Mother Clucker, page 1
MOTHER CLUCKER
CAT JOHNSON
New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author
They say opposites attract, but in this case, they might just combust . . .
HEATHER
Hermosa Beach seems to be the place for throwing together unlikely opposites.
My rooster Rowdy and his new crush, Pixy the goat.
Me and the obnoxiously cocky cowboy from Texas . . .
But unlike Rowdy and Pixy, there’s no way I’m going to fall for David Strickland.
Nope. Not gonna happen. I could never be with a man so completely opposed to everything I believe . . . no matter how hot he is.
DAVID
There couldn’t be two people more different than the beautiful little tree hugger and rooster rescuer Heather and me.
We can’t agree on anything, except that we disagree on everything—some times more heatedly than other times. And believe me, things are starting to heat up between us, in more ways than one.
She's the last thing I expected to find at an animal shelter in California. But now I found her, I have no intention of letting her go.
I just have to get her on board with that plan.
Mother Clucker is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Bastard. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
MOTHER CLUCKER
CAT JOHNSON
Copyright© 2020 Cat Johnson
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Introduction
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Cocky Hero Club
Also by Cat Johnson
About Cat
ONE
Heather
Yes. I really was pumping gas at eight in the morning on a Saturday.
Why?
Because apparently I had no life. That’s why.
With a sigh, I slammed the door of my hybrid and squinted through the early morning glare at the pump, my credit card in my hand.
Somehow in my caffeine-deprived state I found the credit card slot. I’d only had one quick small cup at home. Not my usual three or more daily. Yes, that was probably too much coffee. Don’t judge me.
I shoved my credit card in and glanced toward the building. What were the chances they had decent coffee inside?
As I debated the risks versus the rewards of gas station coffee, I glanced back at the pump.
The glare on the display made it nearly impossible to read the words on the tiny screen. I shaded it with my hand and finally made out the dark text against the greenish screen . . . and let out a huff after reading the message.
Please Pay Inside.
Lovely. Like it or not, it looked like I was going in. But on the bright side, I could scope out the coffee situation while I was in there and decide if I wanted to risk it or try to find a Starbucks on my way.
I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and tugged my keys out of the ignition.
After barely a second’s hesitation, I clicked the key fob and locked the car’s doors. I had my suitcase inside and my laptop. And darn, I’d forgotten my cell phone was still in the vent holder plugged into the car charger with the GPS app running. Too much to risk getting stolen if I left the car unlocked.
Annoyed I had to go in at all, I headed for the building. Next car I bought was going to be totally electric, because pumping gas for my current hybrid, though infrequent, was still too much of a pain to deal with.
I flung open the door in my annoyance and stomped inside.
“Fifty bucks on pump number eight, please.” The deep sultry voice with what sounded like a Texas twang in it stopped my internal rant just inside the entrance.
I swung my head toward the counter and saw something I imagined people didn’t see very often here in Los Angeles County. A pair of Levi’s and at the end of those oh so long legs were—be still my western-romance-novel-loving heart—honest to goodness cowboy boots.
When I could get my gaze up from his intriguing denim-clad butt, I took the time to appreciate what was under the fitted shirt tucked in at the waist made narrower by the thick brown leather belt he wore.
Those broad shoulders . . . They made me want to run my hands up his arms and down his back to feel if his muscles were as hard as I imagined they would be.
Hard. I bet lots of parts of him could be real hard—and jeez. What was I thinking?
I should have packed my vibrator. That’s what I was thinking.
I barely registered the tinkling of the bell behind me. It wasn’t until I heard, “Excuse me,” that I turned around and realized I was blocking the doorway.
The woman behind me looked annoyed. Too bad. I was having a moment here with my cowboy fantasy. Times like this came too few and far between in my life.
I apologized anyway. “Sorry.”
That’s when he turned. He saw me and smiled. A smile that reached all the way up to his hazel eyes.
My pulse racing, I smiled back and moved toward the counter because I wasn’t letting the snotty woman, who’d just walked in, get in line in front of me. Not when I could be right up behind Tex. Up close and personal.
“Here you go. Sign please.”
He turned back toward the counter so the clerk could hand him back his card. Though not before I appreciated his handsome tanned face and the light brown stubble on his chin that matched his sun-bleached brown hair. He signed the screen and of course I noticed his big strong work-roughened hands. Because of course a man like that wouldn’t have smooth soft hands. No way.
