The Bachelor Cowboy Read online

  She furrowed her brows. “Oscar? Because I don’t think they’ll let us bring him in—”

  His hand went to her waist and he pulled her in against him. Jack smiled down at her, his nose brushing against hers before he leaned in and gave her the lightest of kisses. “Hello,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

  Oh god, this man was going to make her melt into a puddle. “Missed you, too.” She curled her fingers against his shirt. “Is . . . this how we’re going to greet each other from now on?”

  “I think it has merit, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” she teased back. “I didn’t get any tongue—”

  Layla didn’t even get the words out before Jack’s mouth was on hers again, and this time, his tongue swept into her mouth and conquered her with dizzying strokes. By the time he pulled away, she was breathless and wobbly-kneed, and his mouth was smeared with her nude lipstick. She’d never seen anything sexier.

  “That’s how I should greet you every time,” he told her.

  “I like your idea better than mine,” Layla managed. Okay, if this was a sign of how the date would go, it was off to a great start. She was a little nervous, she realized as she reached up to brush some of the smears of her lipstick off Jack’s mouth, but a glass of wine or two would help with that.

  He grinned down at her, swiping the back of his hand over his lips and wiping away the rest of her lipstick, and that nervousness doubled in her belly. Why was she so anxious?

  Oh right, because he was sexy and gorgeous and kissed her like her virginity belonged to him. Tonight could be her night.

  The butterflies in her stomach seemed to triple in size.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jack wondered if it was a bad sign that his cute, sexy date was downing wine like it was going out of style. Layla seemed to be in a good mood. She’d chatted happily as they’d drove a few towns away to grab dinner at a casual restaurant, and she’d ordered a glass of wine. He’d kept to water, since he was driving, and figured she was just enjoying herself. Nothing wrong with a nice glass of wine.

  But then she’d ordered another.

  By the time they finished dinner, his date was decidedly tipsy. The tip of her nose was pink, and her cheeks were flushed, and she just kept smiling at him as if he’d hung the moon.

  It was cute . . . but it was also a little odd. After she’d downed her third glass of wine before dessert, Jack had begun to wonder if something was wrong. Did she normally drink herself into oblivion on dates? Or did she just not go on many dates?

  He suspected it was the latter, given that her mother had made the virginity cracks, and Layla herself had never confirmed or denied it.

  “You okay?” Jack asked as she downed another glass of red. The waiter set dessert in front of them—a wedge of cheesecake covered in strawberry slices and topped with whipped cream—and placed two spoons on the table.

  Layla beamed at him, her expression sweet. “I’m having a wonderful time, actually.”

  “You drunk?”

  She shook her head, so slowly and sternly that it told him, yes, she absolutely was drunk. Layla leaned in, as if confiding a secret. “I’m just having a little wine to loosen up.”

  “Ah.” His mouth twitched. “Because I’m so scary and intimidating?”

  “Very,” she told him solemnly. “You’re too pretty.” Layla grabbed a spoon and sliced off a bite of the cheesecake, nibbling on it.

  “So you’d feel better if I was uglier?”

  “Oh, so much better,” Layla agreed. “Then I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed.”

  “Overwhelmed?” He was honestly surprised. “Because of me?”

  She nodded solemnly. “I like you. And I’m afraid I’m not your type.”

  “Who said that, your mother?” Not his type, was whoever said that crazy? He liked how refreshingly fun she was, how positive. He liked her beaming smile and the way her glasses slid down her nose, the way she always looked slightly disheveled. She was absolutely his type.

  Layla bit her lip and reached for her wine again, only to realize too late that it was empty. “Maybe.”

  He wanted to throttle that woman.

  He’d never before felt like hating anyone’s mother, but damn if Layla’s mother wasn’t a real piece of work. “Whatever she told you, she’s wrong,” he reassured her.

  “You should try one of these strawberries,” Layla told him, drunkenly pushing one under his nose. “They’re really good.”

  “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “Yes? Strawberry?”

  He chuckled and took it from her fingertips, letting his lips graze her fingers.

  “Oh,” Layla breathed, and put her fingertips to her mouth. Damn if he didn’t get hard right then and there.

  “Does this mean I get to take a turn and feed you?” he asked, sliding his chair closer to hers. He picked up another slice of strawberry and held it out to her, and she licked his fingertips in a way that was entirely not restaurant appropriate, her gaze locked on him.

  Yeah, he definitely had a problem in the front of his pants now. He couldn’t stop staring at her full, kissable mouth, though, and he hated that she was drunk.

  Drunk was off-limits, far as he was concerned. He wanted more from Layla than just a cheap hookup, and he’d be damned if he let their first official date turn into one. So he scooted his chair back a safe distance, flagged down the waiter, and got the check. He noticed Layla wasn’t eating much of the cheesecake after that last bit, and he glanced over at her. “You want to take that home?”

  She squinted at him. “I . . . think so? My stomach’s a little . . . not good.”

  Ah hell. “Do you need to make a pit stop to the bathroom?”

  She shook her head, pursing her lips. “I’m okay.”

