Going Cowboy Crazy (3 page)

“Thatta way, Hope,” a man on the other side of the pool table yelled. “You can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl!”

“Ooooo—wee, Coach! It looks like you was missed,” someone else joined in.

“Does this mean you’re stayin’, Little Bit?” Kenny’s friend stepped closer.

“Stayin’?” A voice came from the back. “With enthusiasm like that, I wouldn’t let that woman out of my sight!”

“Is that true, Slate?” Kenny asked. “You gonna let Hope go back to Hollywood after that kind of greetin’?”

Slate blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly, the
shock receded from his eyes, but his shoulders remained tense. He cleared his throat twice before he spoke, but it still didn’t sound as smooth or confident as it had.

“Well, I guess that depends.”

“Depends on what?” someone asked.

“On whether or not she still likes me after she finds out I let The Plainsville Panthers whup our butts.”

The room erupted in laughter, followed quickly with grumbled comments about hometown refs. Then a man with a huge belly and an even bigger handlebar mustache pushed his way over.

“All right, you’ve had your turn, Slate. Give someone else a chance to welcome our girl home.”

For a fraction of a second, those hazel eyes narrowed, and the hands at her waist tightened. But then he released her and she was passed from one big bear hug to the next, accompanied with the greeting “Welcome home, Hope.”

She wasn’t Hope.

But, strangely enough, it felt like home.

S
LATE
C
ALHOUN SAT BACK IN THE DARK CORNER
and watched the woman in the conservative pants and brown sweater take another sip of her beer as if it was teatime at Buckingham Palace. Hell, she even held her little pinkie out. If that was Hope Scroggs, then he was Prince Charles. And he was no pansy prince.

Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

The impostor swallowed and wrinkled up her cute little nose. A nose that was the exact duplicate of Hope’s. And so were the brows that slanted over those big blue eyes and the high cheekbones and that damned full-lipped mouth. A mouth that had fried his brain like a slice of his aunt’s green tomatoes splattering in hot bacon grease.

The kiss was the kicker. Slate never forgot a kiss. Never. And the few kisses he’d shared with Hope hadn’t come close to the kiss he’d shared with this woman. Hope’s kisses had always left him with a strange uncomfortable feeling; like he’d just kissed his sister. It had never left him feeling like he wanted to strip her naked and devour her petite body like a contestant in a pie-eating contest.

But if the woman wasn’t Hope, then who the hell was she?

He’d heard of people having doubles—people who weren’t related to you but looked a lot like you. He’d even seen a man once who could pass for George W. in just the right lighting. But this woman was way past a double. She was more like an identical twin. And since he’d known Hope’s family ever since he was thirteen, he had to rule out the entire twin thing. Hope had two younger sisters and a younger brother. And not one of them was a lookalike whose kisses set your hair on fire.

The woman laughed at something Kenny said, and her head tipped back, her entire face lighting up. He’d seen that laugh before, witnessed it all through high school and off and on for years after. Hell, maybe she
was
Hope. Maybe his lips had played a trick on him. Maybe he was so upset about losing last night’s game that he wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe, it being a year since her last visit, he was so happy to see her that he read something in the kiss that wasn’t there.

It was possible. He’d been under a lot of stress lately. Football season could do crazy things to a man’s mind. Especially football season in West Texas. Which was why he had planned a two-week Mexican vacation after the season was over. Just the thought of soft rolling waves, warm sand, and cool ocean breezes made the tension leave his neck and shoulders.

What it didn’t do was change his mind about the woman who sat on top of the bar with her legs crossed—showing off those sexy red high heels. Hope didn’t cross her legs like that. And she hated high heels. She also hated going to the beauty salon, which was why her long
brown hair was down to her butt. This woman’s hair was styled in a short layered cut that made her eyes look twice as big and was highlighted the color of Jack Daniels in a fancy crystal glass.

Of course, Hope had lived in Hollywood for five long years. Maxine Truly had gone to Houston for only two years and had come back with multiple piercings and a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass. So big cities could screw you over. He just didn’t believe they could change someone from an outspoken extrovert to an introvert who hadn’t spoken a word, or even tried to, in the last hour.

Laryngitis, my ass.

That couldn’t be Hope.

But there was only one way to find out.

Pushing up from his chair, he strolled around the tables to the spot where her adoring fan club had gathered. It didn’t take much to part the sea of people. Hope might be the hometown sweetheart, but he was the hometown football hero turned high school coach. In Bramble, that was as close as a person could get to being God.

As usual, Kenny Gene was talking to beat the band. Sitting on the bar stool next to her, he was monopolizing the conversation with one of his exaggerated stories.

“… I’m not kiddin’, the man blew a hole the size of a six-year-old razorback hog in the side of Deeder’s doublewide, then took his time hoppin’ back in his truck as if he had all day to do—hey, Slate.”

Slate stopped just shy of those pointy-toed shoes and trim little ankles. Slowly, he let his gaze slide up the pressed pants, up the brown sweater that hugged the tiny waist and small breasts, over the stubborn chin and the full mouth that still held a tiny trace of pink glittery gloss,
to those sky blue eyes that widened just enough to make him realize he hadn’t made a mistake.

The woman before him wasn’t Hope.

But he was willing to play along until he found out who she was.

“Kenny, what the heck are you doing letting Hope drink beer?” He pried the bottle from her death grip as he yelled at the bartender. “Manny, bring me a bottle of Hope’s favorite and a couple of glasses.” He smiled and winked at her. “If we’re going to celebrate your homecomin’, darlin’, then we need to do it right.”

“I wanted to order Cuervo, Slate,” Kenny defended himself. “But she didn’t want it.”

“Not want your favorite tequila, Hog?” He leaned closer. “Now why would that be, I wonder?”

