Rebel Cowboy (7 page)

Which was enough to knock him out of her truck, ready to take some of the power here. He sauntered over to where Mel stood with the salesman, resisted the urge to scowl when Mel chuckled at something the guy said.

“What’s the word, darling?” he asked cheerfully.

Mel’s look could have probably set his face on fire, but the slick salesman smiled broadly, holding out a hand. “Good morning! So, we’re looking for a truck?” He shook Dan’s hand earnestly, cocking his head. “You look really familiar, sir. Have you bought with us before?”

Dan slung his arm around Mel’s shoulder, which tensed underneath his arm. Which, yes, increased his pissed-off desire to act on his innate douchiness. “Sure haven’t. You mind giving us some space to look around? The lady here sure does like to—” He brought his fingers together to mimic incessant talking.

“Absolutely. We are
not
one of those pushy, in-your-face dealerships. Take all the time you need, and just find me when you’re ready to test drive.” The guy gave an overly wide smile, then did the creepy “shake your hand too long and look you in the eye” thing before finally heading back into the pristine-looking office.

The breath whooshed out of him as Mel knocked a fist into his gut before he had a chance to block it.

“Hey!”

“I pulled it, bastard. What is your problem? Why on earth would you send him away? We’re trying to buy you a necessary tool for your ranch.”

“I don’t want to hear some spiel from some asshole. I just want to get this over with.”

Mel sighed, all world-weary and “you’re so stupid, Sharpe.” “The spiel is important. You have to figure out the best truck for your needs. You have to be friendly so he gives you a deal. Oh wait, I forgot who I’m talking to. Do I need to explain what deal and negotiate mean to you, moneybags?”

The irritable, sexually frustrated part of him wanted to be offended, but it was hard to argue. Money had never been a concern, an issue. It was there, like air and hockey and pretty women who usually fell all over him.

In the face of Mel’s life, her struggle, her complete disgust with him—except for that kiss—he couldn’t argue that he didn’t give a shit about deals or negotiations.

All he wanted to do was skate. Lace up and feel the air breeze by, a man in control and on top of the damn world.
All your problems float away, don’t they, son?

They did. When he was playing hockey, they fucking did.

He did not want to have to ask Mel for advice, and he did not want to have to question why he’d turned her down when it was not at all what he
wanted
to do.

He couldn’t remember too many times he’d done the right thing, the good thing, when it hadn’t given him something he’d wanted.

Standing in a warm parking lot, he wanted to take a stick to every last windshield. So, he did his best to not give a crap. “Pick one.”

She blinked at him like he’d asked her to strip.

“What do you mean ‘pick one’?”

“You’re the expert. You know my ranch. You know trucks. I know jack.” He waved an arm to encompass the whole stupid lot, his whole stupid lack of knowledge. “So, tell me which one to buy. That’s your job. If you were me, which would you choose?”

She looked around the lines of trucks, something slackening her jaw. Her expression was…horrified. He couldn’t work that out. She loved making decisions—especially decisions for him—but she all but recoiled from the suggestion.

“I’m
not
you. I don’t have your money. I don’t have your ranch. I don’t…” She cleared her throat, swallowed. “I don’t have these kinds of choices, Dan.”

She had a way of saying things that jabbed somewhere in his chest—a dull, aching pain right in his center. Things he didn’t think she fully understood the weight of.

Because in some strange twist of fate, the things she said hit him like a ton of bricks. He had no way of fighting her words, escaping the emotions in them. And he knew, like he’d always known, at some point he would be unable to escape.

Making things too hard on Mom so she’d left Dad, walking away when Grandpa had wanted to tell him the story of the ranch that was his heart. When he hadn’t recognized Dan for the first time. The mess with his team. And here, there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run away to.

“You’re the one who said I needed a truck,” he snapped.

“Yes. But, you should pick it!”

It was not the way she usually yelled at him. It was the way she’d yelled at him this morning, like yelling was the only thing that was keeping her from crying. That…that he couldn’t be irritated by or pissed about. This woman had some serious stress on her plate, and while he was in no way up to the challenge of dealing with it, the least he could do was offer a distraction. “Let’s go eat.”

“What?”

“You’re about to break, Cowgirl. Let’s take a lunch break.” He rested his hand on her arm in an attempt to guide her toward her truck.

