Texas Outlaws: Jesse. Kimberly Raye
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his mouth tight. “They’re shooting a ‘Where Are They Now?’ special next week,” he told his brother. “A follow-up to Famous Texas Outlaws.”
Billy’s grin faltered for a split second. “You okay with that?”
Jesse shrugged. “I can handle my fair share of reporters. You know that.”
“True enough.” Billy nodded before sliding him a sideways glance. “But if you want a little peace and quiet, you can always send them my way.” He winked and his grin was back. “I like getting my picture taken.”
Billy had been fourteen at the time and excited about being in the limelight. He hadn’t been the least bit unnerved by the endless questions about their father’s death six years prior, because he’d been too young to really comprehend the gravity of what Silas Chisholm had done. Too young to remember the police and the accusations and the desperate search to recover the money that their father had stolen. Rather, he’d seen the media circus as a welcome distraction from an otherwise shitty life.
“Gracie wants me to lie low,” Jesse added. “She thinks it’ll help the town.”
“And here I thought she came all the way out here because she wanted a piece of PBR’s reigning champion.”
If only.
Jesse stuffed his gloves into his pocket and fought the longing that coiled inside of him.
Gracie Stone was off-limits.
She’d broken his heart and while it was all water under the bridge now, he had no intention of paddling upstream ever again.
Then again, it wasn’t his heart that had stirred the moment he’d come face-to-face with her again. Despite the years that had passed, the chemistry was still as strong as ever.
Stronger, in fact.
And damned if that realization didn’t bother him even more than the fact that he’d just landed on his ass in front of an arena full of cowboys. Since Tater Tot had been the ornery bull responsible, he’d just become that much more valuable to the two buyers now waiting inside Jesse’s office in a nearby building.
So maybe Gracie’s visit wasn’t a complete bust after all.
“I’ve got papers to sign.” He motioned to the glass-walled office that overlooked the corral. “Get your gear and get in the chute if you want a turn on Tater Tot before they pack him up and ship him out. And you’d better make it quick because we’ve got a tuxedo fitting in a half hour and the clock’s ticking.”
“Sure thing, bro.” A grin cut loose from ear to ear. “After that piss-poor display, somebody’s gotta show you how it’s done.”
3
IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower Gracie had to bypass the one and only bakery in Lost Gun and head for the town square.
Sure, she eased up on the gas pedal and powered down her window to take in the delicious scent of fresh-baked goodies as she rolled past Sarah’s Sweets, but still. She didn’t slam on the brakes and make a beeline for the overflowing counter inside. No red velvet cupcakes or buttercream-frosted sugar cookies for this girl. And no—repeat no—Double-Fudge Fantasy Brownies rich in trans fat and high in cholesterol.
Which explained why her hands still trembled and her stomach fluttered when she walked into City Hall.
“How’s my favorite mayor-elect?” asked the thirtysomething bleached blonde sitting behind the desk in the outer office with a chocolate Danish in front of her.
Longing clawed down deep inside of Gracie, but she tamped it back down. “Fine.”
“Methinks you are one terrible liar.” Trina Lovett popped a bite of pastry into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of black coffee.
Trina had been working for Gracie’s uncle—the current mayor—since she’d graduated high school sixteen years ago—four years before Gracie. Trina had been part of a rise-above-your-environment program that helped young people from impoverished homes—a trailer on the south end of town in Trina’s case—find jobs.
He’d hit the jackpot with Trina, who was not only a hard worker but knew everything about everybody. She’d been instrumental in the past few elections—particularly in a too-close-for-comfort runoff with the local sheriff a few years back. E.J. had won, of course, due to his compassionate nature and Trina’s connections down at the local honky-tonk. The young woman had bought five rounds of beers the day of the election and earned the forty-two votes needed to win.
Trina had also been instrumental in the most recent campaign, which had seen Gracie take the mayoral race by a landslide.
In exactly two weeks to the day, Gracie Elizabeth Stone would take the sacred oath and step up as the town’s first female mayor.
Two weeks, three hours and forty-eight minutes.
Not that she was counting.
“You saw Jesse, didn’t you?” When Gracie nodded, Trina’s bright red lips parted in a smile. “Tell me everything. I caught him on the ESPN channel a few weeks back, but all I could see was a distant view of him straddling a bull for dear life.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What I wouldn’t have given to be that bull.”
“You work for a public official. You know that, right?”
“Don’t get your granny panties in a wad. It’s not like I’m tweeting it or posting to my Facebook status. This is a private conversation.” She beamed. “So? What’s he really like up close? Does he still have those broad shoulders? That great ass?”
Yes and yes.
She stiffened and focused on leafing through the stack of mail on Trina’s desk. “I’d, um, say he’s aged well.”
“Seriously? I suppose you look ready to scarf an entire box of cupcakes because of some cowboy who’s aged well?”
“I suppose he’s still hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“I am.” Trina beamed. “I most definitely am.”
Gracie frowned. “Not that it makes a difference. I went there strictly in an official capacity. I went. I spoke. He heard. End of story.”
Trina regarded her for a long, assessing moment. “He told you to get lost, didn’t he?”
“No.” The brave face she’d put on faltered. “Yes. I mean, he didn’t say it outright—there were no distinct verbs or colorful nouns—but he might as well have.”
“Ouch.” Her gaze swept Gracie from head to toe and she pursed her bright red lips. “But I can’t say as I blame him. You look like you’re going to Old Man Winthrow’s wake.”
“I do black for funerals. This is navy.”
“Same thing.” She gave Gracie another visual sweep with her assessing blue eyes. “Listen here, girlfriend, men don’t take time out of their day to notice navy. It takes a hot color to keep a man from tossing you out on your keister. Red. Neon pink. Even a print—like cheetah or zebra. Something that says you’ve got a sex drive and you know how to use it. And the skimpier, the better, too. Show a little leg. Some cleavage. Men like cleavage. It gets their full attention every time.”
“For the last time—this wasn’t a social visit.” Gracie eyed Trina’s black leather miniskirt. “I’m a public figure. I can’t prance around looking like an extra from Jersey Shore. Besides, he hates me, and a dress—skimpy or not—isn’t going to change that.”
“I’m telling you, a good dress is like magic. Slip it on and it’ll transform you from a stuffy politician into a major slut. You do remember how much fun being a little slutty can be, don’t you?”
As if she could ever forget.
She’d been the