Книга - To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before: The Hottest Western Romance of 2019!

To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before: The Hottest Western Romance of 2019!
D. R. Graham


College just got a whole lot more complicated…Della is the perfect student. Hardworking, intelligent and hoping to make something of herself one day.But when she finds herself needing to move house, it seems that everything is conspiring against her. The only place she can afford seems too good to be true – her own room, close to campus, reasonable rent… the only catch? Her housemates are all men. And they are all cowboys.Knowing her parents would disapprove but wanting to make her own decisions, Della decides to stay. And soon, finds that great friends can come from unexpected places…as can love, too.

















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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © D. R. Graham 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

D. R. Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008328399

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008328382

Version: 2018-12-18


Table of Contents

Cover (#u22b000ee-3c1d-5780-b088-4f652eef194e)

Title Page (#u6f9da74f-96e6-58db-817e-8cd21ae22927)

Copyright (#ubc99c231-99d9-5f57-8ad9-f1a547f451ef)

Dedication (#ua6d40ecd-0bea-5b92-a27b-de8fd1b8d3b2)

Chapter 1 (#u830392c6-a12a-5cb0-b747-b8168544e49b)

Chapter 2 (#u829e51c9-2945-5516-a515-f89a96d41193)

Chapter 3 (#ud6fa9338-a999-5502-b051-fe6a2e07e0e5)

Chapter 4 (#u03db37dc-557e-543f-a02c-8b67b92ddcb5)

Chapter 5 (#u40196cb4-ba9c-56af-bc94-a9a669a9ded1)

Chapter 6 (#u548eac4c-9bb8-5843-b6f3-1720e317e485)



Chapter 7 (#uba6aa193-2ff8-527f-b16b-edadaaef900f)



Chapter 8 (#u293f8d19-c071-56ca-ab9e-0d5e40cac39b)



Chapter 9 (#u1526fdec-35fa-5dd2-a893-6cfddfb9f78d)



Chapter 10 (#ufadcf60e-5629-55dd-816c-8ce0b8512c07)



Chapter 11 (#ue39cfe68-c97f-5c85-b22a-8e487abf9607)



Chapter 12 (#u85769616-10d9-5605-b21f-4d8f81516ee6)



Chapter 13 (#ua714d61f-291f-5f40-8928-02a3eb5b4b4b)



Chapter 14 (#u12b82c97-8d14-5014-87ea-a2f16ca6d004)



Chapter 15 (#u62b1efb0-7a92-5fb5-99a5-ac5bb01e34fe)



Chapter 16 (#u3065a5f8-a954-52a1-a229-14277049c350)



Chapter 17 (#ub7123014-1a42-5598-8b3a-3e57522cba75)



Chapter 18 (#uec2b0821-3ae3-5d62-8815-34dc1473f81b)



Chapter 19 (#u90fabc2c-e9dc-543a-bef7-1fc00c311e45)



Chapter 20 (#u37836e99-222b-555a-944e-a05ae147a5cd)



Chapter 21 (#uae509afa-3f19-55a6-adfe-4ff6132dd90b)



Chapter 22 (#u9abcc6d1-9a39-525d-a710-fbb86192a846)



Chapter 23 (#u0a5eaf40-b849-51a0-aa9b-4ce6368384c7)



Chapter 24 (#u087769cb-307b-5fc9-b219-9daf3b1d1238)



Chapter 25 (#u34179242-ee95-59a9-b41c-b717a29f1ef4)



Chapter 26 (#ue1a3bff2-b41e-5d32-aac1-e0efd8d855b6)



Chapter 27 (#u46dd0950-248a-50cd-a8a1-414e1e1d8cf7)



Chapter 28 (#u47288fde-fae2-51fe-8a26-20bd5e6788d2)



Chapter 29 (#u6f57b61f-597e-57dd-9c80-4f617fdbd708)



Chapter 30 (#uac39810a-0b80-597c-8d3c-6c54e8f921f2)



