The Single Dad's New Twins (Billionaire Cowboy Romance) Page 3

  The funny thing is, I didn’t even know I was so dehydrated—so desperate to drink—until right now.

  Karla must know how her touch is affecting me, because my whole body stiffens. She smiles as she looks up at me, and there’s a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Another drink sounds like fun,” she says. “But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to try line dancing with you.”

  “What?” I say, mirroring her teasing tone. I loop my arm around her shoulder. She’s the perfect height—she fits just right under my arm, nestled in close to me. I’m so pleased that she wants the evening to continue. More than that, I’m pleased by her touch. I can barely focus on our conversation as we cross the street, making our way to the bar entrance. “I bet you’re an excellent dancer,” I say as I pull the bar door open.

  The music becomes louder. It washes over us. The bar is crowded, and we have to release our hold on each other, though I don’t want to, as we weave through a throng of people by the bar. In the front of the room, a live country music band is playing, and there’s a dance floor, also crowded.

  We make our way to the bar and Karla leans against it, facing me, and laughs. “Excellent dancer!” she says with a scoff. “Oh my goodness… that is the opposite of what I am. I think all my talent went into the cooking department. I can’t dance to save my life. I have no sense of rhythm. You must know all the moves, though… You’ll have to go out there and show me how it’s done.”

  I laugh as I remove my cowboy hat, which I had put on when we got outside. “I do dress the part, don’t I?” I say.

  “You sure do,” she says.

  I lean in closer to her, so I can lower my voice and still be heard. “I have a secret to tell you.”

  She raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

  I motion to the dance floor. “I’ve never line danced,” I say. “I dress the part, and I even have a ranch out in Texas… in a little town called Willow Creek… but really, I’m not much of a cowboy otherwise.”

  “I’m guessing there’s more to it than that,” she says, just as the bartender approaches to take our order.

  Both Karla and I decide to order bottles of beer, and in a flash the bartender places two frosty bottles before us, then pops the caps off of each one. I hand him a credit card and turn toward Karla.

  “More to it?” I say, curious about what she means.

  She lifts a hand up and tugs at the collar of my leather jacket. “I mean, more to all this,” she says. “There must be more to it than just the fact that you own a ranch. What is it?”

  I think over her question. It’s the first time anyone asked it of me.

  When the answer comes to me, it surprises me. “I guess it’s a reminder,” I say. “A reminder of what it’s all for—the purpose of working at my companies. I’m not meant to spend all day cooped up in an office or taking business calls. One day I’ll live closer to the land… Out under the open sky, with the horses and the hawks and the antelope…”

  I realize how cheesy I must sound, so I stop abruptly. I look toward the beer on the countertop instead of looking at Karla.

  She reaches for her beer, too. “I see,” she says. “You’re like me. You have a bad case of the one day when’s…”

  Her comment makes me laugh.

  She lifts her drink but doesn’t take a sip. “We’re both putting off enjoyment for some time in the future. What if that future never comes?”

  “You mean, what if we die tomorrow?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not exactly,” she says. “I mean, that could happen, but I’m not trying to be that dramatic. I just mean… we’re both dreamers, Garrett. I’ve been like this my whole life. I sustain myself with a dream of the future, but that ends up always putting happiness just out of reach.”

  She hesitates, as if she’s arranging her thoughts. Then she continues. “Like with my business,” she says. “I keep thinking life will get good once it gets off the ground. I know it will one day, so why don’t I just enjoy the journey? I keep taking jobs that don’t satisfy me, just so that I can pay the bills. I should allow myself to actually enjoy those jobs, not treat them like stepping-stones that will get me where I want to go.”

  She sips her beer and looks out over the crowd. The song ends, and another one starts up. Some dancers leave the floor, and a few new ones join the lines that are three rows deep and about a dozen people long.

  “What kind of work?” I ask. Over the course of the evening, I’ve heard about her business, Karla’s Kitchen, but she hasn’t mentioned these other jobs that she’s been working.

