Love Me Again, Cowboy (Second Chance Romance): Wyle Away Ranch Book 2 Page 4

  He reaches out, slowly, in case I protest. I don’t. He gently moves a lock of hair from my face. His fingers leave a trial of warmth where they linger on my jawline. He lowers his head so that his breath is warm on my lips, his hand now in my hair. “Perhaps we should explore whatever-that-was more?”

  I smile. “Perhaps we should.” My gaze falls to his full lips. I’ve never kissed a guy I just met, but I promised myself this would be the year I seize every moment and just live. And I want to know if the connection we have is just a fluke or if there’s something worth exploring here. I gently press my lips to his and I’m instantly lost to the moment. He responds tenderly, yet passionately. Jaxon doesn’t just kiss me, he explores me. It’s discovery; it’s revelation; it’s validation—it’s real and right. His lips move against mine, and if I’m an expert at the smolder, he’s an expert at kissing. My hands roam over his muscled arms and shoulders, then into his soft hair. His hands encircle my waist, pulling me closer to him, while the kiss deepens. Heat and excitement envelop me. My head spins; my heart races; my skin ignites under his touch. I’ve never felt so alive.

  We end the kiss, both of us out of breath and smiling.

  Jaxon and I walk back to the event hand in hand, and just like that he becomes my cowboy.

  Chapter Seven

  Present Day

  He must notice my tenseness, even if he can’t see my face, because he says, “Ma’am? You okay?”

  That’s when I snap out of it, and my emotions narrow down to just one: anger. “No thanks to you, cowboy. But yes, I’m perfectly fine.” I stand up and face Jaxon Wyle, the boy I gave my heart—the boy who shattered it into a million pieces.

  I gain the satisfaction of seeing his flirty expression change to recognition and shock. He takes a step back like he just realized that he’s standing too close to a fire. His brows crease, and those amazing blue eyes of his—the ones that used to hold only love for me—swim with confusion.

  My satisfaction is short-lived when I see, to my dismay, that he’s definitely not bald. Or fat. He somehow looks even better now that he’s been touched with the maturity of adulthood. How is that even possible?

  His dark hair is longer, and it haphazardly curls a little at the nape of his neck. His jawline, rugged with day-old stubble, can rival that of any actor in Hollywood. He’s cute boy turned gorgeous man, and I hate him even more for it. His white T-shirt is pulled tight against his muscled physique. His dark-wash Wranglers end in signature Jax cowboy boots. And even as much as I hate him for breaking my heart, a traitorous part of me just wants to run and jump into his arms like I had so many times before. I want to feel the tenderness of his touch and the passion of his lips on mine. It’s as if my body has forgotten that he’s not my cowboy anymore.

  Jaxon runs a hand though his hair, a nervous gesture that I’m all too familiar with. “Malia?”

  “Oh, so you remember my name?” I say with venom.

  “Of—of course I remember. I remember everything,” he adds under his breath. “What are you doing here? Changing a tire? In heels?”

  Some of my satisfaction returns while I watch the sweet-talkin’ Jaxon Wyle struggle for words for the first time since I’ve known him. I give him a knowing smirk. “I got a flat, genius. You change a tire when that happens. As for the heels, I happen to look fabulous in them.”

  He raises his brows and nods his head. “Yes, you do—on both accounts.” He shoves his hands in his pockets as if he can’t decide what to do with them and shrugs his large shoulders. “But you’re back? In Bisbee?”

  As if this isn’t exactly where I should be. What, is it going to put a cramp in his life? Good. I put my hands on my hips. “It shouldn’t be that surprising. I do have family here.”

  “Of course. It’s just . . . the last thing you texted me was that I’d never see you again, and well, it’s been a long time. I was beginning to believe I never would.”

  So, he had read my texts all those years ago. I wasn’t sure since he’d stopped responding to them. “I said a lot of foolish things to you when I was young. That one was far from the worst of them.”

  He sighs. “Malia, I . . .”

