans tucked in or thigh-high boots that brushed the hem of a flirty dress or short tweed or wool business-cut skirt.
But now she had three pairs of cowboy—or was it cowgirl?—boots. She felt purchasing a western-style hat would be too pretentious. She’d only just arrived in Marietta. She’d also politely passed on the jeans that had what Joanie called bling on the back pockets, although Joanie had murmured that she “had a lovely figure for that style.” She must mean her yoga butt. Or bubble butt. Her ass had received many comments over the years—derogatory from her mother, snarky from “girl friends,” and overtly sexual from men—many who had been her father’s age. Yuck.
Nico was tall and slim but no matter how much she hit the gym, how often she had a trainer in her face barking out orders, drank protein shakes and limited her calories, her butt was still rounded as if in defiance to the rest of her.
She’d always had a more athletic slimness that had suited her years excelling at volleyball, lacrosse, and crew, but her mother had despaired that she’d never fit into the designer size zero or two of “their set.”
But the jeans she bought—midrise, slight stretch, narrow in the leg with a flared boot cut—had hugged her butt and made it seem more in proportion to the rest of her. And the shopping experience was stress free—no fawning, no snark, no gossip, no ingratiating, no judgment or intrusive personal questions, and no champagne. It was refreshing. Nico browsed without being followed and continually upsold until she couldn’t think.
Instead, Joanie was cheerful and helpful, finding sizes and making a few suggestions about things to do and see in town.
Nico had never been this far west in her life. Her pleasure travel had involved Europe and Asia and sandy beaches. As Joanie rang up her purchases, Nico impulsively added a denim jacket and a few tank tops and snap-front western shirts. She was proud that the jacket was the only thing black in her two bags of clothes, when black and gray featured prominently in her closet back home.
She learned Joanie’s family owned the grocery store in town, and as she listened, she spied several vibrantly colorful wrap-style sweaters in a box. They looked shapeless, but the colors were eye-popping. No black. Nico stared in wonder.
“That would be a departure,” she murmured at the collection of colors she barely knew the names of—magenta, teal, fuchsia, turquoise, fire-engine red, which would clash horribly with her hair now. Red was a power color. She never wore it in the courtroom nor when negotiating in the boardroom. She didn’t need to signal aggression. She operated more like a shark. No one saw her coming until she made her move and pulled them under.
“I’m trying these out,” Joanie said, enthusiastically plucking up a greenish-yellow sweater. “There’s a local alpaca farm that has expanded over the years, and the owner teaches weaving classes. One of her students made these wrap sweaters for the holidays. They’re a little steep for our store, but still we get a lot of tourists for the rodeo and the holidays. I still haven’t figured out how to display them, but they drape beautifully so maybe a mannequin. What do you think?”
She thought she’d been blinded. But she didn’t say that. An imp—a remnant from childhood her mother hadn’t quite quelled—made her finger the knit. It was as soft as cashmere and yet felt different.
“This one would pop on you and make your complexion look out of this world,” Joanie said, holding the material, spilling over her fingers, closer to Nico.
No shop assistant would ever do that in New York. But Nico liked Joanie’s open friendliness. She treated Nico like she was an average person.
“Wow, huh?” Joanie smiled.
Wow was right!
“What is that?”
Joanie laughed. “Chartreuse. It’s amazing. I’ve always loved it but can’t wear it. I look dead, but on the right person it just sings. You are that person. Just try it.”
Nico did. She looked like someone else. She hadn’t gotten used to her vivid red and gold hair yet, but her light hazel eyes seemed lit from within and her pale skin glowed and looked interesting. Her mouth was still too big for her narrow face, but the sweater’s soft material draped over her slim body and small breasts, emphasizing her subtle curves, and when she belted the tie wrap at her narrow waist, the cut showcased the slight flare of her hips. The wide scoop neckline drooped off her shoulders, highlighting her delicate clavicles.
“Those sweaters would fly out of here despite the high price tag if you stood in the window,” Joanie teased.
“The color is…” She hesitated, not sure how to describe it. “Something.”
