Chapter 1 - Chase Me, Cowboy

We have company downstairs.

It’s been a good few weeks since my sister ran off with country music singer Coen Taylor and blew up our placid ranch. Dad was livid. So mad I secretly called his sister, Aunt Eugenia, about it because he wouldn’t calm down. I think it was a combination of Sabrina, my oldest sister, not knowing Coen well and my dad thinking every man is out to get his daughters. But I’m tired of dealing with it.

Aunt Eugenia helped, but what really helped is the man downstairs.

Jamie Iron, agent to Coen and bigshot owner of Iron Talent Agency. He’s the right-hand man to some of the biggest country musicians of our time. He’s also the son of Dad’s former friend, Scott, which makes him a safe person in Dad’s eyes. At this moment, they’re both at the table, and Jamie is doing his best to smooth things over.

Coen and Sabrina are on their way home tomorrow. They sent Jamie on ahead, which was smart on Coen’s part. It’s clear Jamie knows how to sweet-talk, and he’s putting in his time.

I sit on the edge of my bed, feet hanging above the floor.

A few days ago, Serena called to tell me she was in Nashville with Jamie and Coen, at his studio. He’s fixing to go on hiatus and settle down with my sister, from what I can tell. That conversation led into me looking Jamie up online and admitting the obvious—he is gorgeous. Big, broad, with a rough-around-the-edges wrangler feel. I guess it carries over from his upbringing in Wyoming, through all his years in Nashville. It doesn’t hurt that he showed up today, swinging out of a truck, beard short and mustache just long enough to give him that look.

My stomach knotted up, and I went upstairs.

It’s after dinner, so no real need to return to the kitchen. Dad’s been talking at Jamie for a good hour or two, but it’s almost his bedtime. It’s rare that Dad misses bedtime. Which means I can go downstairs and get a snack and a cup of tea before going to sleep. Hopefully, Sabrina and Coen will get here early, so I don’t have to be alone with Jamie. I’m not sure whether I can get through a conversation with him, not without getting flustered.

So I wait, watching the digital clock glow.

Around nine, Dad’s chair scrapes the floor. His voice booms—I think he’s telling Jamie to take the guest bedroom. That’s on the other end of Sabrina’s room. Dad’s footsteps echo, accompanied by Jamie’s. Then, silence. I linger for a while longer, until I’m positive it’s safe. Softly, I get up and tiptoe out of the room in my tank top and sleep shorts.

I’m being a bit silly; I know that.

I just don’t want to deal with this man.

The stairs creak. I make my way into the kitchen where the light over the sink glows gold. A pack of chocolate cookies sits beside my tea—pomegranate leaf. I pull the electric kettle out and turn it on, waiting for it to bubble.

The stairs creak, the house settling. I lean on the counter and bite the inside of my lip.

“You must be Serena.”

Spinning, I gasp. Jamie stands at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed. I don’t like him now he’s right in front of me. He’s handsome, but there’s a glitter in his gaze that rubs me the wrong way. He’s too…cowboy. And too stern, like he’s waiting for me to misstep.

I don’t know how, but I glean all that from one look.

His eyes, though…those are harder to read.

“Yep,” I say. “I am.”

He comes into the kitchen, glancing over the kettle and my stack of cookies on the napkin.

“Your dad said you must have gone to bed early.”

He says that like he’s poking at me a little bit. I force myself to ignore the heat traveling down my spine.

“I figured I would just let you two talk,” I reply.

His stare lingers on me, too long. “You seem kinda prickly,” he says after a while.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs and braces his hands on the counter. We’re pretty close, separated only by a couple of feet. He’s really fucking handsome. There’s something about the stern furrowing of his brows that makes me want to climb him like a tree.

Calm down, Serena. Focus on being pissed off.

“I just meant, you seem kinda prickly,” he says again.

“That’s bold.”

“It’s a plain and simple observation.”

crackles—I’m sure of it. His eyes flick over me for the dozenth time. He’s not being subtle about it, either.

“What are your other observations?” I snap the kettle off with a sassy flick of my finger. “Since you’re so good at it.”

“I observe you’re pretty nice to look at,” he says smoothly.

My jaw drops. I didn’t think he’d go there, at least not so quickly. It takes me a whole thirty seconds, and then some, to gather myself. My face is hot as pavement in the summertime, burning me up. I pour my tea, and the scent of pomegranate fills the air.

I look up. He’s leaning in, looking back at me.

Goddamn it. He knows what he’s doing.

“What? I’m not allowed to say that?” he asks, voice deep.

Right away, I noticed his voice. From the minute he stepped into the house, it echoed all the way to my room. Deep, really deep, and gravelly in his throat.

“You can say whatever you want,” I say.

He studies me a little longer. “You’re being kinda loud, with your dad sleeping upstairs and all.”

“Stop trying to get a rise out of me.”

“I’m not, just talking.”

“Well, you can stop talking too.”

He laughs quietly, straightening. God, he’s so tall, I have to crane my neck back to look him in the eyes. The situation is rapidly escalating. First, I’m not sure why he’s flirting with me, eye-fucking me without shame. Second, it’s only turning me on more the longer he goes at it. Usually, men who come out the gate strong bother me. Not this one, clearly.

“Alright,” he says, dipping his head. “I’ll take a whiskey, if you have it.”

“Huh?”

“You got your tea. I’ll take a whiskey.”

I study him, struggling to keep up. He’s a broad man, but not bulky. He has a Hollywood-kind-of-handsome face that might seem bland if it weren’t for that critical furrowing of his brows. Below them sit unreadable gray-blue eyes, with faint lines beside them. If my calculations are correct, he’s about the same age as my sister’s new man. Which is…thirty-five or thirty-six?

That’s a lot older than me.