  The way he says my name, pleading and imploring, like he’s about to get into something deeper, has me taking a step back. “Well, thanks for stopping, but I don’t need your help. I know how to change a tire just fine.”

  He tilts his head. “Really? Cuz it looked to me like you were having a bit of trouble with that bolt.”

  The last thing I need is to play damsel to Jax’s hero. “I’ve got it,” I snap.

  He puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay, you’ve got it. But maybe I’ll just wait a few minutes.” He winks, and I hate that it’s a gesture I’ve missed so much. “Just in case.” He folds his arms over his chest and raises his brows at me as if to say go on.

  Oh, great. A Jaxon Wyle audience. Can this day get any worse? I return to my task and pick up the wrench, momentarily contemplating throwing it at him. I crouch down and work on the bolt, but no matter how much I strain at it, the stubborn thing won’t budge—kind of like Jax. I glance at him standing to the side, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine ad for Stetson cologne. I work harder to get the bolt free, fueled by my anger.

  “I know you don’t want my help,” Jax says after a moment. “But I don’t think that bolt is coming loose.”

  I turn to look up at him. “Let me guess. I need a man with big strong muscles to get it off for me?”

  “Actually, I was thinking the WD-40 I have in my truck might do the trick, but thanks for the compliment.”

  “It wasn’t a—” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Never mind. Just get the WD-40.”

  He smiles, lifting one corner of his mouth higher than the other, showing off his dimple. And darn it if it isn’t sexy as hell, and the jerk knows it too. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

  I give him a glare. “Huh. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

  The smile drops and hurt crosses his features. I feel both justified and ashamed at the same time. As he leaves to his truck, a part of me wishes I hadn’t said that, then another part of me argues that I shouldn’t feel bad for making him feel bad for what he did to me. I should feel justified, but in reality, I feel like a foolish ranting child.

  What happened between us was eight years ago. Perhaps it isn’t fair of me to hold on to a grudge from so long ago. I watch him search for the WD-40 and wonder what kind of person Jaxon Wyle is now. He’s obviously not too bad if he stopped to help what he thought was a stranger. I sigh and decide I’ll make a better effort to be nice, or at least not cruel. Besides, I don’t want to get into details of our breakup right now, not when I need to get to the hospital to see how Ala is doing. But I do need to cross that road at some point. I need my closure, just not today.

  Chapter Eight

  JAXON

  I’m rummaging in the back of my truck looking for the WD-40, wondering if I’m dreaming or if this is actually happening. I honestly thought I’d never see Malia again. She wasn’t one to make idle threats, and as the years passed without her returning to visit her sister, or even come back when her parents moved here, I really believed that she was gone for good. Not that I blamed her. She had every right to hate me. And it seems like that hate hasn’t lessened much over the years.

  I think about the conversation I just had with my brothers and how Dillon told me to go to Hollywood to win Malia back. I thought that was an impossible fantasy, but now, with Malia here, perhaps it isn’t so far-fetched after all. I just have to get her to stop hating me first.

  I find the tin canister and make my way back to Malia’s car. She’s still crouched down, working on the begrudging bolt. Her tenacity hasn’t lessoned throughout the years either it would seem.

  She’s somehow even more beautiful than I remembered. The television screen doesn’t capture everything. It’s like a photo: I can see her, but I can’
t experience all there is to Malia Kalama. Perhaps it’s because in her role, she’s someone else. But here and now her fire shines through, even if that heat is directed as a burning flame at me. I would take any burns over the years of cold without her.

  I close the distance, not knowing what to say. It seems as if anything I say might trigger her anger, so instead I just crouch down beside her. Her body stiffens, as if even without looking at me, her body can feel mine next to hers. Sweet heavens, does she smell good. I almost forgot that scent. The tropical flower smell stirs up a handful of memories that brings a painful ache to my gut. I want nothing more than to take her in my arms, tell her I’m sorry for all of it, and never let her go. I push the thought away and spray some of the WD-40 on the bolt. The sharp scent chases away her floral one—a small tender mercy.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I turn my head to face her. It must be hard for her to say those words to me, and I appreciate the effort. There was no bite behind them this time. I realize that I’m staring and look away with a shrug. “No thanks needed. I bet you’d have gotten it eventually.” I gesture to the bolt. “Why don’t you give it a try now?”

