Second Dance Cowboy (Second Chance) Page 3

  Her mind swirled with questions. Why was he drinking heavily at the bar? Chasing memories maybe? Everyone had a different set of coping skills.

  Could she go through with a one-night stand? Deep down inside she knew one night with this man would never be enough.

  She resigned herself to the cold, hard fact. She’d take him home and drop him off. Better to be on the safe side of her emotions than fall flat on her face.

  After all, he was tipsy. Maybe even drunk. He wasn’t sloppy, but she’d watched him down two shot glasses in the course of ten minutes.

  Once upon a time, if Dillon had propositioned her, she’d have tumbled, no questions asked. She wasn’t that naive girl any longer.

  Anyway, one-night stands were for people who stayed up past ten o’clock on school nights. For women who were risk-takers, not safety-seekers.

  Another thought tripped through her mind. Dang. She wasn’t wearing her best underwear. Had she shaven her legs that morning? That blew the lingering lust all to hell. Falling off the sex wagon with flowered, cotton panties and hairy legs would be a scandal.

  Her stomach rolled.

  Why did he have to smell so good? And look like a model?

  She snuck another glance to his belt buckle. She’d always wondered if he was built. A man with those brawny shoulders and slender hips, she’d guess there’d be no disappointment. His zipper moved and she sucked in a breath. Lifting her gaze, she realized he was watching her. She jerked her eyes to the road.

  Oh my God. I just gave Dillon Brooke a hard-on.

  She bit back a squeal. Realizing this was the happiest she’d been in days, she cringed. She was so not cool.

  Turning onto the gravel drive, passing the metal swinging sign that read Brooke Creek, she prepared herself for turning away from the one man she’d fantasized about more than Mark Walhberg.

  Maybe he’d changed his mind too. He’d been quiet for some time. Disappointment slithered through her, churning her stomach. She’d turn away, sure, but she wanted him to want her, not bearing the thought of him snubbing her again.

  She shook her head at her own absurdity.

  Approaching the house, her intestines gurgled. She pulled close to the gate, slid the car into park and waited.

  He twisted in the seat, his gaze held hers. Her tongue grew thick. He started to move in…would he kiss her. Apprehension bubbled up inside of her. Fear mixed with excitement. Then she did it. She pressed her hand against his chest in silent rejection.

  “I’ve got to go home.” Her words were like a guillotine on the neck of promise.

  He blinked, but his expression didn’t change. “Okay.”

  Would he argue? Would he ask her to change her mind? A man like Dillon didn’t need to ask a woman a second time.

  “Thank you for bringing me out here. Will you be okay going back?” His hand was already on the handle.

  “I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile to her trembling lips. “Thank you for the dance. It was very nice.” What? Was that how she’d leave this? She wanted to rip his shirt off and lick him all over. Explore every delectable inch. Her fingers itched to undo the belt buckle and touch him in mystical places.

  “Be careful on your way back to town.” The handle moved, but the door didn’t. “Uhh, I think it’s locked.”

  Damn! She could keep him for a bit longer. No, she couldn’t. She was acting like a schoolgirl, and he didn’t like her then and he wouldn’t like her now. She hit the button and the locks clicked. “There you go.”

  She watched him pull himself out of the car, walk up the sidewalk and disappear inside the white two-story house. For the second time in a lifetime, she missed an opportunity to know what it was like kissing Dillon Brooke.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DILLON POURED HIMSELF a cup of coffee as he pondered last night’s events through a hung-over haze. Fuck! He couldn’t remember everything, but he wondered how much of an ass he’d made of himself with Peyton. A woman like her, classy, beautiful and intelligent, wouldn’t be suitable for a one-night stand, or a bandage on raw emotions.

  After dragging himself out of the car last night, he had dismally climbed the stairs, crawled into bed and jerked off while fantasizing of Peyton. He’d been getting too many miles with the old hand.

  His life stunk…royally.

  Her scent lingered on his skin this morning, the silkiness of her touch, the way her hair moved across her shoulders, the slight swell of firm breasts…oh shit! His attraction wasn’t alcohol induced.