Epilogue (#u70299731-7b43-50ad-8f9e-abb4822e3ddb)



Other books by D. R. Graham (#ubf261a88-4188-5724-9a2b-c9b4f9c9a3d5)



Acknowledgements (#u01956aa4-13d1-5d78-8fa5-759330c07997)



Also by D. R. Graham (#u52f0c333-d99f-52a9-a0bc-9ff95481549f)



About the Author (#u121359e1-e396-5f03-80f1-5600b2d0601e)



About HarperImpulse (#u4b3d8339-0b44-5e09-9fe7-f751a284bf5f)



About the Publisher (#u231ef902-0635-5fd2-81b4-ad3dec8d934e)


To Integrity




Chapter 1 (#udb5fbdb5-667e-5c59-a3df-cff6cdd8befa)

Della


And there goes my tea. Over the railing. Onto the library concourse. Shoot. “Sorry,” I shout to the students walking below who had to jump back to avoid the spray of scalding liquid. Mortified that I could have maimed someone, I gather my transfer papers, stuff them into my bag, and rush down the stairs to clean up the mess before anyone slips.

No paper towels nearby. Awesome. Guess I’ll have to use the silk scarf in my bag to soak up the tea. Actually, come to think of it, this isn’t my scarf. It’s my sister’s. She’s going to kill me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a better option.

I should have known it wasn’t going to be my day. There was no hot water in the shower at the sketchy motel I’m temporarily staying at. My car, although it made it through the seventeen-hour drive to get me here, wouldn’t start this morning. I had to take the bus, which made me late. Then I showed up for my first engineering course, only to find out I wasn’t even on the class list. Sorting it out meant waiting in line at the registrar’s office for over an hour.

At least the tea didn’t burn anyone. I sigh and pick up the paper cup to drop it in the recycling bin. I might as well throw the scarf in the garbage while I’m at it. It’s soaked and stained beyond repair. And my phone fell in the trash with it. Of course, now, the phone is ringing.

I reach elbow deep into the bin to fish it out. Ew. Whatever that was, it’s sticky. “Hello?”

It’s my cousin Stuart, my saving grace. “Everley is able to meet you at the house to give you a key, but it has to be this morning. Can you swing that?”

“Oh. I don’t know, Stuart. I have class. And I’d need to take transit.” I twist my phone to look at the time. I’ll be late if I try to squeeze in a visit before my next class. “Does it have to be right now?”

“Do you want to spend another night in that rat-infested motel?”

“No.” Absolutely not. “Okay. Thank you for setting up a place for me to live. I’d be lost here without you.”

“It’s Stanford not New York. You’d be fine without me, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Hold on a second.” He speaks to someone away from the phone briefly before he comes back on the line. “Some sort of disaster has come up with one of the model’s outfits. I need to get back to the studio. Do you still have the address for the house?”

“Yeah, somewhere. Thanks for everything.” I hang up and search through my bag as I walk towards the bus stop. I wrote the address on the back of a receipt. Somewhere.

Stuart is a famous photographer who lives in San Francisco now, but he graduated from Stanford and knows a lot of people here. Which is great since finding available housing at this time of year is a challenge. He’s made arrangements for me to rent a room in a shared house with three other women who are post-grad Stanford students. The one named Everley has done some fashion modeling for him. They probably won’t be the type of women I would normally be friends with, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here to study not socialize. As long as they don’t throw huge parties every night it should be fine to live with three strangers.

I hope.

I definitely don’t want to have to go back to that disgusting motel.

Where did I put the address? Ah. Here it is, on the back of a Chili’s receipt. I board the Palo Alto bus and ask the bus driver to let me know which stop I should get off at for the two hundred block of Coleridge Avenue. When we reach the next stop, he turns and waves. Wow. It’s way closer to the school than I expected – probably should have checked how far away it was before I paid the bus fare. This could work out great. I could walk to class, save on gas and parking. I like it already.

