Caught Up in a Cowboy, page 9
“Yeah? Quinn told you? Did she sound excited?”
His mom arched an eyebrow. “You certainly do.”
He shrugged. “I just want to put the past behind us and quit fighting.”
She studied his face. “I’d like that too. But she’s not as tough as she looks. Be careful with her. I love that girl like she’s my own kin. I don’t want to see you hurt her again.”
He cringed at the word again. “I know, Mom. I don’t want to hurt her either. That’s why I’m trying to make amends. I hate all the anger and bitterness between us. I just want to be her friend.”
His mom didn’t say anything, but one of her eyebrows shot up.
“I do,” he insisted. “She was a big part of my life. I miss having her in it.” Even still, he found himself wanting to call her when something funny happened or when he had news to share.
“I understand. And I hope you all can work it out. She’s been through enough. Small towns might take care of their own, and they do love Quinn, but I still heard them talk about her and how that weasel Hill has never done right by her, and the talk wasn’t always flattering. She holds her head high, but she’s not as strong as she acts. So like I said, just be careful with that girl. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
He’d been accused of being selfish before. Hell, he was selfish, thinking only of himself when he’d left Quinn all those years before.
And that wasn’t all. He hadn’t really faced it yet, but he knew that his selfishness was in part to blame for why he’d been hurt.
In hockey, their mantra, handed down by the great man, Gretsky himself, was that good players score, great players pass. He should have passed the puck during the play that he got slammed on. But he knew he could score, knew he could get the game-winning goal.
He’d seen his teammate open in front of the net, had heard the slap of his stick against the ice as he called for the puck, but Rock had held on, had skated up the boards, dominating the puck as he readied to cross to the crease. That’s when he’d been hit.
If he’d only passed the puck, the hit might never have happened.
If he’d only let go of his pride and selfishness.
But he had the chance to do that now—to make up for some of the hurt that he’d caused.
To make things up to the one he’d hurt the most.
* * *
Quinn couldn’t seem to focus as she absently twirled a few strands of spaghetti around her fork.
She and Max were having dinner that night, but all she could think about was the impending dinner that she’d be eating the next night with Rock.
Where would he take her? What should she wear?
What the heck would they talk about?
And what if he tried to kiss her good night?
Stop. She couldn’t go there.
He’d said he wanted to patch things up, to be friends again.
He was confusing the heck out of her, and thinking through all of the possibilities was making her head hurt.
She looked across the table at Max, a grin curving her lips as she watched him chase a meatball around his plate, trying to spear it with his fork. He made another stab at it, and the meatball shot off the side of his dish and rolled across the table toward her.
He looked up, his eyes wide, as he waited for her response.
It was only the two of them at dinner. Her father and brother had taken off earlier to run errands in town and had phoned that they were grabbing a burger at The Creed.
Which was fine with Quinn. She treasured time she got to spend alone with Max. Even if he was lobbing spaghetti sauce–covered meatballs across the table at her.
She peered down at the meatball as it rolled to a stop by her plate. Glancing up at Max, she held her arms up in the air in a U shape and yelled, “Score.”
His eyes grew even rounder, then he burst into giggles, and her heart melted like chocolate in the warm sun. There was nothing in the world as sweet as the sound of her son’s spontaneous laughter.
She considered picking up the meatball and chucking it back at him. He would really dissolve into laughter, but she stopped herself before starting that mess. Instead, she scooped the meatball into her napkin and smiled over at her son. “How about you try to get the meatballs in your mouth instead of on the table?”
“I was trying. It just got away from me,” he said.
She knew what that was like. Things got away from her on a daily basis, including her reaction to a certain hunky, hockey-playing cowboy.
Leaning forward, she cut the remaining meatballs on Max’s plate into bite-size pieces.
He gave her an appreciative grin. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. Now finish up so you can get in the shower. I think you’ve got spaghetti sauce in your hair.”
He giggled, then popped a bite into his mouth.
She picked up her tea and took a sip, her mind wandering again.
“Do you think my dad likes to read books?”
Quinn almost choked on her drink.
Where the heck did that come from?
She swallowed as she tried to formulate an answer. “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking about him the other day when Rock was reading me those books. I was thinkin’ that maybe if I could figure out what kind of books he liked, I could send him one, and maybe then, you know, he might want to come and see me so we could read it together.”
Pain seared her chest, and she struggled to breathe against the feeling of a giant fist squeezing her heart. And that fist was the only thing that was keeping her heart from breaking in two.
She wanted to pick Max up, to gather his small body in her arms, and cuddle him against her. All of her mama-bear instincts were kicking in, and she wanted to protect him from anything—or anyone—that could hurt him.
Anyone like Monty Hill. Like the son of a bitch who refused to even claim him as his own. She looked down at Max’s sweet face, his eyes wide and innocent behind his glasses, and a surge of love flowed through her. A surge stronger than anything she’d ever felt for another human being.