But the end of the transaction meant the end of our encounter. He turned and after a small nod in my direction that nearly made my knees weak, he was gone.
I shoved my card at the clerk. “I need gas, please.”
“How much?”
How did I know how much? “I don’t know. I want to fill it.”
“Well how much does it usually take?” he asked.
“Twenty dollars worth, I guess?” I shrugged.
“Which pump?”
Darn it. I was supposed to know that too, wasn’t I? These were too many questions for this early in the morning.
I glanced out the glass doors. “The one by the white car.”
With a sigh, the clerk moved toward the window and glanced outside. “Pump seven.”
If he said so. “Okay.”
The guy ran my card but not without a judgmental glare. Forgive me if I didn’t know exactly how much gas my car took or notice the pump number.
It was starting to be a cruddy morning, but as I made my way back out of the building and to my car, the sight that greeted me wasn’t so bad. Tex was standing, holding the gas pump and facing a big black truck. Like really big.
I’d probably need to use those built-in stairs beneath the doors just to get in it.
I pressed my lips tightly together. He might be cute and hot, but I was still judging him and his truck for his enormous carbon footprint. Judging him or whomever he worked for, since closer inspection made me think this was a company vehicle. On the door was painted the name Strickland.
Beneath the name was a logo featuring a rooster. That was fitting. The man driving the truck was certainly cocky.
He turned and noticed me looking. I yanked my gaze away and concentrated overly hard on filling my car.
When I dared glance back, I saw his lips twitch with a smile before he let out a chuckle.
“Something funny,” I asked.
He lifted one shoulder. “Just that if I had to guess what kind of car you drove, I would have guessed that one. Or something like it.”
I had the distinct feeling I’d just been insulted. And by a man who’d ordered fifty dollars worth of gas when I’d be lucky if all twenty dollars worth fit in my car.
He certainly had no business criticizing me or my choice of vehicles.
I lifted a brow. “And I suppose I should have guessed you’d be driving something like that. Although in this day and age, why anyone would want or need a giant gas guzzler like that is beyond me.”
He matched me by raising his own brow. “Someone would want and need a truck like this because someone often has to haul trailers, and stock, and hay, and feed.”
“Pfft. Not around here,” I countered.
“I’m not from around here.”
I let out a snort. “That’s obvious.”
“Very,” he agreed. “Thank God.”
He’d mumbled the last part under his breath but I heard him.
The pump clicked off and I realized I’d reached my twenty dollar’s worth. And not a minute too soon.
&
I put the nozzle back and moved to the driver’s door. I shot him one last glance and, dammit, he caught me.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his cockiness clear in his tone.
“Yes. My car doesn’t take fifty dollars worth of gas.”
“My truck doesn’t either. It’s got dual gas tanks and takes over a hundred dollars to fill but I’m only getting fifty today.” He actually laughed as my eyes widened at that information.
Shaking my head I opened the door.
“Have a good day,” I said, choosing to take the high road. There was no winning this fight. I could see that.
“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that. Y’all do the same.”
“Yeah.” I slammed the door and clicked on my seat belt, mumbling as I did, “Butthead.”
In my rear view mirror I saw him still smiling in my direction, like I was ridiculous and he was in the right.
Guys like him were the reason I currently didn’t have a boyfriend. Well, one of the reasons. My bastard ex was the real reason, but that was another story.
Too bad the handsome ones were always the worst.
TWO
David
“Mr. Strickland?”
“Yup.” I stood and swept off my hat as a petite but curvy woman with auburn hair took a step toward me.
Her coloring reminded me a little of another attractive woman. One with the sun glinting reddish highlights off her strawberry blonde hair as she stood there and insulted my truck and me, then drove away in her little toy car.
I smothered the laugh the memory brought on.
Sparring with that one had been fun. The madder she got, the more I wanted to lay her across my lap and give her a whooping for having a smart mouth.
Damn, I loved a little attitude on a woman. I’d also loved taming her, just a bit.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
“I think I can see my way to forgiving you . . . if you call me David. Please. Mr. Strickland is my papa and he’s still alive and kicking, thank the good lord.”
She smiled, the expression genuine as her whole face lit with it. “That’s very good to hear. And please, call me Aubrey.”
“Aubrey it is.” I nodded.
Habit had me checking the ring finger of her left hand. I’d done the same with gas chick. There’d been no ring on her left hand.