  She does, and the bolt finally gives. She faces me, smiling triumphantly, and my heart feels like it might burst. I stay to help her with the rest of the tire change. She lets me without protest, although every time I get close to her, she stiffens like my very presence is painful. I hate myself for what I did to us, even while knowing it was necessary. We don’t say much, only what needs to be said to get the job done. To be honest, I’m scared to say more, scared that if I say the wrong thing she’ll bolt and I’ll really never see her again. Ten minutes too soon, the tire is changed. I go grab an old towel and bottles of water from my truck.

  When I walk back, Malia is pacing in a small circle. I know that means she’s working out something in her head. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but what I do know is that we need to talk. I have to explain to her everything that happened eight years ago. I want her to understand why I stood her up on the day we were supposed to leave together for our new life in California. She needs to know the truth; she deserves it. She stops her pacing when I approach.

  I open one of the water bottles and, knowing the procedure, she holds out her hands. I pour the water slowly over her hands while she rubs them clean. When she’s done, I give her the rag to dry off. I use the rest of the water bottle on my own hands, and she gives me the rag back. After I dry off my hands, I notice a black smudge on her nose.

  “You missed a spot,” I say. She looks at her hands. “Not there. On your nose.”

  Her eyes widen and she quickly rubs at her nose, but she only smears the mark.

  I chuckle. “Here, let me.” I use the wet rag and wipe the black off her face. She’s stiff and staring at me. I stop, lost in her gaze—she always was a master at the smolder. I don’t think she’s even trying, and yet she has me completely entranced. I can still feel the connection between us as a palpable thing, tempting me to explore it like I had before, but I step away instead. I lost the right to that sort of familiarity a long time ago.

  I drop my gaze and gesture to the tire. “This is just a spare. You’re gonna have to go get a new one in Sierra Vista.”

  She just nods.

  “Are you planning on being in town long?”

  She shrugs. “For a while.”

  The excitement grows in my chest. “Do you think . . . that is, could we go for coffee? There are some things I’d like to explain if you’ll allow me.” It’s strange how with any other woman I feel confident, and yet watching Malia think about my invitation has me fumbling like an idiot. I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. I’m not sure if I’m anticipating her turning me down or throwing out a remark about whether or not I’ll show up. I’d deserve both. But I’m still hoping that she’ll just say yes.

  She bites her bottom lip as she contemplates. “Um, yeah. Okay.”

  I let out my breath and give her my winning smile. “Great. Coffee it is. Monday, nine-fifteen at the Bisbee Coffee Shop?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” She gives her own smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think some closure is exactly what we need.”

  Her words are like a cold bucket of water over my head. I don’t know what I thought would come of coffee, or of explaining things to her. Did I think we could maybe pick up where we’d left off? A new beginning, a second chance? I’m a special kind of fool. She hates me— told me as much in her last messages—and she didn’t exactly give me a warm welcome today. And I know what the tabloids and magazines say. She’s with Trey Wentworth, even if he is a cheating sack of crap. Of course, she’s not looking to rekindle things with the ex-boyfriend who stood her up on their future together.

  “Um, yeah. Sure. Closure.” I at least owe her that.

  “Thanks again.” She turns to go. I watch her get into her fancy car and everything in me is screaming not to let her go again, but I do nothing as she drives off. I kick a rock and rub the back of my neck. Of course, all she wants is closure.

  “Dad!” Audrey calls out from the truck. She is holding my phone out, and it’s playing the credits song from her favorite show. “My show’s over. Can we go now!”

  “Yeah . . . okay, baby girl. I’m comin’.”