I step off the bus and squint at the house numbers to figure out which direction to walk. Mental note: a blazer works for spring in Canada. Here, I’m suffocatingly overdressed. The street is cute. Tree-lined. Wide sidewalks. Nice family homes. Tons of joggers—California types, but whatever, at least it seems safe. And the fuchsia-colored flowers on the hedges smell amazing. The house that matches the address Stuart gave me is bigger than I expected. And despite the traditional Spanish style, it’s more modern than I imagined for a student rental.

I walk up the brick path and knock on the door. Nobody answers, so I knock again, louder. There isn’t a doorbell. In fact, I look around, duh, it’s not even the front door. It’s a side door to the garage. Smooth, Della. Hopefully a security camera didn’t catch that air-head move. Before I enter the courtyard that leads to the actual front door, which is unmistakable since it’s much grander and made from carved wood, I glance over my shoulder to check if any of the neighbors saw my dorky mistake. The gardener across the street might have, but he’s pretending he didn’t.

After I knock, rock music inside the house stops, and a few seconds later the door opens. Standing in the doorway, bathed in the glow of the California sun, is a shirtless, perfectly sculpted, slightly sweaty, long-haired, brown-eyed, dark-skinned, gorgeous specimen of a man.

He wipes a towel over his face and then extends his arm to offer to shake my hand. “Della?”

I blink repeatedly, stunned by the testosterone overload. Eventually, I raise my hand and clasp his. It’s huge.

“I’m Easton.”

“Hi,” I eventually whisper, then clear my throat to regain composure. “Nice to meet you. Is Everley here? She was going to meet me, so I could get a key.”

“I’m Everley.”

“Oh.” Didn’t he say Easton? More importantly—“You’re a—” I scan his physique again. “Guy.”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles and steps back into the foyer to open the door wider and invite me into the house. “Your cousin didn’t mention that?”

“Uh.” I step onto the terra cotta tiles hesitantly and glance sideways at him. There is no mistaking he’s male, but his raven black hair falls to the middle of his back and is shinier than the hair of any female I’ve ever met. He is strikingly beautiful but definitely a guy. “Stuart said you modeled, and Everley sounds, um—” I stop myself before actually telling him his name is feminine. Based on his amused grin he already knows why I assumed he was female. “Is it Easton or Everley?”

“Everley was my mom’s maiden name. I only use it for modeling. Easton Lewis is what everyone here knows me as.”

“Oh.” He’s pretty enough to be an Everley, but Easton suits him better; homegrown and wholesome but also unique. And really cute. “Uh.” I clear my throat to give myself a second to refocus. “The other roommates are female, right?”

His smile widens, but then he turns without answering and walks down the hall towards the back of the house. I follow, scanning the rest of the downstairs on my way to the kitchen. He pours two glasses of a green concoction from the blender. “Smoothie?”

I step up to the island and take the glass from him. “What’s in it?”

“Kale. Papaya. Coconut milk. A scoop of peanut butter.”

I sip at first but then tip it back. It’s delicious. And if it’s the reason his skin is that flawless, I’m completely willing to drink it, three meals a day. “So, you didn’t answer the question. Is Taylor male or female?”

“Male.”

“Bailey’s a girl, though, right?” Please. Please be female.

Easton laughs and washes out the blender. “Bailey’s sensitive deep down, but he won’t ever show it to you. He’s cowboy to the core. And nobody calls them by their real names. Taylor’s nickname is Chuck. And Bailey goes by BJ because his last name is Jackson.” Easton’s thick lashes raise, and he shoots me a look that makes me gulp down the smoothie. “Your cousin didn’t tell you he was sending you to live in a house with three rodeo cowboys?”

I shake my head slowly side-to-side and place the glass on the tile counter. “Nope. He left that part out. I’m sorry there has been a miscommunication, but this isn’t going to work out.” I glance at his etched muscles one more time.

“You don’t have to worry about the boys. They’ll treat you like a little sister.”

“Thanks, but I can’t live with three men. My parents are very old fashioned.” And I am very not the kind of girl who could live with three guys. I mean, I assume I’m not. I’ve never lived with anyone other than my family.

