Dylan (14 page)

“I think you should call your cousin,” Mavis said, “and tell him you have a couple of friends out in Texas would want a piece of the action when he goes after your ex.”

The three women nodded in unison. Lettie looked at Mavis, hesitated then asked, “Are you cooking dinner for Zeke tonight?”

Mavis's mouth opened, then closed, but no sound came out. “Now why on earth would you think that? Haven't we been friends forever?”

Lettie nodded. “But we both have a soft spot for that heartbreaker.”

Mavis glared at Lettie and asked, “Would you have asked me if Ronnie hadn't spilled her guts just now?”

Lettie looked down at her feet, as if the toes of her boots were of particular interest.

“Oh hell, Sis,” Pam grumbled. “You and Mavis have been friends for too long to let a man who's lower than a snake's belly come between you.”

Mavis moved toward Lettie, When she was right in front of her friend, she held out her hand palm up and waited. Lettie smiled and did the same, and it was when Lettie turned her wrist to hold against Mavis's that Ronnie noticed they both had scars.

Pam leaned close and whispered, “It's an old Indian custom, to become blood brothers… well, in their case sisters.”

Ronnie nodded. “I watched a lot of old TV Westerns with my grandmother as a kid. I was fascinated by the way they'd heat the knife, make a thin, shallow slice across their wrists, and place their wrists together, letting their blood mingle so they could become brothers… or sisters… of the heart.”

Pam nodded at her. “It's important that they don't forget.”

“So are you two good?” Ronnie asked.

They looked at one another and smiled. “Yes.”

“So who are you cooking stuffed pork chops for?” Lettie asked.

“Rusty.”

Lettie's eyes widened with shock. “LeDeux, the bull rider?”

Mavis smiled. “Retired bull rider.”

“Are you up to handling another rodeo man in your life?”

Mavis drew in a breath, and Ronnie thought she'd have to blast the other woman, but in the end, Mavis answered her friend's question with a question. “Are you ready to give up on Zeke?”

Lettie's shoulders sagged. “Not that many interesting single men left in Pleasure that aren't already married.”

Mavis smiled a secret smile and asked, “Are you two busy tonight?”

Ronnie wondered what her friend was up to.

“Rusty's in town with a couple of old friends of his from the circuit.”

Interest flickered in the other women's eyes. “Anyone we know?”

Mavis laughed. “Tom Westin and J.T. Larame.”

The names didn't mean anything to Ronnie, but from the awed expression on the sisters' faces, they did to the Dawsons. She asked, “Who are they?”

Mavis smiled. “Retired rodeo champs like their good friend Rusty.”

“What are they doing in town, aside from visiting with you?” Ronnie wanted to know.

Her friend leaned in close so no one could overhear what she was about to say. “You remember when I asked if you wanted to give a demonstration of barrel racing in our Take Pride in Pleasure Day Celebration and Rodeo?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It's been a good fifteen years since these men have competed,” she confided, “but each and every one of them has the rodeo in their blood. Garth Brooks wrote a song about it a lot of years ago. ‘It's bulls and blood, it's dust and mud, it's the roar of a Sunday crowd.' And damned if each and every one of those rodeo cowboys didn't break nearly every bone in their bodies just like the song said, and they couldn't wait until they were almost healed so they could compete in the next go-round.”

“It sounds like they're adrenaline junkies.” Ronnie understood what that was like; her second cousin competed in drag racing down at Raceway Park back home.

The women agreed. “So, Mavis,” Lettie said, her eyes light with excitement. “You think Rusty'll invite Tom and J.T. if I toss in a couple of fresh-baked pies?”

“Call him now,” Ronnie suggested. “That way, you two can get back to what's important, saving a lifelong friendship.”

“What about yours?” Pam asked.

“There's a lot I'd forgive,” Ronnie said slowly. “Stupidity, an honest mistake, a faulty memory, but I cannot forgive infidelity, or lying to and cheating on your best friend.”