  “Oh, I’ve done everything,” she says, with a wave of her hand. “From sales to marketing to management. It comes easily to me. I’m a fast learner. I don’t stick with companies for long, but I always manage to do a lot of good while I’m with them. Most companies I work for offer to double my pay when I say I’m going to quit, just to keep me on staff. I always quit anyway. I’m not there because I want to climb the ladder in the company; I’m there out of necessity. But that doesn’t mean I don’t give it my all—I really do. That’s my nature. I have a strong work ethic.”

  “It’s almost like you’re a consultant,” I say. “You swoop in, work your magic, leave the company better off, and then move on.”

  “Exactly!” she says. “You know what? I never thought of it that way. Thanks. I always felt guilty about how short my stints were at these various companies. It made me feel kind of embarrassed, like it was something to try to hide. But I think that’s the wrong way of looking at it.”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Treat yourself as valuable, and that’s how others will treat you.”

  “That’s the mindset I need to have,” she says with a nod. “You’re right. I wish I’d had that today. I interviewed…” She hesitates, and then looks up at me as she says, “At your bank, actually—GFC Bank—for the Marketing Specialist position.”

  “You did?” I say, shocked. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? You would be great for the position. You’re more than qualified, you’re driven, and you said so yourself—you have a good work ethic. GFC would be lucky to have you.”

  She grins. “Thank you,” she says. “That means a lot coming from you.”

  We sip our drinks without talking for a minute, both watching the line dance that has just started up. Most people seem to know the moves, but a few flounder about, eyeing others and trying to keep up.

  I find myself moving, ever so subtle, closer to Karla. Soon our arms are touching, as we both stand with our backs to the bar. It feels good—this closeness to her.

  I recall the way she slipped her hand around my waist, and how good it felt. I yearn to feel her touch again. The beer is going to my head—building on an already substantial wine buzz. With lowered inhibitions, I barely think twice as I reach my arm around Karla’s waist, and pull her into me.

  Soon, we’re facing each other, rather than the dance floor. Her face is inches from mine. Though the bar is crowded and noisy, all that fades into the background as I take in Karla’s presence.

  “So… is there a cure for this condition we both have?” I ask.

  “The ‘one day when’s’?” she says.

  “Right,” I say.

  She nods. “There is, but you’re not going to like it.”

  I pull her in closer. My body is alive—buzzing with electricity as more of her touches more of me. I feel her legs, the heat of her thighs, the angular curves of her hips… her chest rises and falls quickly, and I can tell she feels it too—this buzz of bliss.

  I can’t stop myself. I can’t hold back. I lick my lips, once, and glance at her glistening lips, so near. I lean down and drink her in. This is just the beginning, but this first sip of her is refreshing beyond words. I kiss her deeply, pulling her into me, forgetting all else that is happening in the bustling bar.

  We’re both breathless as we part.

  “Was that part of the cure?” I ask.

  She nods, catching her breat
h. “Yes,” she says. “I think it was. But it wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  She reaches for my hand and tugs at it gently, leading me toward the dance floor. “We have to dance,” she says. “We have to make complete and utter fools of ourselves.”

  “If you say so,” I say, gladly following her curvy figure out onto the dance floor.

  A few hours later, as the band packs up and the bartender calls out last call, Karla and I gather our coats and head for the door, still laughing over our poor line dancing skills.

  Our laughter fades as soon as we’re away from the boisterous energy of the bar, and step into the quiet shadows. The memory of our first kiss is still on my lips. I want another. In fact, I want many more.

  I pause.

  Karla stops walking, too.

  I reach for her and pull her gently into me. We’re just outside of a pool of lights that shine down from the soon-to-close bar, and I can barely make out the features of her pretty face as I lean down. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her, clear as day, and that’s what I want right now.

  I need her touch.

  I kiss her deeply, and she responds with intensity, and just as much need as I feel. When our lips part, for just a moment, I whisper, “Come home with me,” into her ear.