A tiny human being that she wanted to protect from the ugliness of the world and from his stupid, deadbeat dad. But she couldn’t say that. She had always tried to keep her feelings for Monty in check when she was around Max, not wanting the boy to feel any of her animosity and worry that it somehow had to do with him.
She could take it, could take anything, bear any burden, if it meant shielding the sweet, precious heart of her son.
“Your dad is a pretty busy guy. I’m sure he would want to read books with you if he could. I think he travels a lot.”
“Do you think he ever travels to Colorado? Maybe he could come for a visit,” Max suggested with a shrug of his thin shoulders.
“I don’t think he gets out this way very often.”
The boy’s shoulders sagged as he let out a sigh.
She hated to set up a false expectation, but she also wasn’t ready to break her child’s beautiful, forgiving heart.
“Hey, how about if we make some root beer floats and sit out on the front porch?”
Max’s eyes lit with excitement, and he stuffed the last few bites of meatball in his mouth.
It was probably a cheap trick to distract him with an offer of sugar and soda. But it was better than the alternative, which was to tell him that it didn’t matter how many books they sent him, his dad wasn’t ever coming for a visit.
Heck, she wasn’t even sure if the Neanderthal knew how to read.
Chapter 8
Rock sucked in a breath, his gaze fixed on the beautiful woman who flashed him a smile as he stepped out of the car.
She strode down the steps toward him, dressed simply in a pair of jeans, a fitted, teal-colored T-shirt, and a pair of sandals. Her hair was loose and fell in wavy curls around her shoulders. A silver necklace draped around her slender neck, and some kind of blue, sparkly hoops dangled from her ears.
She was stunning. But she could have been wearing a paper bag, and she’d look amazing in his book.
“Hey, Rock,” she said, her voice almost sounding shy as she ducked her head.
This was new. Quinn Rivers hadn’t been shy a day in her life.
And especially not with him.
They’d always been comfortable, easy with each other.
So why were his palms sweating and he was standing awkwardly by the car, wondering what to do? Should he hug her? Kiss her on the cheek?
She stopped a few feet away from him and focused on the car, saving him from deciding. “You brought the Porsche tonight instead of the truck.”
“Yeah, I thought it would be more fun to drive the convertible.” He’d considered bringing the truck, but it held a lot of memories for both of them, and he figured tonight would be tense enough without adding in the nostalgia of the old truck. “Is that okay?”
“That depends.” Her lips curved up in an impish grin. “Can I drive?”
He chuckled and felt the knot loosen in his gut. “Sure.” He held open the door.
She passed in front of him, the heady scent of her shampoo and perfume swirling around him, almost making him dizzy, as she slid into the driver’s seat.
He climbed into the passenger side, his gaze captivated by the way her hand caressed the supple leather seats. It didn’t take much to imagine her hand gliding seductively along his skin in the same manner.
Just friends, he reminded himself, tearing his eyes away from her slender fingers and focusing on buckling his seat belt.
“How fast does it go from zero to sixty?” she asked, glancing at the long driveway leading out of the ranch.
“Fast enough.”
“Let’s see.” She put the car in gear and punched the accelerator.
He let out a laugh and grabbed the dash, grinning at the look of reckless joy and freedom on her face as she flew down the driveway.
All he could do was hold on—to the car, and to his heart.
“Where are we going?” she yelled over the noise of the wind.
“I thought we’d go to the Wagon Wheel,” he hollered back, referring to the steak house just outside of Creedence. The food was good, it had patio seating next to a mountain stream, and he remembered it had always been a favorite of Quinn’s. “But we need to stop for gas first.”
She nodded, her attention fixed on the road.
Ten minutes later, she turned into the Quik Stop, pulling up to the gas pump and turning off the engine.
An old red pickup was on the other side of the pump, and Rock recognized the guy standing next to it.
Lennie Larson had been a classmate of theirs from high school. He’d played football with Rock and his brothers, and his stocky frame had made him a good defenseman. But it seemed his stockiness had turned soft, and a round roll of beer belly hung over the top of his belt.
He wore a red shirt that was almost as faded as his truck, a dark stain dribbled down the front as if he’d recently dropped a bite of his lunch on it, and his once light-brown hair had darkened and thinned.
Rock waved as he got out of the car and approached the gas pump. “Hey, Lennie.”
“Hey, Rock,” he answered, his bottom lip protruding out from the round bubble of chew packed inside. He raised his chin and smiled as he glanced toward the car. “Hey there, Quinn.”
She grinned back, running her hand along the side of the door. “Hi, Len. What do you think of my new car?”
He let loose a thick stream of tobacco juice. “Pretty nice.” He pulled the back of his hand across his chin, swiping away the stray drip of juice.
“I just got it.” She flashed a flirty grin at Rock, who just chuckled as he filled the tank with gas.