“Something amazing,” Joanie breathed in awe, and it had been Joanie’s reaction that had triggered the impulsive “I’ll take it.”
She was definitely regretting that decision now as she pushed open the double swing doors to Grey’s Saloon like she was entering a western movie set. With Joanie’s whispered and heartfelt amazing still feathering inside her brain and her edginess that had built up while she sat alone in her hotel suite, beating out her usual caution and reticence, she stepped inside a saloon—a bar—alone for the first time in her life.
More intimidating than she imagined. Cowboy hats everywhere. Laughing. Joking. Talking. Music. Community. And she was an obvious outsider. Why had she worn the sweater? The new jeans. The boots. She should have fit in, but she could tell she didn’t. She wanted to crawl out of this new skin and run to her car and keep driving. Even the country music was a foreign language she didn’t understand, though she spoke several languages and owned an apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement in Paris.
She couldn’t breathe, and her throat closed tight. No. Her brain, drunk on affirmation podcasts about reinvention and redemption and every other touchy-feely, thumbs-up philosophy for the past three days, clamored for her walk to the bar. Order a drink. Pretend to be someone else so she could escape who she was. She could improv her way to a new life from the soles of her new boots up.
She wanted this.
She needed it.
A new life.
A new her.
And yet rocketing off to Mars seemed easier than taking the next step.
And then she locked eyes with the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and everything else—the music, the voices, the giggling bridal party shouting and her jangling nerves—disappeared.
Nico drew in a deep breath and centered herself on the man.
Don’t block.
Rule two of improv or rule three? She’d listened to a couple of podcasts and then an audible book about improv as there was some disagreement. Of course there was. How would someone else make money? By now she should have enough knowledge to have a social interaction, but that was theory versus real life. And she’d always excelled far better at theory.
“Yes,” she said the word aloud, a talisman, and like magic, he strode toward her with a walk that melted her mind and heated her lower abdomen, shockingly abruptly like he’d pulled a chord to a part of her she’d spent most of her life ignoring.
Yes, and…
The first rule of improv.
“I’m Bodhi,” the cowboy said. “What would you think about changing my life tonight?”
His eyes were the strangest, most beautiful blue she’d ever seen. There was a navy ring around the iris, and she could happily drown in the warmth and confidence he exuded. Was that a pickup line? She’d never heard anything like it. Men didn’t talk to her like that. Ever. No one with any insider information would have dared.
It should have sounded stupid. Ridiculous. Over-the-top cocky and insulting. But he made it sound reasonable. Possible. Happily appealing.
“Yes,” she said, although her brain was beginning to scramble from his beauty and sexual heat that emanated from him like a seductive cologne, “and I’d like you to change mine.”
Following the improv rules.
And bold and honest. A first for her in a while.
His smile was as wicked as it was charming, and even though she’d traveled the world, had wielded a black Amex since she was a teen, and had undergrad and law degrees from an Ivy, Nico knew she was way out of her league.
“Darlin’, you have yourself a deal.”
*
She was the answer to a prayer.
Drop-dead beautiful, yes, but her air of determination clouded by vulnerability when she’d walked through the door, read the room, and stayed even though something inside of her had definitely been urging her to flee—that alone would have ensured that he would cross the bar to welcome her.
Bodhi found himself making a slight bow, which had Beck all kinds of triggered. Hilarious. Normally, he didn’t have to try with women. They came to him. Gave it their best shot. In the world of rodeo, he hunted the win—beating other cowboys and amassing points, prize money, and buckles and more, yet for the female fans, the buckle bunnies, he was the prize they avidly hunted.
But this woman, despite her boots and jeans, was no cowgirl. Everything about her screamed refined. Controlled. Untouchable. And Bodhi wanted to touch. But it was far more than physical. He could sense something in her in a way he hadn’t with other women or likely he hadn’t tried. So much was going on beneath the surface, he was fascinated. Something had happened to her. Something life changing. He could feel it. Smell it. And it put him on edge—he could feel his protective nature roaring to be pointed in a direction and released like an arrow from a crossbow. For the first time in forever, Bodhi found his interest stirred more than cock deep.