  She nods, pulls me in, and kisses me again.

  There’s a line of taxis waiting along the curb, and we make our way toward one. It’s hard to keep my hands off of Karla as we walk, and I think she feels the same. We kiss again in the soft leather backseat of the cab, the screen drawn between us and the cab driver, until the windows are so steamed up that the city outside looks as though it’s drenched in fog.

  We kiss again on the sidewalk in front of my home. It’s difficult to wait until we’re secure in my bedroom to tear off her clothes, but I manage. Our lips barely part as we fall into bed.

  The next few hours are the most ecstatic I’ve had in years. It’s past three in the morning when I finally fall asleep, Karla safely in my arms breathing softly, steadily.

  Chapter 4

  Karla

  The sunlight is bright—much brighter than it usually is when I wake up. My bed feels different. The sheets are silkier; the mattress is firmer.

  Wait. This isn’t my bed!

  I sit up and look around the room as memories of last night come flooding back to me.

  The drinks. The dancing. The laughter.

  The steamy cab ride home.

  The feeling of falling into bed next to Garrett, and the hours of pleasure that followed.

  I look to the left side of the bed, which is empty, and then feel the sheets. Cold. Garrett is gone, and he’s been gone for a while.

  Disoriented and confused, I turn to my right, looking for a clock. What time is it, anyway? That sun sure is bright.

  The clock is obscured by a piece of paper, folded in half and propped up against the digital alarm clock. It’s a note. I pick it up and catch sight of the clock as soon as the paper’s in my hands. It’s ten thirty. I slept in!

  There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, too, and I reach for it and sip the refreshing liquid as I scan the note.

  “Karla, please excuse my absence. I have a meeting in New York today and had to catch an early flight. Please make yourself at home. My chef will leave breakfast in the kitchen for you. Take a shower if you like. When you are ready, one of my drivers will bring you home. Call my assistant and he will be happy to arrange it.”

  Then, there’s a phone number for his assistant.

  I get out of bed and locate my clothes and my purse. I gather my clothes in my hand and then stuff the note into my purse. A shower and breakfast sound divine. I need some food to get rid of the nausea I’m feeling. Why, oh why, did I drink wine and then beer? I don’t drink alcohol that often, and now I remember why.

  Thankfully, after a nice hot shower and a breakfast of fruit, organic oatmeal and coffee, thoughtfully prepared by Garrett’s chef, I’m feeling much better. I decide that rather than bother Garrett’s assistant, I’ll take a taxi home. It takes me just a few minutes to arrange it, and soon I’m on my way back to my own neighborhood, across the city.

  The large mansions in Garrett’s section of the city begin to shrink the further into the city we get. Soon the streets are lined with apartment complexes instead of sprawling homes. As the scenery changes, my night with Garrett begins to feel more and more like a dream.

  But it wasn’t.

  It really happened.

  Garrett Green and me… we happened. We collided.

  I haven’t felt chemistry like that in years—if ever. I look out the window, barely noticing the outside world at all. My mind is completely preoccupied with thoughts of Garrett.

  What’s going to become of this? Anything?

  He seemed so into me. And I was definitely into him.

  I remember the way he looked, standing at the bar, just before he kissed me for the first time. His gray-blue eyes, his hair messed up after just removing his hat. The feel of his strong hands on my waist… the sensation of his lips on mine.

  I’m nearly drowning in memories as I pay the cab driver and then walk, in a daze, up the stairs to my third-story apartment.

  I flop down on the couch as soon as I enter my cozy little place. I reach for one of the throw pillows, hug it to my chest, and stare up at the ceiling.

  Will I see him again? Will he call me later today? I never gave him my number, but he’s Garrett Green… Surely, he will be able to find it. I mean, he’s one of the founders of the bank I just applied to work at, for goodness’ sake. All he’d have to do is check my résumé.

  Thinking of my résumé makes me smile.