“You've got the makings of a proper Texas woman, Ronnie,” Mavis said with a smile.

“What do you say we buy a couple more chops and apples? Lettie, if you could make your grandma's buttermilk pie, maybe Pam could make her pecan pie.”

Baking jobs assigned, everyone went their separate ways, lighter in spirit for having cleansed the wound that had been festering between two friends. Ronnie hoped that it would stay that way. She liked Mavis and both Dawson sisters and really hated the reminder of her own friend's betrayal. It still hurt to think about it, so she compartmentalized the hurt and shoved it down deep where it wouldn't work its way to the surface for a while.

Walking back to Mavis's parked car, Ronnie resolved to take charge of her life and not let a certain Irishman get under her skin and distract her from her goal. She had to rebuild what she'd recently lost. Her momentum had just started picking up. “Hey, Mavis?”

Her friend pointed her key fob toward the trunk and placed her bags inside. Ronnie unloaded the bags she carried and shut it. “What would you do if you were me?”

They got in the car and Mavis cranked it over. “Well, dear, for one thing, I'd stop running away from what my heart wants.”

Ronnie sighed, frustration simmering just below her surface calm. “How do I know it's my heart and not my coochie that's craving that wild-eyed handsome cowboy?”

Mavis flicked on her blinker and eased out of the parking space. “Sometimes you don't at first, but ask yourself this,” she said, “what would my life be like without him in it?”

“Hell, I don't know. I've only just met the man.”

Mavis rolled her eyes. “Good one, dear,” she chuckled. “Try again.”

Ronnie didn't want to think about how she'd feel, didn't want to have the worry of the curse hanging over her head. “Couldn't I just take my time to get to know him and not have to think about what it would be like without him?”

“Absolutely,” Mavis said slowing down in front of Guilty Pleasures. “But think about this: the more time you invest getting to know Dylan, the more you'll want to know.”

“That's crazy.”

“Is it?”

“You know it is.”

“How much time do you spend thinking about the man right now?”

Busted.
“Too much.”

“Then can you do any less than give the man a chance to get to know him?”

“He doesn't want to get to know the real me,” Ronnie mumbled. “He just wants to slide into my bed and have his way with me.”

Mavis smiled. “There is that, but think about it: what's not to like about a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it?”

“Couldn't he wait until I decide to give it to him?”

“Honey, a man like that isn't long on patience.”

“Exactly. So, how do I know he'll be patient enough to find out all of the stuff I really don't want to tell him, but eventually will have to if he's in for the long haul?”

Mavis put the car in park and stared at her. “If that isn't the most convoluted thought I've ever heard. Call the man, let him know you're interested… invite him for dessert.”

“He only likes me because I can cook.”

“If I remember correctly,” Mavis said, watching Ronnie open the door and get out, “it wasn't your cooking he tasted first.”

Ronnie smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. “Anyone ever tell you that you're a pain in the backside, Mavis?”

She could hear her friend laughing as she drove off, leaving Ronnie standing on the sidewalk in front of her wreck of a store, wondering if she was crazy. Every fiber of her being stood at attention whenever Dylan Garahan was near. He was a distraction; by turns, he irritated her and intrigued her.

“That's still not reason enough to let him into my life,” she grumbled, unlocking the door to her shop. She stopped and looked at the front of the store and shook her head. “Why lock the darn door, when all you have to do is remove a few boards and you'll be right inside?”

She paused on the threshold and looked around at the remnants of Ronnie DelVecchio's Life: Phase II. Thanks to Dylan, it was more organized than her haphazard piles. The man was a miracle worker. She closed the door behind her, marveling that she could already see where he'd probably start working tonight—there was a section on either side of the front window that had been cleared of piles. Anger simmered the longer she stared at the debris and destruction. Needing to channel that anger, she breathed in, breathed out, and headed upstairs.

“Time for some yoga.”