  Taking a long sip of his coffee, he didn’t care that it scolded his insides. He just wished it’d burn last night’s memory right out of his body.

  She’d rejected him. Case closed.

  He leaned against the counter and scratched his overnight growth of beard. Holding a woman like Peyton reminded him of the things he missed. Although he wouldn’t have minded a romp in bed, it was more than a romp that he longed for.

  He needed to dig some dirt, throw bales of hay, or take a long ride. His only salvation came with hard work. He had callouses to prove it. He was too young to be so miserable.

  What the hell had come over him last night? Things had gotten hot on the dance floor and somehow they’d fizzled on the ride home. No, they hadn’t fizzled for him. He’d still wanted her, even when she’d turned him down. Truthfully, he still wanted her now.

  Humans needed intimacy.

  A man his age needed to get some occasionally. No red-blooded man should have to rely on his hand for comfort. After all, jacking off only satisfied the first few layers of need.

  His muscles tightened below his waist. He had a taste for a dancer and he didn’t ask for her number. What good would it have done? She’d basically shooed him out of the car. He thought he’d seen regret in her eyes, but then again, he had a hopeful mind.

  He relaxed. It wasn’t like they lived in separate cities. He’d just have to do some research and find her. And he would because he wanted to see her again, just to be sure there was no connection between them.

  He drained his cup dry and his headache eased—some.

  Dillon heard heavy footsteps and a loud yawn as Deckland appeared in the kitchen. His mass of black wavy hair was a mess and dark circles lined his eyes. “You look like shit.” Dillon laughed.

  “So do you.” Deckland peered at him through narrowed gaze.

  “At least mine’s due to alcohol. What’s your excuse?” Dillon grabbed another cup from the cabinet and poured it full of coffee, handing it to his brother.

  “Age I guess.” Deckland took the cup and sat at the head of the farmhouse table.

  “Not from a wild night?” Dillon hadn’t heard his brother come in last night and had assumed he’d stayed with the blonde from the bar.

  Deckland sighed. “She brought me home when the bar closed. I was half-surprised to see you. I thought you’d have drowned your jealousy in the arms of another woman.”

  “And why would I do that?” Dillon poured himself more coffee and took a seat at the other end of the table.

  “You don’t remember your hissy fit with Dante and Cassie?”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Dillon said through the steam from his cup. He stretched his sore knuckles. “I hope Dante feels the memory himself.”

  “I’m sure he does. But it looks like he’s the only one who scored last night.” Deckland scrubbed his forehead.

  “I wasn’t aiming to score, brother.” He never liked that word “score” when it referred to women.

  “Could have fooled me. You and Aspen’s friend seemed to be hitting it off great. Peyton, right?”

  Dillon shrugged. “Peyton isn’t the kind of woman you sleep with when you’re tipsy. By the way, did Aspen say anything about her?” He attempted to sound nonchalant, but his urgency grew.

  Deckland pushed a hand through his hair. “She’s a dancer. I remember that. Oh, and she owns a dance studio. I know that because Aspen helps out there.”

  “Do you happen
to know where she lives?”

  Deckland opened his mouth but the barking of a dog and tires on gravel stopped him. He downed his coffee and set the cup on the table. He slid out of his chair and went to the window above the sink. “Hey, I gotta go, brother. Lenny is here with the oats. You coming out on the ranch today? We sure could use the extra hand.”

  “Maybe later. I have a few errands I’ve got to run first.”

  His first stop would be the computer. He’d bet he could find Peyton online.

  ****

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Peyton looked across the small wooden table at Oliver. He was busily pushing his spoon through his cereal instead of shoveling into his mouth as he normally would. “Are you still upset about the father/son banquet?”

  He popped up a small shoulder, stretching his soccer T-shirt and kept his head lowered. “It don’t matter.”