“Dibs,” he’d said to his cousins.
What an arrogant ass.
Like she was there for him—his for the taking.
But it didn’t stop him from zeroing in and moving on her.
“What’s your poison?” he asked, leading her back to the bar and helping her to perch what was a delicious, rounded bottom—poured into what looked like the popular new, western-style jeans—onto the barstool he’d been blocking.
Bowen gave him a warning look.
Find your own.
Beck, jittery all night checking his phone, looked miserable.
Too bad.
Bodhi could have helped him out, but Beck had tried and failed to put Plum Hill, everyone’s favorite place on the ranch, on the line as a prize. And now that this unexpected beauty had entered Grey’s, Bodhi was finally having fun. The Rodeo Bride Game. As brilliant as it was dumb. Still, games and challenges were how they rolled, and if this one got Beck off the fence and Bowen cutting loose, it would be totally worth it to give Granddad a taste of the future. Anticipation zipped through his veins. Endless possibilities rolled out the red carpet. Anything could happen.
“I usually drink wine,” she said, looking a little embarrassed, “but I don’t think that’s a good choice here.”
He loved the way she spoke. Her voice was low, smooth like a late-night radio DJ, educated and cultured. He could listen to her all night.
In bed.
Damn. She was not a fortune cookie pithy statement, and he was not making his usual moves here.
“Rocco’s would have a better wine list,” he agreed.
“I’ll make sure to check it out before I leave.”
His heart jumped. Of course she wasn’t local. Small town. He would have noticed her well over a decade ago.
“How long you in town?” He tried to sound casual, but everything inside him tensed.
She looked him up and down, and damn if that didn’t bring him to half-mast.
“Depends,” she said slowly, her gaze on his. Her tongue lightly touched her top lip, and he hardened more. Her mouth was a fantasy giving him so many dirty ideas he needed to ignore.
“On?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me buy you a drink, and you can bounce your options off me. I’m a good listener.”
The corners of her take-me-to-bed-now sexy mouth quirked in what could be amusement, and suddenly making her smile, then making her laugh shot up on his to-do list. She had such grave eyes. Haunted. And she was so still, as if prey hiding from a predator.
“Is that what women have told you you’re good at?” Her eyes lightened and her mouth quirked a little more.
Shock tingled down his spine and amusement bloomed.
“I’m not sure it’s the first thing that would come to mind,” he admitted and tapped the brim of his hat with his finger again.
“Mmmm, I wonder what would be first,” she mused and angled her head slightly, which drew his attention to the low dip in the unusual sweater she wore. The color glowed in the low, golden lighting of Grey’s and set off her creamy skin and flaming hair that tumbled down her back in shiny waves that made him want to bury his fingers in all that fire and burn. The soft knit skimmed her curves and teased him with a plunging neckline but a demure bow tied at her waist.
Bodhi was not the only mesmerized cowboy in the bar, but Bowen had moved to give him room and now talked to Luke Wilder and a few others. Beck had gotten tangled up with a sad and tipsy blonde looking for a man to help her forget something tonight.
Idiot.
Bowen was going to have to ride rescue on that. Beck was too good-hearted and naïve. Years with Ashni who worshipped him and had his interests at heart had blinded him to the machinations of the opposite sex.
“Maybe listening ranks third or fourth?” The mystery woman’s regard wasn’t overtly sexual, but it sure felt like it.
“You think there’s a list of my attributes?”
“Bound to be. Maybe like athlete player cards. Or Pokémon. Women in town can meet for coffee or wine at the Graff and trade cowboy cards and secrets.”
“Hey now,” he drawled, a little stung.
“I guess where listening falls on the list would be up to the list maker, as would the ranking of your other attributes.”
“I’m listening.”
He saw her nervous swallow along the long, creamy line of her throat.
“Where would listening fall on your list?” he asked.
She drew in a deep breath, thinking, and he kept his gaze on her face. A woman that beautiful probably had guys coming on to her all the time, already imagining the goods naked, pawed, and writhing under them. He wanted to be different. And wouldn’t that make Beck howl with laughter.