  Maybe it’s okay that I bombed my interview yesterday, after all. Garrett knows my situation, and he seemed to think that the bank would be lucky to have me. Surely, he’ll put in a good word for me, and his opinion will override the recruiter’s judgment.

  I smile and hug the pillow tighter. What will it be like to work in the same building as Garrett? Will I be able to stop into his office when I want to give him a quick kiss? Will we meet for lunch at Romano’s Kitchen, and walk through the nearby park during afternoon breaks?

  My purse, which I’ve let drop to the floor near the couch, begins buzzing. I know that the sound coming from within my purse is my phone vibrating, and suddenly I wonder if it might be Garrett, calling to say he’s thinking of me.

  I sit up and reach for the phone with a feeling of excitement. The excitement fades as I see from caller ID that it’s not Garrett calling. It’s Christy, my best friend. She’s probably calling about the birthday party she’s planning for her daughter, Stella, later in the week. I’m going to help her with the food prep before the party begins, and we still haven’t made a grocery list yet.

  As I pick up, I consider telling Christy about my night. But as we begin to chat, I realize I’m not ready to tell her. Not yet. I want to keep my memory of last night to myself just a little bit longer.

  For the rest of that night and the entire next day, I bask in memories of the things Garrett said, the feel of his lips on mine, and the passion we shared in the bedroom.

  Three days later, and there’s still no word from Garrett. I begin to feel a bit annoyed. He should have called by now, or at least texted.

  Maybe our night together wasn’t as big of a deal for him as it was for me. Maybe I’m imagining the attraction that electrified the space between us. Maybe I was the only one feeling it. Maybe to Garrett, I was just another woman, and our night together was just another night. Nothing special. Nothing life-altering.

  I’m parking my little Honda on the side of the busy street in front of Christy’s house when my phone rings. The caller ID shows a local number that I’ve never seen before, so my heart does a somersault. Is this Garrett—finally?

  I pick up while trying to keep my heart from flipping up into my throat. “This is Karla Moretti, may I a
sk who’s calling?”

  “Karla, this is Ryan from GFC Bank,” the man on the other end of the line says.

  My heart stops doing gymnastics long enough for me to take a breath. It’s not Garrett, but this could still be an exciting call. Ryan must be about to offer me a job!

  “Did I get the position?” I ask eagerly, already letting happiness and relief bubble up in me.

  Instead, Ryan hesitates and then says, “I’m sorry, Karla. I don’t like making calls like this. Our recruiting team made a list of finalists for the Marketing Specialist position, and you didn’t make the cut. We’re going to keep your application on file, and if you see another opening that you feel you’d be a good fit for, we’ll be very happy to consider your application again.”

  “Wait—you’re saying I didn’t get the job?” I say. I know that’s what he’s saying, but it’s taking a moment for me to grasp it. I look out the window at Christy’s sunny front yard, waiting for Ryan to answer.

  “That’s correct,” Ryan says.

  I’m shocked. I thought Garrett was going to pull some strings.

  “How is that possible?” I say. I realize that it comes out as naive, so I take it back. “Sorry, it’s not your fault, Ryan. I just can’t believe this. I thought for sure…”

  My sentence fades as I see Christy’s little four-year-old, Stella, open the front door of her house. She peers out, spots me in my car, and waves. One big Bernese Mountain Dog pushes out from behind the little girl, and then another.

  As the dogs bound across the yard, I wave back to Stella and say to Ryan, “Thanks for calling, I guess.”

  “I know it’s not the best phone call to get,” he says apologetically.

  “I appreciate you keeping my résumé on file,” I tell him. We say goodbye.

  I hang up, get out of the car, and meet Stella at the gate that separates Christy’s yard from the sidewalk. I lean down and give the little girl a hug. Though Christy and I aren’t technically sisters, we’re close enough that Stella calls me Auntie Karla. She greets me with this as we hug, and her happiness at the sight of me takes away some of the sting from my recent phone call.