  Peyton’s heart sank. She was sad for her son and angry because his soccer coach decided to have a father/son banquet instead of the usual end of the season awards dinner. She had a hard time believing that she was the only single parent with a bum ex-husband. Pushing her own half-eaten bowl of cereal aside, she touched Oliver’s arm. “I spoke to your coach. He’s fine with Uncle Marty coming with you.” Oliver’s head came up and she received a perfect rolling of eyes. “What? Marty has always been there for you. He’s like a grandpa, and if you can’t have your dad, who better to have?” She had a feeling she only made things worse.

  “Sure, mom, but you’re missing the point of a father/son banquet.” He stood up, took his bowl to the sink, and rinsed it out. She hated that he felt different from the other kids on his team because he didn’t have a participating father. Unfortunately, she couldn’t change that fact. She’d tried, but it hadn’t gotten her very far.

  She glanced at the clock. “Leave that, Ollie. We’re going to be late. I’ll drop you off at practice and then I’ve got to get to class.” She hurried and placed her own bowl into the sink. “Don’t forget a bottle of water. And the snack I packed you. Oh, and Uncle Marty is picking you up from the field.”

  “I’ve got a bottle already.” He swung his athletic bag over his shoulder. “Do you have one?”

  Boot mid-air, she sighed. “No, I don’t.”

  “Here you go.” He handed her a plastic bottle.

  “Smart kid.” She tousled his hair. She didn’t know what she’d do without him.

  Fifteen minutes later, she’d dropped Oliver at the soccer field and she was walking through the front door of the studio. Aspen had already opened and she was rearranging ballet slippers on the shelf. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Why is that?” Peyton dropped her bag on the floor and placed the bottle of water in the mini fridge behind the counter.

  “Hmm, cowboy fever.” Aspen wriggled her brows.

  “Actually, I’m shocked to see you,” Peyton said.

  “What do you take me for? A sex-starved woman who can’t keep her hands off a hot cowboy?” One thin brow lifted.

  Peyton stopped and stared. “Yes.”

  “And you’re absolutely right. However, Deckland is a gentleman.” She grabbed an armful of boxes of slippers and started stacking them on the bottom shelf. “At least you got lucky.”

  Peyton cleared her throat. “No, I didn’t.”

  Aspen dropped the boxes and turned as an incredulous look spread over her face. “What? You two seemed to reconnect via country twang.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” At the mention of last night, Peyton’s full attempt at forgetting the whole event crumbled. She’d went home after dropping Dillon off, crawled into bed and tossed and turned, haunted by his touch—or the lack of. She’d had awesome sex, in her dreams, until Oliver had knocked on the door at eight A.M. waking her up. He’d walked home from spending the night at a friend’s house. Thankfully, he’d only been a few blocks away or she’d still be snuggled in her dream.

  “It seems we all went home empty handed last night. I hope you brought my car. I had to walk here this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Aspen. I just assumed your cowboy would have brought you here on his horse.” Aspen threw a shoe and Peyton ducked just in time. “Yes, I brought your car. Can you drop me at the house to get mine after class? I have to get groceries. That boy of mine is eating me out of house and home, except this morning. It’s all his coaches fault. Who’d have a father/son banquet?” She was still steaming.

  “A dad who participates in his son’s events and thinks that all fathers do the same—a.k.a, ignorant jerk. He knows Oliver’s situation. Won’t Marty go along?” Aspen picked up the hurdled shoe and placed it back with its match on the shelf.

  “Yes, but Oliver says it’s not the same.” Peyton hated that her son was under so much stress over a simple banquet. She ached to pick up the phone and call Richie to give him a piece of her mind. Little good would it do. The other hundred times hadn’t helped.

  “Maybe you’ll see cowboy from last night again, you two will hit it off and he will attend with Oliver as a step-dad.” Aspen laughed.

  Peyton’s mouth dropped. “Are you kidding? Dillon and I won’t be seeing each other again. We are from two different worlds.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing you feel that way.” Aspen threw the last empty box into a basket. “From what Deckland said, it seems we missed a brawl last night. It happened right before we got there.”

  Peyton grabbed the receipt book and was preparing the cash register, wondering if she’d heard right. “A brawl? Between who?”