It only fans the flames.

I’ve never been one to tell myself no, even when it caused problems. Every wrangler that caught my eye was someone my dad would have hated. God, he would hate it if I went after Jamie, especially after how well they get along. It makes me want to sink my teeth in just to prove I don’t have to listen.

That’s one of my worst qualities.

“I was gonna heading upstairs,” I say finally.

The corner of his mouth turns up. He’s smug.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” I snark back. “Who drinks whiskey at this time of night?”

“Maybe somebody who can’t sleep.”

“Ever hear of an Ambien?”

“It’s not that kind of insomnia.”

His voice drops deep and rough. It sounds raw, the way it might if we were alone together. Between my thighs is pulsing his name in Morse code; not a good sign if I’m trying to keep my dignity.

I turn, uncaring that I’m in boy shorts and a T-shirt. I know he can see the underside of my ass. Deep inside, I hope it gets his dick hard and frustrated. The air between us is already wearing thin from all the friction and tension. It’s about time I start thinking about what he’s packing.

“What kind is it?”

He tilts his head. “The kind you get from fixing everybody’s problems all the time.”

“Oh, poor thing. Aren’t you like a multi-millionaire?”

He laughs softly. It’s hard to keep my eyes on his face when the trail of hair comes up from his waistband and tapers off just below his navel. I’ll bet he’s packing beneath that zipper. Men like him either go one way or the other. The evil side of my brain, which doesn’t care if I blow up my life or cause a scene, makes me want to cross the room and see whether he’ll show me. I’ve done that before, and it actually worked.

“You got me,” he says finally.

“I got you how?” I frown.

He pauses, jaw working. “You always talk back like that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what you’re doing, sweetheart,” he says.

The tension in the room changes. Are we in dangerous territory?

How did we get here so fast? It doesn’t feel like we’ve known each other before now, but it does feel like we’ve been fighting for ages. Or, at least a few days. My eyes narrow the more I stare him down. It would not be out of character for me to fuck him. Well, it wouldn’t be out of character for me to take off my top and let him put my nipples in his mouth or maybe slide his hand into my panties. Letting him go all the way… I’m less familiar with that.

“I said, you always this mean? Prickly don’t cut it.”

“I’m not mean,” I insist.

“You are right now,” he drawls. “That’s saying something. I spend all my time in boardrooms, listening to lawyers go at it.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay then. I’m gonna go upstairs now.”

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk past him. His hand closes on my elbow. I whip around, and my throat goes dry.

“Let me go,” I whisper.

His throat bobs. Maybe I don’t really want him to let me go.

“You got a lot of frustration,” he says, lids heavy over those unreadable eyes. “Want me to work that out for you?”

My brows shoot up. I didn’t think he’d actually make a move.

“That’s bold,” I whisper.

He leans in, and I don’t lean back. His mouth grazes mine, and heat tingles like static in my brain.

That’s it, that’s all it takes.

His big hands wrap around my thighs and I’m off the ground and in his arms. Oh God, he’s enormous. Not just height-wise, but everything. I think one of his fingers is as wide as two of mine. I make a note to compare them later. Then, his mouth finds mine in the dark, and I inhale, gasping when his tongue grazes my lower lip.

I’m about to have a pivotal experience. Someday, I’ll be able to say I made out with Jamie Iron, agent for Coen Taylor and all those other country stars. I won’t have to mention the part where he annoyed the fuck out of me from the moment we met to the moment he lifted me into his arms. Then, annoyance gives way to pure lust, and my brain shuts off.

He’ll be gone in a few days.

What the hell—I want to go all the way.

“Straight up the stairs,” I breathe, breaking away.

He carries me up without missing a step, down the dark hall to my doorway where I point. His boot shoves the door shut.

“Your dad fell asleep in the office,” he pants.

“Good, but be quiet.”

He drops me on my back on the bed, and I slap the touch lamp. He towers over me, a slab of grade A, top-market beef, and pulls his shirt free. I bite my lip, pushing myself up onto my elbows. His stomach has too many ridged abs to count. Beneath his pants, I can see his dick print loud and clear. Big, thick, begging to be let out.

Clambering onto the bed and sitting back on my heels, I pull my shirt off. His brows rise, and he lets out a very low whistle.

“Nice tits,” he says.

I tug down the front of his pants and boxer briefs. His cock is somehow bigger and thicker than the print made it appear.

“Nice dick,” I say.

He smirks. “Thanks, sweetheart. You want yours before or after?”

“What?”

He braces one knee on the bed, and I have to lean back so far I fall against the pillows. His hand running up my thigh is rough and warm. “You want me to eat you out before or after?”

I falter. “Like…go down on me?”

He nods, forehead creasing. I swallow hard. The last and only guy who offered to do that was a disaster for everyone. Dad hated him so bad he hit him, and it was almost a lawsuit. Honestly, that incident scared me, and all I’ve done since then was hand stuff. Of course, I put on a persona that I’ve been sleeping around, so if word got back to Dad, he would think I didn’t care about what he did. That it didn’t traumatize me for the rest of my life.

I cared—I hated it.

The last wrangler I had an interest in, Colin, got frustrated and called it quits not long ago. I didn’t want him going down on me—or fucking me, for that matter. I jerked him off, but that was as far as I was willing to go. He was pretty patient for the first little while, then he admitted it wasn’t enough. I told him sorry, no hard feelings. We said goodbye, and I was surprised to find I didn’t really care.

Nobody has ever offered to do that. Not even the guy Dad beat up.

I swallow hard.

“No, it’s fine,” I say.

He pauses. “You want it after?”

“I don’t want it.”

My words come out harsher than I meant them to, and he lifts his palms. “Hey, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Good,” I say, eager to move on. “Fuck me then.”