She jerked her arm away from him. “I told you I’m—”

“You’re human, Mel, whether you want to be or not.” A human who needed something to give, and it didn’t take a genius to realize the give wasn’t going to come from her. “I’m hungry. We’ll do the truck some other day.” A day when they could both handle it. So, maybe never.

She opened her mouth, presumably to argue more, because God knew the woman didn’t breathe without arguing, but then her eyes took in the trucks again, the lot, and her hands shook as she pressed fingers to her temples.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” she said in a wobbly whisper.

“Yup, that’s me. We gonna go eat?”

“Yes. Yes, food. That’s what we need. Food.”

He didn’t think that was what they needed at all, but he wasn’t about to argue. Not until her hands stopped shaking. Not until something around here started to make sense.

So, maybe that was just never going to happen.

Mel did not like being steered.

Scratch that. She liked it. She did not like the fact that she liked it.

But sometimes it was nice to be the one following instead of leading, acting out the decision without having to have made it. She let Dan drag her along, grumbling about Montana and its lack of fine dining.

Fine. Dining.

Bozeman had never felt like an alternate reality until she’d stepped into it with Dan Sharpe at her side.

“Here we go.”

Dan pushed her into some restaurant that immediately made her feel out of place. The lighting was dim, and the strains of some classical song played somewhere over the hostess podium. There was a couple at a table facing them—the man in a suit, the woman in a pencil skirt and blazer—and it was clear they did
not
approve of her and Dan’s jeans and T-shirts.

“I don’t think we—” But before she could whisper her suggestion that they didn’t belong, Dan was greeting the hostess, a pretty young blond in black slacks and a white button-up shirt. Bright red lipstick and some fancy eye makeup.

She hated herself for thinking it, for feeling it, but she immediately scowled.
That
was Dan Sharpe’s type of woman. Someone who knew how to put makeup on and flirt as if she had the key to the damn world hidden in her smile, and it was the guy’s job to find it.

Dan would have
no
trouble finding it.

She tried again. “We really shouldn’t—”

He waved a dismissive hand at her, and if she weren’t so out of her element, she might have punched him for that too.

“I know we’re a little underdressed,” he said to the hostess, leaning on her podium, oozing that self-assured charm.
Ugh.
“But do you think we could get a table? I’d really appreciate it.” He smiled and extended a hand to the woman.

She took it eagerly, and then smiled, looking up at Dan from under her lashes. “It’d be my pleasure,” she said in a husky voice.

Mel knew it was small of her, but she wanted to sucker punch the girl, much like she’d sucker punched Dan in the dealership parking lot, except harder.

A lot harder.

Which…seriously, she’d never been the jealous type. Tyler had actually gotten irritated that she hadn’t been angry when she’d found him cozied up to Kyrie Watson at some stupid party senior year.

But she hadn’t cared. Not really.

Why did she keep comparing Dan to Tyler? First of all, Tyler was ancient history, her ex-fiancé for almost five years. Second of all, Dan was
not
her boyfriend or fiancé or anything. And he wasn’t going to be.

So, she seriously needed to get her brain on a track that made any lick of sense.

It was only as the woman grabbed two menus and slipped something into her pocket that Mel realized Dan hadn’t just charmed his way into the too-nice restaurant.

He’d paid her.

“You gave her money!” she hissed, hopefully quietly enough that the hostess a few strides in front of them didn’t hear.

“I did indeed. Is that against some cowgirl code of yours?”

“Here we are. Your server will be with you shortly.” The hostess seemed to be waiting for something, hovering over the table, but Mel didn’t have a clue as to what. Finally, she plopped the menus on the table and left.

“You’re supposed to sit down so they can place the menu in front of you,” Dan explained to her as she might have explained fence-building to him. He slid into his seat, picked up the discarded menus, and began to read.

“You bribed her to give us a table.” She didn’t know why she was stuck on that, maybe because this place gave her the creeps. All white linens and dark woods and people in suits.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, this has been established.”

“Why?” Mel demanded. She didn’t want to eat here. People were staring. Everything was weird, and she already felt weird enough with all the almost-breaking-down she kept doing around Dan.

“I’m hungry.”