  He wasn’t so sure about that. Luckily, the waiter seemed to realize the problem and cashed them out quickly. Jack left him a hefty tip as a thank-you, grabbed the box of cheesecake, and then put a hand at the small of Layla’s back. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s get you home.”

  “Home?” Layla said, a little too loudly as they walked out to the parking lot. “We can’t go home. We have a painting date! Painting and wine.”

  “I think you’ve had enough wine for tonight.”

  “I’m not drunk, cowboy,” Layla declared. “And we are absolutely going painting. I already paid a deposit to hold our seats. So come on.”

  She marched three steps ahead of him—and immediately tumbled off the curb of the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jack let out a yelp of surprise as Layla went down, legs sprawling. His heart pounded in his chest, sheer terror ripping through him as she lay on the asphalt, her legs sprawled in those ridiculous (but sexy) shoes and her dress almost riding indecently high under her coat. “Layla! Are you okay?”

  She gave a drunken giggle. “Look out for that last step. It’s a doozy.”

  Jack groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.” He leaned over, offering her a hand. “Come on.” He’d tossed the cheesecake away the moment he’d seen her go down, and the sad black container sat on the sidewalk alone. He’d have to scoop it up, right after he scooped up his girl.

  Layla took his hand, but the moment she tried to put weight on her foot, she hissed and collapsed again. “Ow.”

  He squatted next to her. “Where’s it hurt?” His fingers moved over her legs, skating over her ankles.

  “Well, my pride is absolutely brutalized,” she began lightly. “But . . . my ankle.”

  “I’ve got you.” Jack ran his fingers up and down her ankle, but nothing seemed to be swollen. “Does it hurt when I touch it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Probably not broken, but that doesn’t mean you should walk on it.”
He slid an arm behind her back and braced himself. “Hold on.”

  “What are you doing . . .” Her voice trailed off as he hauled her into the air. Layla’s arms went around his neck and she clung to him. “Oh. You’re carrying me.”

  “I’m carrying you,” he agreed. She sounded a bit more sober than she had in the restaurant, but he imagined that the pain was a hell of a wake-up call.

  “My shoe,” she murmured. Sure enough, one of her feet was bare, the toenails painted a whimsical purple that seemed very Layla.

  “I’ll go back for it. Let’s get you settled first.”

  She just sighed and clung to him.

  Jack managed to get her into the passenger seat of his truck without too much trouble, and by the time he got her buckled in, he saw that the waiter had come out after them and retrieved Layla’s shoe and dessert. He handed them over to Jack with a sympathetic look, and Jack tipped him again for the help. Once he was settled back in his truck, he looked over at his date. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was settled into an unhappy line. “You okay?”

  “Just hurting,” she whispered, and then licked her lips. “Wine’s not sitting so well, either.”

  “You’re a lightweight, I take it?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I’ll try and drive slow.” Something told him it wasn’t going to help.

  * * *

  * * *

  Layla threw up twice on the drive home. She’d thought it was a short drive out to the restaurant, but the return trip seemed to take such a long time that she knew she wasn’t going to make it. She’d break out into a clammy sweat, then make an awful noise in her throat, and Jack would immediately pull the truck over so she could have a good puke. The sour taste of wine and vomit stuck in her throat, making matters worse, and her ankle throbbed with pain.

  Tonight had been a train wreck.

  She wanted to apologize to Jack. To tell him that she knew she’d messed up. That she’d guzzled so much wine because she’d been nervous and her mother had made her feel like a messy virgin, and then she’d gotten drunk. Puking all over the place and spraining her ankle weren’t helping the situation, either. It was like fate was determined to make her realize just how wrong she was for Jack by throwing a spanner into the works every time they got together. If she wasn’t locking herself in the bathroom, she was getting drunk and making a fool of herself.

  Now she’d ruined her chances with the hottest guy she’d ever met, a hot guy who’d seemed into her, and she’d messed it all up because she didn’t want to “act like a virgin.”

  “We’re here,” Jack told her as he parked the truck. “Wait there and I’ll help you inside.”

  Like she was moving? Layla pressed her sweaty face to the window, feeling overheated and sick. She was going to puke again. She just knew it. She kept her eyes closed and wanted to just hide until he left. Maybe he’d get the idea and just abandon her at the curb in front of her house. That seemed about what she deserved.

  “Come on,” Jack murmured, and then he was carrying her to the house. The swaying made a fresh sweat break out on her face and she concentrated on not throwing up all over him. At some point, she realized she was on the couch, and she wondered how he’d gotten the front door open. Then again, she had no idea where her keys were, and she didn’t care. Everything was spinning, and her ankle was killing her.

  A cool, wet cloth was placed on her forehead.

  Oh. That felt so good that she moaned.

  “Better?” Jack’s voice was soft.

  “You’re still here?”

  “What, you think I’d leave you?” He moved to her feet, pulled her shoes off—at some point she’d put them both back on again—and then pulled a knitted afghan over her legs. “What can I get you?”

  “I could really, really use some dignity right about now.”

  He chuckled. “Fresh out of spare dignity, but maybe some crackers?”

  “Ice pack for my ankle, maybe.” Everything else could wait.

  “Be right back.”