  “Dillon and Dante, the other brother. Apparently, there’s some drama in the relationship. Dillon and some chick broke it off a few years ago, and now that woman is engaged to Dante. Dillon punched his brother in the mouth so I’m guessing your hot cowboy isn’t over her.”

  Peyton’s heart sank for the second time that morning. “So, let me get this straight. He’d gotten into a fight with his brother over a woman. Minutes later, he dances with me and propositions me?” Surprise quickly turned to anger.

  Aspen’s gaze narrowed. “No, yes, well…I don’t know. I don’t think he came on to you because he was pining over another woman.”

  “I think it sounds exactly like that. I was a stand-in.” She gritted her teeth.

  “Relax, hun. You’re no one’s stand in. You’re a beautiful, independent, smart woman. A lot of men are attracted to you, but you choose to ignore them.” Aspen thrummed her short nails along the glass case.

  “Sure I am. I run around with my hair not brushed most of the time. All of my leotards have stains, either from the kids here or from home. I have a ten-year-old son who is unhappy and I have extreme guilt that I picked an ass for his father.”

  “Give yourself some credit. Brushing your hair doesn’t matter when it’s up in a tight bun. I have noticed a few stains on your leotards, but you work with kids. What’s to be expected? And your guilt? You have to let go of that. When you met Richie, you had no clue that he was a jerk. What woman does? Oliver is a happy boy—most of the time.”

  Aspen went into the back, leaving Peyton with her thoughts. And boy, were they confused this morning. She swore she’d forget Dillon, again. They’d bumped into each other by chance. They’d talked, had a good time, almost let things get out of hand then walked away. Much like what had happened years ago.

  She’d been strong last night when she’d pulled back from his oncoming kiss. It’d been the hardest thing she’d done in a long time. Probably since Richie had shown up on her doorstep wanting to spend “family” time. She knew what that entailed. He needed a loan. The last time he’d asked, she’d gathered every ounce of gumption and told him no. He hadn’t called or shown up again. That’d been about two years ago. She was losing count.

  And a kiss wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Or would it? It could have landed either way. If she liked it, she’d want more, and could very easily be tangled up in a situation that would leave her hurt. On the other hand, she could
really hate it and be disappointed because all of these years she’d believed Dillon Brooke knew how to kiss. She’d rather keep her fantasy nice and naughty so she could continue to pull it out on lonely nights when images were all that she had.

  A man like Dillon could turn her upside down. He could break her heart. She had enough cracks in that part of her body. Another one could be the final blow that’d send her into never trusting another man again. She had to have some trust in the male gender, for her son’s sake.

  The bell above the door dinged, drawing her thoughts away from Dillon and onto the first child arriving for class. Dancing always cured her blues, and today she’d dance like she was on fire.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DILLON WISHED HE’D grabbed a different cart, unless they were all supposed to make the loud thumping sound like a flat tire on gravel. He bent and checked the wheels. One had thread wrapped around the base and another needed tightened. He’d never shopped before, at least not with a cart, but he had to make this seem real. He’d always stopped at the corner grocery by his house and picked up an armload of necessities. Buying for one doesn’t require much.

  He wasn’t here for the variety of food items boasted on the sign out front. He was on a mission. This is where Peyton shopped.

  After looking up her dance studio’s website and reading about her business, he knew more than ever he wanted to get to know her better. Unfortunately, by the time he made it to the studio the closed sign was up in the window. Luckily, the kind neighbor lady who was outside gardening had no issues with telling him that Peyton said something about grabbing groceries on the way home. With a bit more coaxing, he was able to get the name of the store where she shopped. Now here he was, but no sight of Peyton anywhere.

  As he turned down aisle five, he struck another cart. “Sorry,” he said, but received no validation of his apology. The woman seemed preoccupied with the pile of coupons she was anxiously skimming as several fell to the floor. She had his cart penned and he waited. Finally, she looked up, gaze narrowed and lips pursed, as if he’d committed a crime.