“We passed a diner, a café, a—”

He looked up from the menu, fixing her with a glare—which was surprisingly effective, since he rarely glared. “Shut up and sit down, Cowgirl. And hurry up and decide what you want to order. I’m starved.”

She wanted to argue, but she had nothing in her left to argue. No strength, no fortitude. Maybe she
was
breaking. So she sat and poked through the menu. “I… Everything on here is over twenty bucks.”

Dan laughed, the jackass. “It’s on me.”

“That doesn’t excuse overpriced food. I could buy, like, three steaks at Felicity’s store for the price of that prime rib.”

“Go for the filet. I insist.”

“Sharpe—”

But the waiter approached, went into some spiel about specials and wine lists, and Jesus H., this
was
an alternate reality.

Dan asked a few questions, and it took the waiter disappearing into the kitchen for her to realize— “Hey! You ordered for me.”

“You were sitting there staring at me like I’d grown another head. Besides, payer’s prerogative.”

“You can’t keep…buying my meals.”

“Why not? You wouldn’t eat here if I hadn’t pushed you inside. I should pay. Besides, you had no problem with me paying at Georgia’s.”

“It cost twenty
total
. Not per person.”

“It’s all the same to me.” He watched her carefully when he said it, as if he expected her to have another almost-meltdown.

So she swallowed all the words down. Because she was tired of him seeing through her—or more accurately, tired of being so transparent.

Helping him pick out a truck had seemed fine, good even, no different than telling him what to do at his ranch. But the way he’d put it: “if you were me.” That had shaken her, because for a second there, she’d allowed herself to think about what it might feel like. If she had all the money in the world, what would she do?

She wasn’t one for being materialistic, but this wasn’t about buying a fancy car or a new house. She just wanted to feel…safe. Like she had enough to take care of everyone she needed to take care of.

And disappear. You want to disappear.

She blinked at the stinging in her eyes, and Dan pried her hands off the menu she hadn’t realized she was still clutching. Then, even worse, he enclosed her hands in his.

“If you’re thinking I expect you, with all you have to deal with, to be perfect, to always be in control, then you’re wrong. I would not think less of you if you cracked every once in a while. Trust me. I’m the king of cracking.”

“I don’t care what you think,” she said, precisely, carefully, so she didn’t give any emotion away. Why would she care about what he thought? He was little more than a stranger. Just an employer.

Except for the part where you threw yourself at him this morning. And he rejected you.

She didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare look at his hands over hers. So she looked at the table, the dark wood in contrast to the blinding white of the napkin underneath the gleaming silverware.

He removed his hands, slowly, the tips of his fingers all but trailing along the length of hers.

“Look, if acting like you’ve got it all together gets you through the day, by all means, keep pretending. But I do see through it, and if it’s a bit much, for what it’s worth, you don’t have to pretend with me.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and straightened her shoulders. It wasn’t pretending—it was surviving. He wouldn’t have a clue about that.

Not a damn clue.

She met his gaze. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s unnecessary.”

He held her stare, unblinking, like he could see through everything. She wouldn’t allow herself to believe that. Some rich-as-sin hockey player didn’t have any insight into her life, no matter how much he knew, or would know. No matter how much she pretended or didn’t pretend. He did not have the life capable of understanding hers.

“Consider it an open invitation.”

Maybe if things were different—if he wasn’t handsome and charming and everything she knew better than to trust—maybe that would be comforting. But much like that night at Shaw, Dan’s kindness was more threat than invitation. Kindness never stuck, and beauty and charm were an illusion.

“You know, if you’re set on keeping your motorcycle, you could consider getting a Gator instead of a truck.”

He was quiet for a few humming seconds—nothing but the murmur of fancy-businesspeople conversations and the faint notes of some string instrument and his green eyes zoned in on her face, assessing, unlocking.

Well, she just had to make it two months, three and a half weeks without being unlocked. She could do that. She
would
do that.

Let Dan buy her this too-expensive lunch, let him think he’d gotten to her. Meanwhile, she’d erase this morning from her memory. She’d start over—God knew she was good at that. She’d underestimated Dan, and how close she was to her breaking point.

She wouldn’t again.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess when you say
Gator
, you mean some kind of vehicle, not an actual alligator.”

“Astute, Sharpe.”