“You going to buy her a drink or not?” Jason Grey was there scowling.
“We were debating about wine,” she said, bristling, “and decided that wouldn’t be the best choice here.”
“Got that in one.” Jason wiped down the counter in front of her and flipped the towel over his shoulder. “Someone like you should hit the Graff or Rocco’s for wine,” he said, matter-of-fact.
She narrowed her eyes. “What would someone like me enjoy in your bar?”
Smart girl.
Of course Jason didn’t have the urge to backpedal. If and when he was offended, which was fairly regularly from what Bodhi could tell, he didn’t give two Fs. “Him.” Jason indicated Bodhi with a jerk of his head. “He won’t do you wrong if you’re looking for some temporary fun. And to drink…” Jason took a second to calculate whatever factors he thought most relevant to the appearance of the stunning, flame-haired beauty. “Go for the Laphroaig Lore Single Malt.”
She cocked a beautifully dark arched eyebrow at him.
Did she darken them or was the red gold not her natural color? Probably not natural—few women he met were—but as a look, she rocked it and was hot as hell.
“Don’t think anyone regrets that choice except maybe when the bill comes,” Jason added.
“Make that two,” she said. “And bring the bottle.”
Jason looked at Bodhi.
“I ordered. I pay,” she said softly.
Bodhi had never heard words with such a subtle edge of assertion in his life. Curiosity piqued hard.
Jason’s lips twisted. “Go ahead and try it in a cowboy bar. This one—” he jerked his angular jaw at Bodhi “—is old school. He doesn’t let a lady pay. Not ever.”
She looked at Bodhi.
“Who says I’m a lady?”
“I’m willing to keep an open mind,” Bodhi replied. “But I am paying for what has become our evening together.”
“Maybe it will be our evening,” she put him in his place, which shot another arrow of appreciation through him. “A little bit sexist,” she said. “I wonder if that beats out listening on your list.”
So now she was developing his list. This was going to be interesting.
“Only one way to find out.” He angled a little closer because she was garnering even more attention after her skillful and subtle slap-down of Jason, and Bodhi wanted no mistakes. She was off-limits. Taken.
Mine.
The thought was primal.
Not his style.
He’d never felt territorial over a woman. He’d meet them at the rodeo, the sponsor events, the bar, the hotel lobby. They’d talk, drink, dance, eat, whatever, and then get naked. Or not. That was it. Over. Nothing more than a bit of fun and indulging primal urges. He made sure the woman had the romp of her life because he was competitive—he wanted to be her best. He paid attention to detail and loved sex. But that was it. No exchange of phone numbers or empty promises.
“Let’s be clear,” he said. “I will be paying this evening, and I’m hoping to indulge in some listening.”
“So that’s what you call it.” Her lips teased into a smile that lingered long enough to make his heart skip a beat.
“You still haven’t told me where listening falls on your list.”
“I haven’t decided.” Her hair fell forward a little and hid her expression, and Bodhi had to fight the urge to let the long vibrant strands tumble through his fingers as he moved her hair away. “I’m not clear. Is this my list for my future man or of my own attributes, or is it an aspirational list for myself?”
Definitely a thinker. Better and better.
“Your choice. Top ten.”
“Top ten things I’d love about a man,” she decided and perused him openly, more with curiosity than sexual appraisal, which was shockingly different for him.
Bodhi felt the pressure behind his zipper dig in something fierce, and for the first time wished his cock would stop wanting in on the conversation. The little bastard needed to shut up for once.
“And top ten things you’d love in a woman.”
“Only ten?”
“It’s important to prioritize.”
Wasn’t that the damn truth.
Jason arrived with an unopened bottle and two squat glasses.
“Knock yourselves out,” he said and walked off.
*
Nico couldn’t believe she was flirting. And holding her own—at least she thought so. It helped to think of it as a performance. Her game face. Her court face.
A top-ten list. It was probably a silly suggestion, but he smiled at her, trying to read her. Good luck. Plenty of people, including her family and Ivy-League-educated lawyers, had tried.