  She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing Layla knew, all the lights were off and she was in her bed, Jack tucking the blankets around her, Oscar snuggled against her front. She drifted back to sleep again . . . and woke up when she rolled over and bumped into a big, strong body.

  Oh. Jack was in bed with her.

  Layla sat up, squinted at the alarm clock. It was pitch-black outside, and the glaringly red alarm clock read three forty-five in the morning. Ugh. Jack was asleep next to her, atop the blankets and fully dressed except for his boots. She rubbed her face, feeling like hell.

  “You okay?” He touched her arm briefly. “Want some aspirin?”

  She nodded, he brought her some and a glass of water, and she lay back down. Through her foggy mind, she vaguely realized that Oscar was now tucked between the two of them on the bed, and for a moment, she was jealous of a silly dog because he got to cuddle against Jack’s front and she didn’t.

  Jack probably would never want to cuddle with her again after tonight, though, and with a disgusted sigh at herself, Layla went back to sleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  Layla woke up the next morning to Oscar licking her face, the sound of dishes downstairs, and an utterly egregious hangover. She groaned and pulled a pillow back over her head, but Oscar wiggled under and kept licking her face. Her mouth tasted awful. Her head felt awful, and Jack was apparently still around despite last night’s disastrous date.

  Everything was awful.

  After a moment of self-pity, Layla pulled herself from bed—and nearly fell flat on her ass again as a wave of pain raced up her leg. Right. She’d screwed up her ankle. Ugh. She leaned on furniture and hobbled to the bathroom, keeping weight off her bad leg. Once there, she brushed her teeth, took some aspirin, washed her grimy-feeling face, and then hobbled right back to bed.

  Maybe if she ignored Jack, he’d quietly leave and spare her the humiliation of last night.

  Then she heard heavy boots coming up the stairs, and a cheerful whistling, and she knew she wasn’t going to be spared.

  There was a gentle knock at the door, and then Jack poked his head in. “Layla? You awake?”

  “Oh yeah.” She gave him a falsely bright smile and squinted at her blurry surroundings. Her glasses were on the nightstand but she’d left them off, and for some reason it made her feel vulnerable. “So this is terribly awkward.”

  “Is it? Why?” He moved into the room with a plate of toast and a cup of coffee, all casual gorgeousness. His clothes were slightly rumpled from sleeping in them, and his hair was messy, his jaw shadowed, but he still looked unfairly beautiful. Meanwhile, she felt like death warmed over.

  “Made you toast and coffee,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and setting the plate down on the nightstand.

  “Thank you.” She quietly took the mug and sipped it, because she wasn’t sure what else to say to him. When they were both silent, Layla sighed.

  “So why is this awkward?”

  “Well, let me think. I got shit-faced on our date, twisted my ankle, and then puked all the way home. As dates go, it definitely wasn’t in my top five. Pretty sure it wasn’t in yours, either.”

  He just chuckled.

  “You didn’t have to stay, you know. I swear I’m fine.”

  Jack gave her a puzzled look. “You weren’t feeling well. Didn’t think it was right to just abandon you. Lemme see your ankle.”

  Before she could move, he was pushing the blankets aside and revealing her legs. Her dress had hiked up all the way to her hips, and Layla’s panties were visible, much to her chagrin. If he saw them, he didn’t say anything, but she was acutely aware of just how vulnerable—and half naked—she was as he carefully examined her ankle.

  “Still not swollen,” he murmured. “A little bruis
ed. It might be a good idea to wrap it up and stay off it for a few days.” He glanced up at her, all concern. “Do you want to go to the doctor? I can take you.”

  “No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have worn high heels . . . or drank so much . . . or left my house.” She gave him a rueful smile. “It’s all good.”

  He settled back, but she noticed he kept a hand on her leg. “Well, I thought you looked beautiful. And I was glad you left your house.”

  Layla bit her lip. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “Because I ruined our date.” She arched a brow at him. “Don’t tell me you had tons of fun taking care of a sick drunk.”

  “It wasn’t how I’d anticipated spending my night, but I didn’t think it was all bad.” His beautiful mouth twitched with amusement.

  “Just mostly bad?”

  “Just mostly,” he agreed, teasing. His thumb stroked over her ankle. “So will you tell me what she said?”

  For a moment, Layla had no idea what he was talking about. “What who said?”

  “Your mother called you right before our date, didn’t she?”

  Oh damn. Had she babbled about that when drunk? Layla swallowed hard. Lie and feign ignorance? Or fess up and sound childish? Even though it made her seem silly, she decided to go with the truth. “You know, she said the usual mother stuff.”

  “Oh, I can imagine.” His tone was dry. “Let me guess, tore you down before our date to make you nervous, right?”

  Layla shook a teasing finger at him. “Have you been talking to my therapist?”

  Jack just gave her an understanding look. “The next date we go out on, you’re not allowed to talk to her ahead of time.”

  Layla picked at the hem of her dress, nodding, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. “Wait, you want to go out again?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Every time we get together it ends in disaster? That might be a good reason why we should give up.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Jack murmured, his thumb caressing circles on her leg. “I happen to think we’ve had more positive than negative on our dates.”