“You had a pretty good season,” Lennie said, speaking to Rock, but his eyes were still taking in the trappings of the sports car. “Tough break about the Cup.”
A hard rock settled in his gut at the mention of the team and their missed opportunity at the championship. He pulled the pump handle free and shoved it back into the holder, then twisted the cap back on and snapped the compartment door closed. “Yeah, tough break.”
He didn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t anything else to say. They were out. They’d blown it this year. He’d blown it this year.
He slid back into the passenger side of the car, grumbling, “Let’s go.”
“See ya, Lennie,” Quinn called before starting the engine and pulling out of the gas station. She patted his leg. “Don’t let it get to you. It wasn’t your fault.”
She still had a way of always knowing what he was thinking. He rested his hand on hers, clasping her fingers in his as he let out a sigh. “Thanks.”
He’d felt the slightest jolt in her arm when he’d closed his fingers around her hand, and she let it rest there for just a moment, then pulled her hand free and grasped the steering wheel.
Did she really want to get a firmer grip on the wheel, or was she just trying to pull away from him?
He didn’t know.
But he did know that he didn’t want the black cloud of his injury to cast a shadow on their date. Not that it was a date. But on their dinner plans. He blew out his breath, trying to let the negative energy go with the expelled air.
The car sped down the road. She handled it well and was obviously enjoying herself, which made him happy.
“Just so you know,” he told her as they pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, “I haven’t ever let anyone else drive this car.”
She angled into a parking spot and cut the engine, then turned in her seat to face him. “That’s what you used to say about your truck too.”
He clapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m glad you brought that up after I let you drive. Otherwise I might not have given you the keys.”
“What? Why? I’m a good driver.”
“Remember when I let you drive my truck home from the lake and you hit that tree?”
Her eyes widened, then she let out a laugh. “Oh my gosh, I forgot about that. And I barely tapped it. Besides, you could hardly call that a tree. It was more like a bush.”
“Sure, okay.” He liked teasing her as he got out and opened the door for her. He automatically raised his arm to rest it around her shoulders, then pulled it back at the last second. Quinn was laughing and teasing with him again, the most she’d spoken to him in years. Best not to push his luck.
The hostess sat them at a creek-side table on the patio and took their drink orders. Quinn ordered a glass of wine, but he stuck with water.
“You don’t want a beer?”
“Nah. Not when I’m driving. And I really don’t drink a lot during the season.” Although that was true, he was also worried the alcohol would contribute to the headaches he’d been having, but he didn’t need to share that with her.
The waitress brought their drinks, and they both ordered steaks.
Quinn studied him over her glass of wine as she took a sip. “You are different. I can’t totally pinpoint all of the differences, but it’s there. It’s like you’re…more responsible. More grown up, I guess.”
“Gosh, I hope so. Especially if you’re comparing me to the asshole teenager that I used to be.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure I can still be an asshole, but I try not to be an asshole and an idiot at the same time.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’ll give you that one.”
“Seriously, I have grown up. I have a job, a house, bills, responsibilities. I’m not the same kid who left here nine years ago.”
I’m not the selfish kid who left you behind.
He didn’t say it. But he didn’t have to. He knew she was thinking the same thing. He could tell by the way her smile faltered and she absently picked at the seam of her napkin.
“You’re different too, you know,” he said, lifting his glass and tilting it toward her. “You’re the epitome of responsible. You’re a mom.” He shook his head as he took a sip of water. “It’s hard to believe you have an eight-year-old son.”
“It’s hard for me to believe too.” Her eyes took on a faraway gleam. “But you know, sometimes the brightest consequences come out of the darkest times.”
“Max is a pretty great kid,” he said, not wanting to rehash the same hurts again. Reaching out, he touched her hand—didn’t hold it, just rested the tips of his fingers on her knuckles as he offered her a smile. “He must have your genes.”
“Lord, let’s hope so.”
She didn’t have to say the rest of it. He knew what she was thinking, just from the worried expression around her eyes and the tight set of her mouth.
“Don’t worry. Hill’s not even around. And I can already tell that he takes after you in so many ways. And Ham and Logan are good men. They set fine examples for him.”
“Thank you. That’s what I’m hoping.”
He shook his head, a question on the tip of his tongue, a question that he’d wanted to ask for years. “How’d you get mixed up with Hill anyway?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know him. He was just a cute guy at a party. I’d been drinking, way too much, more than I’d ever done before, or since, and he seemed nice—a little rough around the edges maybe, and a little bit of a bad boy. And the exact opposite of you. He was just the kind of guy that I know you would have told me to stay away from. Which is probably what made me go off with him. I wanted you to hear about it. To hear that I was already with someone new—someone you would hate. I wanted to punish you. To make you come running back for me.”
She glanced up at him, old hurts shining in her eyes. “It didn’t really work out the way I’d planned though.”
“Yeah, it did. Except I’d already come back for you. I was just too late.”