But playing a harmless game with him tonight could be fun. A distraction. And maybe useful if she’d ever let her guard down enough to have a real relationship. One of the heart, not the head.
He was perfect for that. Total player.
“Listening,” he prompted. “You were going to tell me where that trait falls on your list.”
“Am I ranking them so soon?”
“Why wait?”
“I’m not sure I know what things I love about men,” she answered honestly, keeping the conversational ball in play whereas normally she would have instantly shut him down.
She had become prey since puberty.
But prey was a state of mind. And she wielded the power to run if she needed to in a civilized world. The last thing she was, was helpless.
“Ouch.” He laughed. “Tonight, I’m planning to elevate at least a few male traits on your list.”
“Only a few?”
“Probably more.”
His confidence was refreshing. It was instinctive. Not blustering or in-your-face arrogance.
“Do you like to play games?”
She couldn’t stop the blink of surprise. Damn. Her guard was down, and she hadn’t even had a drink.
“What kind of games?”
With a strong, tanned forefinger he tilted his hat back on his head just a tad. “You going to unstopper that and share?” His dark hair, longer than she realized, was thick and stylishly layered, artfully shaggy and nearly brushed his shoulders. She wondered what all those dark waves would feel like slipping through her fingers.
Her mouth dried a little. She didn’t pay attention to men—not physically. Not like this, someone she didn’t know. And yet, the hint of heat swirling in her tummy piqued her interest. He was so out of her milieu he might as well have been extraterrestrial.
Hadn’t she wanted to get away? Escape herself and her life even if just for a few weeks? She’d have to go back sometime.
But not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Nico felt like the ties that had bound her so constrictively her entire life to her family, her career, her identity, loosened just enough so she could breathe.
“Why don’t you do the honors?” She waved her hand toward the bottle.
He opened the bottle and poured.
“We’re just getting to know each other so I’ll do a finger pour,” he said. “And before we take a drink, I should probably detail my proposal.”
“Proposal?” she echoed. Suddenly, her small-town cowboy sounded like corporate shark looking to craft an after-hours deal at Bemelmans Bar in Manhattan.
He laughed. “Yes and no. But I want to be straight about this.”
She replayed his words. His expression. His tone. The social and psychological context.
“Steer straight ahead.” She waved her hand again. It was a move she’d perfected in her freshman year at Dalton. It said gracious yet queen. Bestowed power even as she hoarded it.
An honest man.
Right.
She was about to drink a finger of whiskey—was that the same as a shot?—with a unicorn in a saloon somewhere in Montana.
She’d wanted to get away.
This is about as away as I could go.
And he was beautiful. And intriguing. And since she’d been talking to him, she didn’t feel dead inside. Or frightened.
She picked up the glass of gorgeous amber liquid and sniffed it a little. She didn’t drink much. No cocktails or spirits. Just an occasional glass of Riesling when she was on her own and could relax or cabernet if she had to keep up appearances.
She waited for him to demonstrate. She hadn’t paid attention to drinking habits in bars. Mostly she’d been discussing a case, cutting a deal, or wishing she could get far, far away from the stares and speculation. Did she sip or shoot?
Maybe it didn’t matter. This was her stage. Her improv class—just the thought gave her an adrenaline jolt like she was physically stepping out on a ledge. No one knew her here. She could do what she wanted. See where it led.
Nico swung around on the barstool so she directly faced Bodhi. She picked up the glass. Crossed her legs and let the sweater dip a little down one shoulder. She felt daring. Sexy. Out of her league, but who cared?
So what did she want to do—shoot whiskey for shock value or take what would be one more cautious sip in her life?
To hell with it. She needed no one’s permission.
She could be two women in one—the woman who wore boots and shot whiskey and the highly educated woman who could commandeer depositions and negotiate multimillion-dollar compromises where she won.
She tossed back the whiskey at the exact same moment she watched a decision hit his eyes and expression and he spoke.
“I’m needing a bride for the next week or two, and I think you’d be ideal.”