“Thought we’d moved to Dan.”

“You’re whatever I want you to be whenever I want you to be.”

“That so?”

“I’m the boss, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” He leaned forward and opened his mouth, but before he could say some undoubtedly smart-ass comment, his phone rang. He frowned and pulled it out of his pocket. His frown deepened to a scowl. “My agent,” he muttered, already getting out of his seat. “Be right back.”

He disappeared out of the front, leaving Mel alone, in this place she did not belong, with a very expensive meal being put before her.

A rather meaningful symbol, all in all.

* * *

Dan glared at the red brick of the building across the street, the faded sign that stuck out from what appeared to be a shoe store. Beyond the buildings were more fucking mountains. He didn’t know why they pissed him off—they just did.

“Can’t we do an independent investigation?” he interrupted as his agent yammered on about possibly interested teams that sounded completely one hundred percent
not
interested.

“Listen, Dan, you
could
…”

He could all but see Scott pinching the bridge of his nose and rolling his eyes. And the use of “you” instead of “we” was…well, purposeful.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, because of course I do. I’m your number one supporter here, but is a private investigation worth the media circus? What about the possibility—”

“The possibility of
what
?” Dan demanded, fingers clutched around the phone so tight it began to hurt.

“Look, you don’t know what they’ll find. Not that you’re guilty. Just, you can’t trust anyone. You know, man? If someone in an investigative role even hints at you even talking to someone shady—shit, Dan, your career is
over
. I’ve got Phoenix
this
close to giving you a tryout.”

“A
tryout
? A
tryout
? I…” He stopped himself before he said
I am Dan Sharpe, damn it.
Because that sounded a little too dickish even to his ears. But he
was
Dan Sharpe, damn it. He’d outgrown the need for a tryout fifteen years ago.

“We gotta play the game, Dan.”

“If we had an investigation—”

“Look, I’m not going to stop you if that’s what you want to do. I’m advising against it, but I can’t stop you. I just think working your way back up the hard way is ultimately going to be a better way to end your career on a high note.”

End your career.

“Let me work my magic. You just lay low in Idaho—”

“Montana,” Dan said through gritted teeth.

“Right, yeah, hang out there. Keep in shape. See if you can find somewhere to skate. But, you know, take a break. Chill. I’m working things out. You know I want you to play next year as much as you want to.”

Of course he did. That’s how he got paid, but that didn’t make Dan any happier with sitting around
waiting
. He wanted to act. He wanted
something
to be in his control.

He took a step down the sidewalk, to where he could make out Mel at the table. Their food had been served, and she was attacking the steak like it had mortally offended her.

He didn’t doubt she was picturing his face as she hacked it to pieces. He didn’t doubt she was working on all the ways she was going to control the rest of the summer. Trucks and Gators and llama care and fuck all.

He didn’t mind taking a backseat when it came to that stuff. He let Mom take care of his money and investments, and Scott handle endorsement deals. He paid a lot of people to take care of every part of his life that wasn’t hockey.

But hockey had always been this thing he’d controlled, been good at, been a king at. He had made it his escape, his everything. He hadn’t felt the loss of that so acutely until this moment, talking about tryouts and working his way up the hard way, and knowing that it didn’t matter.

He was always going to be labeled a cheat. Hockey was already lost to him.

“Dan?”

Dan hit End and shoved the phone in his pocket. He wanted to toss it into a field again and not retrieve it this time, but there were only old, weary-looking brick buildings and huge trucks driving up and down the main drag.

He marched into the restaurant instead. This morning had been full of…weirdness, but he was going to put a stop to it. He was going to find some grasp of control, and if he had to ask Mel to teach him how—so be it.

He slid into his seat and leaned across the table, close enough to Mel’s face to notice the freckles, the way her eyelashes went from dark to almost gold, eyes that edged from dark brown to nearly hazel.

Not feminine his ass. “Okay, Cowgirl, add one more thing to the list of things you’re going to teach me.”

She furrowed her eyebrows at him. “You must have had a pleasant phone call.”

“First of all, you don’t eat the bacon off a filet, like that.” He pointed to the plate, all of the bacon gone, only half the steak left. “Aren’t you supposed to be cow people out here? Don’t you know a thing about steak?”