He stares at me quietly as he comes up with a counter point. “Your parents don’t need to know. Don’t tell them.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. I try not to make a habit of lying. Well, except there was this one time with a friend, but it was to spare her feelings. I grappled with myself over the ethics, but I think omitting the truth was the right decision in her case. Not that you probably care about that. Sorry. I get sidetracked sometimes.”

With his arms crossed he rests his butt against the edge of the countertop. “Maybe you could omit the truth with your parents. I’m desperate. We really need the extra person to cover the rent by this Friday or we’re all out on the street. Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay?”

Hmm. With my feet still anchored in place I take a look around. The backyard has a pool. The appliances are stainless steel, gas stove. Everything is spotlessly clean. It’s walking distance to the school. The rent is affordable. Easton is a piece of moving art. But three rowdy cowboys. No. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m on a scholarship and can’t afford to let my grades slip. If you guys are partying all the time like a frat house I won’t get any studying done.”

“They don’t party here. They might stumble in at four in the morning, but you’ll mostly have the place to yourself. We travel for rodeos almost every weekend.”

I rub my hand over my face, torn. My dad really would flip if he found out I was the only female in the house. Mind you he’s already practically disowned me for leaving in the first place. If I don’t move in here I’ll have to stay at the motel. And I’ll have to do a house search to find a better place. Not that a better place in this price range probably even exists. This is exactly why Stuart left out the minor detail of them being male. He knew I’d turn it down flat if I knew. They’re just roommates, does it matter what gender they are? I know what my dad would think. I’m not sure what I think. Shoot. What to do. What to do.

Easton finishes his drink and says, “I need to hop in the shower. Why don’t you hang out and look around? The room you’d be in is the first on the left at the top of the stairs. You’d have your own private en suite bathroom. The boys and I share the other upstairs bathroom. Laundry is in the garage. A maid service comes in once a week. We take turns grocery shopping.”

I nod, letting it all sink in. It sounds perfect. He knows it does. His mouth makes a cute half-smile before he leaves the kitchen and heads upstairs. The shower turns on, so I wander around and peek out the patio door. Admittedly it would be relaxing to take study breaks out by the pool. The lush backyard is obviously maintained by a gardener. And there’s a gazebo! Dining el fresco was something I was definitely looking forward to when I decided to move from Canada to California.

Despite how clean everything is, there is no doubt three guys live here. Six pairs of athletic shoes and a collection of cowboy boots are lined up by the back door. The barbecue is enormous, as is the stacked wall of empty beer cans next to the recycling bins. And they have a full universal gym, boxing bag, and huge free weights set up on the patio next to the hot tub. I wonder if they’re all as fit as Easton. Probably. That would definitely be a distraction.

After checking out the laundry room in the garage, I tread quietly upstairs. Why does it feel like I’m sneaking around? Maybe because I keep imagining Easton standing naked in the shower. This is why my dad wouldn’t approve. He shouldn’t approve. I’m going to completely fail all my classes if I live here.

Oh my. I swing the door to my room wider. It’s ideal. I should leave before I fall in love with it. Too late. Why? Why are you so perfect? Walk-in closet. Queen-size bed that looks brand new. A solid wood dresser and matching desk. A huge window with a window seat and sunlight filtering through the leaves. Wooden California shutter blinds. Crown moldings. My own gigantic bathroom with a soaker-tub and separate shower. I have to leave.

As I step into the upstairs hall, Easton emerges from his room directly across from me. His hair is wet and tied in a bun at the back of his head. He looks just as good in jeans and a white T-shirt as he did in only athletic shorts. He smells amazing, like Hawaii. I absolutely need to leave.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks as I make my way down the stairs in front of him, trying not to trip.

Once we’re safely back in the foyer I turn and answer, “Uh, it’s really great, but like I said, it’s not going to work. Three men and me.”