  Chapter Nine

  MALIA

  When I finally make it to the hospital, I find out that Ala did go into premature labor. Fortunately, the doctors were able to give her some drugs to stop it. They’re keeping her at the hospital for observation, and since they don’t know for how long, it is a good thing I over-packed for Ala. When they see my smudged clothes, I explain that I got a flat tire, but I don’t tell them about my run in with Jax. It just isn’t the right time to bring it up.

  JulieAnn calls to let me know that she found an extreme adventure tourist company near Bisbee and has me booked up for the next few weeks to learn everything I’ll need to know for the role. My first lesson starts Monday afternoon. She also arranged to have my tire fixed while I visit Ala.

  I head to the local Target in Sierra Vista to get some more appropriate clothing and shoe choices. My Hollywood attire just isn’t going to cut it here. I have a scarf around my head and over-sized glasses in the hopes that no one recognizes me. I’m not really in the mood to snap pictures with fans right now.

  While I look for some sturdy boots, I can’t stop thinking about my run-in with Jax. It’s a strange juxtaposition when one part of me wants to punch him and another wants to kiss him. I wonder what he’s going to tell me at the coffee shop on Monday.

  I want to understand why he broke up with me with a text message the morning we were supposed to start our life together in California. I want to know why he wouldn’t see me when I refused to accept his text-break-up and banged on his door. I want to know why one day he could tell me he loved me with all his heart and then the next could ignore me completely. I think half of my anger is in the not knowing. Maybe he has a viable explanation, a perfectly sound reason for doing all those things. Did he have a case of some horrible airborne disease and was really just saving my life? Or maybe he saw a horrific crime by some drug lord and had to go into witness protection. It’s obvious that I’ve had my head in too many scripts lately. I grab a pair of boots and throw them in my cart.

  A woman behind me gasps. “Malia Kalama, is that you, hon?”

  Really? Someone actually recognized me? The scarf and glasses usually work.

  I turn around to see Mrs. Bassencherry, an old local, smiling at me. She’s around my parents’ age and lives just two streets over. Her son, Isaac, was one of Jaxon’s best friends. She always had cookies in the oven, a smile on her face, and gossip on her tongue. Her greying brown hair is braided to one side. She wears large glasses and oversized hippie clothes that hang loose on her petite frame.

  “Mrs. Bassencherry,” I say.

  She throws her arms around me and pulls me down into a strong hu
g, rocking me back and forth. She smells like incense and chocolate chip cookies and, under it all, a little bit of marijuana.

  She backs up and takes my face in her hands. “Oh sweetie, I’ve missed seeing your pretty face.”

  I give her a smile. “It’s good to see you too.”

  She releases me. “You visiting your folks and sister?”

  “Yes, I figured Ala could use some extra help with the new baby on the way.”

  “Well, aren’t you thoughtful.” She leans in close. “I’ve seen you on TV, you know. You’re so good at being the bad girl. Especially since I know you’re not.”

  “Thank you.” It’s always strange when I get complimented for my expertise at being horrible on the screen.

  “Have you seen Jaxon yet?” She asks it in a whisper, even though there’s no one near us to overhear.

  Suddenly, I feel like I’m eighteen again, and she’s asking me if Jax and I have had sex yet. It was the most embarrassing conversation. Even when I’d told her we hadn’t, she still insisted on giving me a condom just in case and the number to a clinic that offered free birth control. Jaxon laughed for ten minutes straight when I told him, then he joked we ought to put her advice to good use. In all seriousness, he never pushed me on that. He knew I wasn’t ready and respected my wishes. He respected me.

  “I ran into him in passing,” I say nonchalantly, acting as if seeing Jaxon for the first time in eight years was no big deal.

  She takes my arm in hers and starts to walk slowly down the aisle like we’re best friends. I don’t want to be rude, so I go with it, even though she’s just made it a lot harder for me to push my cart.

  She lowers her head, still talking in hushed tones. “It was just a shame what happened to you two kids. I knew from the second I saw your auras together that you were meant to be. But he messed it all up by rekindling things with his ex, and then had a baby with that crazy girl on top of it. I saw the two of them together about a week before you left for California. Men are dumb. They’re always led by what’s in their pants.”