Before she could do more than blink, Manny slapped down the bottle of Jose Cuervo and two shot glasses, followed quickly by a salt shaker and a plastic cup of lime wedges. He started to pour the tequila but Slate shook his head.

“Thanks, Manny, but I’ll get it.” Slate took off his hat and tossed it down. Stepping closer, he sandwiched those prim-and-proper crossed legs between his stomach and the bar as he picked up the bottle and splashed some tequila in each glass—a very little in his and much more in the impostor’s. He handed her the salt shaker. “Now you remember how this works, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“ ’Course she knows how it works, Slate,” Twyla piped in. “She’s been in Hollywood, not on the moon.”

Slate didn’t turn to acknowledge the statement. He remained pressed against her calf, the toe of her shoe teasing the inseam of his jeans and mere inches from his
man jewels. His body acknowledged her close proximity but he ignored the tightening in his crotch and continued to watch those fearful baby blues as they looked at the salt shaker, then back at him.

“Here.” He took the shaker from her. “Let me refresh your memory, Hog.”

Reaching out, he captured her hand. It was soft and fragile and trembled like a tiny white rabbit caught in a snare. He flipped it over and ran his thumb across the silky satin of her wrist, testing the strum of her pulse. As he bent his head, the scent of peaches wafted up from her skin, filling his lungs with light-headed sweetness and his mind with images of juicy ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.

Easy, boy. Keep your eye on the goal line.

With his gaze pinned to hers, he kissed her wrist, his tongue sweeping along the pulse point until her skin was wet and her pupils dilated. Then he pulled back and salted the damp spot he’d left.

“Now watch, darlin’.” He sipped the salt off, downed the shot, then grabbed a lime and sucked out the juice—all without releasing her hand. “Now you try. Lick, slam, suck. It’s easy.”

She just sat there, her eyes dazed and confused. He knew how she felt; he felt pretty confused himself. His lips still tingled from touching her skin, and his heart had picked up the erratic rhythm of hers.

“Go on, Hope,” Kenny prodded. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t tell me you forgot how to drink in Hollywood?”

That seemed to snap her out of it, and before Slate could blink, she licked off the salt, slammed the shot, and had the lime in her mouth.

A cheer rose up, but it was nothing to what rose up beneath Slate’s fly. The sight of those pink-glitter lips sucking the lime dry made his knees weak. And so did the triumphant smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes as she pulled the lime from her mouth. A mouth with full lips like Hope’s but with straight even front teeth. Not a slightly crooked incisor in sight.

Relief surged through him. The hard evidence proved he wasn’t loco. It also proved his libido wasn’t on the fritz. He wasn’t hot after one of his closest friends; he was hot after this woman. This woman who was not Hope… unless she’d gotten some dental work done like they used to do on
Extreme Makeover
.

He mentally shook himself. No, she wasn’t Hope. And if it took the entire bottle of tequila to get her to ’fess up, so be it.

He poured her another shot and had her salted and ready to go before she could blink those innocent eyes. “Bottoms up.”

She complied, demonstrating the lick-slam-suck without a flaw. She grinned broadly when the crowd cheered, but she didn’t utter a peep. Not even after the next shot. Damn, maybe she was Hope; she was just as mule-headed. And could hold her liquor just as well—although she did seem a little happier.

“Do a Nasty Shot,” Sue Ellen hollered loud enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar.

Slate started to decline, but then figured it might be just the thing to get to the truth. Besides, he’d always been a crowd pleaser.

“You wanna do a Nasty Shot, Hog?” he asked.

She nodded, all sparkly-eyed.

For a second, he wondered if it was a good idea. She’d almost set him on fire the last time she kissed him. Of course, that was when he thought she was his close friend and her enthusiasm had taken him by surprise. Now he knew she was a fraud. A sexy fraud, but a fraud nonetheless. Knowing that, he wouldn’t let things get out of control. He would get just aggressive enough to scare her into speaking up.

“Okay.” Slate lifted her wrist and kissed it, this time sucking her skin into his mouth and giving it a gentle swirl with his tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her breasts beneath the soft sweater rose and fell with quick little breaths.

The man muscle beneath the worn denim of his jeans flexed.

This was definitely a bad idea.

Unfortunately, with the entire town watching, he couldn’t back out.

Lifting his head, Slate cleared his throat. “Remember how this works?” He covered the wet spot with salt. “Same premise, but this time we lick and shoot at the same time. Just leave the sucking part to me. Here.” He uncrossed her legs and stepped between them, which prompted a few sly chuckles from the men. “For this, we need to get just a tad bit closer.”

Those long dark lashes fluttered, and her thighs tightened around him. Slate’s breath lunged somewhere between heaven and hell, and his hand shook as he poured a full shot for her and a little for himself.

“Okay, darlin’.” Luckily, he sounded more in control than he felt. “You ready?” He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to her skin.

She hesitated for just a second before she followed. The silky strands of her hair brushed his cheek as her lips opened and her tongue slipped out to gather the salt, only millimeters from his. Even though they didn’t touch, an electric current of energy arced between them so powerfully that it caused them both to jerk back. Those big baby blues stared back at him, tiny granules of salt clinging to her bottom lip.

His mind went blank.

“Tequila, Coach,” Rossie Owens, who owned the bar, yelled.

Snapping out of it, he straightened and grabbed up the full shot, then downed it in an attempt to beat back the rearing head of his libido. She followed more slowly, her wide, confused eyes pinned on him.

“The lime, Slate,” Kenny laughed. “You forgot the lime.”

Hell. He jerked up the lime and sucked out the tart juice, not at all sure he was ready to go through with it. But then people started cheering him on, just like they had in high school when they wanted him to throw a touchdown pass. And, just like back then, he complied and reached up to hold her chin between his thumb and forefinger as he lowered his lips to hers.