He nods, looking kind of disappointed as he reaches for a set of keys in a glass bowl on the hallway table. “That’s too bad, but I understand. You have to do what’s best for you.” He opens the door for me and follows me out, then locks the door. “Do you want me to walk you back to school?”

“Um, yeah, okay. That would be nice. Thank you.” My skin is tingling. What is that about? Apparently, the idea of walking with him makes me giddy like a fourteen-year-old. Get a grip, Della. He’s just a dumb cowboy who happens to have stunning looks. We walk in silence for a while, which feels awkward, so I ask, “What are you studying?”

“I’m working on my MBA.”

Oh boy. He’s not dumb. My legs feel weird. Maybe I should take the bus.

“How about you, Della? What are you studying?”

Wow. The sound of my name coming out of his mouth is like melted chocolate flowing over ice cream. I’m already distracted, and I haven’t even gone to one class yet. Guys like him are definitely experienced in the woman department. I wonder what he thinks about girls like me, AKA girls who went to an all-girls’ private school and haven’t had a lot of boyfriends. Or any, to be more specific. It’s not like I’ve never had offers. Guys have asked me out, but when I was younger I refused all invitations to date because my father forbid it until I was sixteen. By then I was so terrified at the thought of getting pregnant or contracting an STD and having to tell my dad, that I basically avoided anyone who showed an interest. Once I was older and more open to the idea of a relationship, I just never met anyone I was that into. Definitely never met anyone even remotely as intriguing as Easton.

These are not great shoes for walking. It’s really hot in Palo Alto. What was the question again? Oh yeah. “Studying post-grad. To do the engineering. I mean being an engineer. Environmental systems. Spring term entry. That’s what I’m learning for or doing. I’m going to be that.” Oh, my goodness, be quiet, Della. Abort. Abort the conversation. Change the subject. “You have very nice skin.”

His eyebrows angle comically as we cross the street. “Thank you. It runs in my family.”

Really? Gah. Complimenting him on his skin. How is that any less awkward? Ask him something normal. “Where are you from?”

“Here in California.” He stops on the curb to wait for a light—fortunately—since I’m completely oblivious right now and would have definitely stepped out into on-coming traffic. “Mojave,” he adds.

“Mojave? Like the desert?”

“Like the people.”

“Ah.” When the light changes, we cross and then cut through a small park. “So, you’re a bull riding, Mojave Native American, super model, studying for his MBA.”

“Bareback bronc rider, actually. And I haven’t modeled in ages. The rest is true, though. And I’m also a rancher.”

“Wow.” I follow him along a path that shortcuts through another neighborhood. “You’re very unusual.”

He glances at me with an expression that’s impossible to decipher. Hopefully he didn’t take it the wrong way. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t?

“In a good way,” I blurt out. “Unusual. Not the bad unusual. I didn’t mean weird. Diverse. The opposite of everyday run of the mill. Interesting. Not dull like me.” I’m an idiot. One second, I’m drooling over him, the next I’m putting my foot in my mouth. Just stop talking, Della. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll never run into him again.

He slides his index finger over his eyebrow in an uncomfortable gesture. “The guys don’t know I used to model. Maybe we could keep that between you and me.”

“Sure.” Ugh. Now that I know it’s a secret I have an impulse to whisper it to the first person I see.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to campus, then he stops in front of a building. He stares at me for a second before he says, “You seem unusual too.”

As I’m wondering if he means the good kind of unusual or the bad, he hands me a key.

“The guys and I are leaving on a road trip tonight. We’ll be gone two days for a training clinic. Stuart gave me your number. I’ll message you mine. Think about renting the room. If you decide yes, then just move in and make yourself at home. If you decide no, drop the key in the mail slot. Cool?”

I nod. Yeah, cool, not really. Wait. What? I should just give the key back now. My hand isn’t moving. Why can’t I speak? He smiles and turns to bound up the stone stairs. He moves like an Olympian. Everyone in the vicinity watches as he waves back at me and then disappears through the front doors. A few of the females size me up, apparently because I was seen talking to the Mojave god. He must have Stanford celebrity status. Obviously he would. I mean look at him. And listen to him. And bask in his presence.