But I felt like kicking myself in the ass with my size thirteen boots when I caught myself looking now. I wasn’t here for a date—and a good thing too since Aubrey was very obviously sporting a wedding ring.
I was here to conduct business. Nothing but.
Strickland Feed Corporation’s reputation needed a makeover. A big one and fast. I was hoping Ms. Aubrey Bateman could provide it. Her and her little animal shelters.
Word was she made a habit of helping out shelters across the country. Fundraising. Advocacy. Legal advice.
I did my research. Hell, it was easy today with the internet up in everybody’s business. She’d raised half a million dollars for a shelter in Temecula two years ago. And she sat on the board of the shelter here. Had even planted her own law firm next door to it.
That’s why I’d come to her office today. She was good at her job. And I was doing my absolute best to be good at mine as the new CEO of Strickland Feed.
Now that Pops had taken a step back after the stroke I was determined to get Strickland back on top of the pet food distribution chain where it belonged.
“So, let’s sit.” She swept a hand toward the chairs in front of her desk.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I sat in one and, surprisingly, she didn’t sit behind the desk as I’d expected. Instead, she took the other chair facing mine.
Interesting move.
She wanted the donation I was here to offer. It made sense not to put any kind of barrier between her and the donor. She was a smart one, all right.
I’d remember to never underestimate her.
Many a man had underestimated my father, and me after him. Those companies were now part of Strickland. And those men learned a valuable lesson.
But what good was land, corporations, or capital, if our reputation was in the shitter? And after what had happened, ours most certainly was.
“Let me cut right to the chase,” I began.
“Please do. That’s how I like it.” Aubrey smiled.
This woman gave as good as she got. No bull shit. I liked that in a person.
I liked it even better when it was wrapped in a soft pretty package, but that was proving hard for me to find. Especially back in Texas with the name Strickland painted on my truck. There was always the suspicion that women liked what came with the name more than they liked me.
“I’m hoping we can help each other out,” I began. “You see I’ve got money my accountants say I need to give away. And you’ve got some shelters I’m thinking can use some money.”
“I do indeed know of plenty of worthy organizations, both locally and country wide, who are in desperate need of funds for operating costs and improvements. And I’m sure you’ll agree that having your generous donation spread out will also spread the good will around.” She smiled.
Damn. This woman was sharp. She’d seen right to the heart of my plan. Not that I’d really been trying to hide it all that hard.
I let my chin drop to my chest. I brought my gaze up to meet hers. “You caught me. My motivation is more complex than simple generosity and an extreme love of animals—which, actually, I really do have. In fact, most days I like critters more than people.”
She laughed. “I believe you. But honestly, I wouldn’t care if your only motivation were cleaning up your corporate image after it was dragged through the mud. That money will provide food and shelter to thousands of animals in need. And that’s good enough for me.”
“Thank you. I do appreciate that.”
Dragged through the mud indeed. Here I was, hat in hand, thanking the woman for accepting my million-dollar donation.
My having to kiss ass to save the company would end. Eventually. Until then . . . pucker up, butter cup.
I stood. So did she and we shook hands on the deal.
“I’ll have the accounting department cut a check for the million. Make it out to you?” I asked.
“The South Bay Animal Shelter Charitable Foundation, actually. But I administer the fund and I’ll make sure the donations get distributed where you want them to go.”
“South Bay . . .” I lifted a brow and felt in my pocket for a scrap of paper as I glanced around in search of a pen. “That’s a mouthful.”
“I’ll email you the name and address. And our routing and account numbers.” She grinned. “You know, in case someone in the accounting department was born in this century and would like to wire the total amount rather than mail a paper check.”
I let out a laugh. “You calling me old school?”
“Maybe.” Her lips twitched.
I nodded my acceptance. I really couldn’t argue the point. Even though I was only thirty-two, I’d rather be on a horse than in a plane any day. And if I could live life without a fucking cell phone, I would. Happily.
I paused before heading out the door. “I’d be happy to donate a truck load of dog and cat food too. If you think that would help. I understand if you don’t—”
“Thank you. I accept. That would help enormously.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath, waiting for her to politely decline my offer. I let it out now and said, “Then you got it.”
Her acceptance meant more to me than I realized it would. And it made me respect her even more than before.
That Aubrey could overlook the bad press—half of which was over exaggerated and the other half utter lies—gave me hope I could dig Strickland out of the hole we’d sunk into.