She tossed her keys on her bedside table and stripped out of her jeans and T-shirt. Ignoring the memory of Dylan's callused hands sliding the shirt up her belly, she pulled it over her head and unhooked her bra, tossing it on the bed. Donning her favorite pair of workout pants and sports bra, she walked to the living room. Her mat was stored beneath the sofa; she got down on her hands and knees, pulled it out, and laid it on the floor in front of her picture window.

Standing with her feet a hip's distance apart, she drew in a deep breath and brought her hands together. Two cleansing breaths later, she was ready to move from Mountain Pose to Downward Dog. She enjoyed the sensation of her muscles and mind working in tandem to strengthen and relax, rejuvenate, and renew. Her routine was her own; she preferred certain movements and poses to others, and knowing her body, she stuck with what worked for her.

Blocking out the world around her, she bent over into the Downward Dog Pose again.

***

Dylan's tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth. The woman he couldn't seem to get off of his mind, or coax into his bed, had the curviest ass he'd ever seen.
What
the
hell
was
she
trying
to
do
to
him? Taunt him? Tease him? Kill him?

Pick one. He sure as hell couldn't figure her out. “Nice ass, DelVecchio.”

Her sharply indrawn breath told him she hadn't known he was standing there.
Maybe
she
wasn't trying to tease him.

To give her credit she didn't stop; she moved smoothly from bent in half to flat on her belly. Parts of him that shouldn't be noticing how taut and toned said ass was noticed and sprang to life, alert and ready for action. He clenched his stomach muscles and rocked his hips forward, hoping to shift things around behind his zipper. He'd been hard since he stood at the top of her stairs, greeted by her sweet little backside. His johnson strained against denim, begging him to shuck his jeans and bury himself into the raven-haired witch who had him wrapped around her finger.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and cleared his throat. “Look, Ronnie,” he bit out. “I need to get to work, but need you to take a look at where I'm starting. Can you please stop doing that?”

She was on all fours, curling her back up like a cat and then sticking her backside out as she arched up. His palms began to sweat. Need sliced through him, leaving him raw and wanting.

“DelVecchio, I swear—”

She slowly stood, drew in a deep breath, and looked at him. Funny thing was she didn't look so relaxed.

“Isn't yoga supposed to relax you?”

Emerald bright eyes glared at him. “Unless there's a distraction.”

That thought appealed to him. He grinned. “You saying I'm distracting you, darlin'?”

She growled at him and he smiled. Lord, this woman suited him down to the ground. “Are you sure you don't want to take me up on my offer?”

She grabbed the T-shirt lying on the arm of the sofa and pulled it over her head, but she couldn't hide the fact that she was aroused. Her nipples saluted him. He wanted to yank her close and strip her bare. Inhaling, he caught the heady scent of her and had to control the urge to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off.

“Stop it.”

He shook his head. “What?”

“Don't give me that innocent look,” she ground out. “I'm warning you…”

Trying to be reasonable, he said, “If you don't tell me what I'm doing that's bothering you, I can't stop.”

She closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the ceiling. Was she counting?

Finally, she lowered her head and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Stop looking at me like you'd like nothing better than to toss me on the floor and have your wicked way with me.”

His gut clenched and his heart began to pound. If he got any harder, he could cut wood with his johnson—the hell with his power tools, he'd use the one God gave him.

“Darlin', give me a little credit.”

She narrowed her gaze at him and put her hands on her hips. “Do you mean to tell me you aren't thinking of ravaging me?”

He put his tongue in his cheek and rocked back on his heels. Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Well now, that thought has appeal, but I was hoping our first time might be in your bed… and not your floor, but I'm flexible.” His gaze met hers. “Are you?”

She turned her back on him and bent over. If he didn't relieve the pressure soon, he'd embarrass himself and come in his jeans.

“Damn it, DelVecchio!”

Ronnie must have sensed his movement. She spun around to face him, her mat clutched across her chest like a shield. “Don't you have work to do?”

Reining in the need to take what she unknowingly offered cost him. But he'd be damned if he'd have her crying foul; he'd better get a grip and beat his libido senseless with mind-numbing work.