Okay, I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my hand out and a key on my upturned palm. Move, Della. Carry on. At least pretend to be a normal human being. In a less than convincing attempt to appear cool, I slide the key in my pocket and pull out my class schedule to figure out where I’m supposed to be. What time is it?




Chapter 2 (#udb5fbdb5-667e-5c59-a3df-cff6cdd8befa)

Easton


Chuck and BJ are already seated at the back of the lecture hall when I sneak in. Professor Cavendish isn’t cool with students being late and, unfortunately, she just made eye contact with me. I wave apologetically and shoot her a sheepish smile. She’s strict. It might not work. I pause halfway to my seat, waiting to see if she’s going to kick me out or let me stay. Her left eyebrow raises in a cautionary way, but then she carries on with the lecture without giving me the boot.

“Impressive,” BJ says around the toothpick that is perpetually propped at the corner of his mouth.

Chuck nods to agree with the impressiveness and pops an ice pack to apply to his injured shoulder. “Future generations will gather at the foot of your bronze statue as they recall the legend of Havie the Mojave: The only person in the history of the school to get away with being late to Cavendish’s class.”

Chuck is quintessentially redneck—mullet and lame-assed hunting tattoos to prove it. BJ’s more sophisticated, and he’s black, so the other cowboys call us the Village People when we show up on the circuit together. I don’t really care what they call us as long as we’re taking home the money. And we usually do.

BJ waits until Cavendish turns around before he asks, “How’d it go with the new roomie? What’s she like?”

I shrug, purposely evasive. I don’t want him getting any bright ideas about dating or sleeping with her. “She seemed all right, but she’s undecided. She’ll let us know.”

“Come on, Havie.” BJ lowers his voice to a whisper after Cavendish shoots us a glare, “We need the money by Friday. If she’s not in, we have to ask someone we know.”

I shake my head. “No way. The last two guys were slobs, and I’m not letting a woman either of you guys have slept with or want to sleep with rent the room. You’ll piss her off. She’ll move out. And we’ll be right back in this same position in a month. Or worse, you’ll end up some buckle bunny’s baby daddy and need to come up with child support too.”

“Does that mean the chick you’ve picked is someone none of us would want to sleep with?” Chuck asks.

BJ’s face freezes in a brace-for-bad-news grimace. “Is she hideous?”

“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. All you should care about is whether she can pay the rent. And she’s skittish about living with three cowboys, so don’t scare her off if she does decide to move in.”

“Gentlemen,” Cavendish raises her voice to reach the back of the room loud and clear. “Since you’re going to be missing my next lecture for your little bronc riding adventures may I suggest that you listen during today’s lecture?”

“Yes, ma’am,” we all say in unison.

After an extended silence to drive home her point, she returns to lecturing and writing on the whiteboard.

BJ leans over and covers his mouth with his hand. “What color’s her hair?”

“Brown,” I say under my breath.

“Good brown or the ugly kind?”

“Shut up. Assuming that she’s straight, you’re not sleeping with her.”

“You can’t either then.”

Chuck leans in. “Can I?”

“No,” we both snap at him.

The woman sitting in front of me turns and shushes us.

BJ listens to Cavendish for a while, but the lecture is boring, so he swings his head over closer to me. “Does she have a nice body?”

“I have no idea. She was wearing dress pants and a blazer.”

“Like a professor?”

“More like a Catholic schoolgirl. You won’t like her. She’s too conservative for you.”

“Black? White? Asian? Latina? Or a Mojave princess?”

“She’s white. Like fresh snow. Now, shut it before you get us kicked out.”

Both BJ and Chuck swivel in their seats, staring at me with amused expressions.

“What?” I mumble.

“Why did you just describe her in a poetic way?”

I shake my head, annoyed. “It wasn’t poetic. It was descriptive. In a factual way. She literally has the palest skin I’ve ever seen. And for all we know she wouldn’t be interested in any of us anyway.”

They both sink back into their seats, grinning. Like they know something I don’t know.

After class, the guys and I walk to the deli for lunch. The freshman working the counter likes Chuck, so she gives us fifty percent off our sandwiches, which is cheaper than making them ourselves at home. I’m tired of the same thing every day, but money is going to be tight until we hit some rodeos. A half-priced turkey on rye is better than nothing.

We sit at a table by the window and BJ says, “Since we’ve never had a female roommate before, let’s make a rule. What’s her name again?”

“Della. But she hasn’t agreed yet.” I bite into my sandwich.

BJ pauses to give a woman walking by the eye, then continues, “Okay, if any of us sleeps with Della we owe the other two five-hundred bucks each.”

Chuck laughs. “I don’t even have a hundred bucks. I can’t come up with a thousand bucks.”

“Then don’t sleep with her, dummy.” BJ extends his hand towards me. “Are you in, Havie?”

He’s got a scheming look in his eyes. Probably because he thinks the snowy skin comment means I have a thing for her. I don’t. I barely know her. “Yeah, I’m in.” I shake his hand. “All I want from her is her rent money.”

Chuck looks confused. “Have we determined whether she’s good looking or not?”

“It doesn’t matter. Either you keep your hands off her or you owe us a grand.”

Chuck squints into the sun as his brain wheels tick. You’d think he’d been kicked in the head by one too many broncs, but he’s naturally like that. Book smart and life dumb. It’s actually painful to watch him figure things out. “What qualifies as sleeping with her? Just so I’m clear on the parameters.”

BJ checks with me, “Kissing? Heavy petting? Penetration? What should the line be?”

I shake my head to end the stupid conversation. “No touching. Period.”

Chuck gestures in protest. “No way, man. We need to be able to shake her hand or give her a hug if she’s crying or something. Penetration is the line.”

“Fine,” BJ says. “If any part of your body enters any part of her body you have to pay up.”

“What if she initiates the sexual contact?” Chuck asks.

“Still counts,” BJ says as he gets up to order a milkshake at the counter.

Chuck leans his elbows on the table, processing the situation. “What if she decides not to room with us? Is she still off-limits then?”

I don’t answer because Della just walked in. She grabs a tray and loads it with a carton of milk and a salad. Her hair is the good kind of brown—long, thick and wavy. It’s held back with a thin navy ribbon headband and she has dark-rimmed glasses on now, so she looks even more like a library monitor. Despite the modest outfit it’s obvious she’s fit. Probably a runner or tennis player. BJ has already spotted her and is checking out her ass. Chuck is about to notice her, too. He’s not into good girls, but her big brown doe eyes, heart-shaped face, and the way she smells, like a mixture of vanilla and peppermint, will mesmerize him into giving it his best shot. One of them is going to spook her. Guaranteed.

Della steps up to the cashier where BJ is waiting for his milkshake. He says something to her that makes her cheeks flush. She responds quietly without looking directly at him and passes the cashier a twenty. When BJ points over at our table, Della turns and our eyes meet. I smile. Not in the ‘trying to wheel her’ way, but in the ‘her looking at me actually made me smile’ way. Uh oh. Maybe I do have a thing for her already. This is potentially not good.

She attempts to wave at me and tips her tray in the process. The salad bowl flies through the air and lettuce floats to the floor. The milk carton hits the ground hard and explodes, which makes her wince as the spray douses her and BJ in white droplets. “Shoot. I’m sorry,” she says to him as she leans across the counter to grab serviettes. “It soaked your boots. I’m sorry. Let me wipe them off for you.” She crouches down to clean up the milk.

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. Boots are made for getting dirty,” BJ says as he makes eye contact with me. He points down at her and mouths, “Is this the new roomie?”

I don’t want to answer because I don’t know what he’s going to do with that information. He can obviously tell from my non-reaction that she is, which makes him grin in a way that is only going to mean trouble. He helps her pick up the salad remnants and orders another one for her. He pays for it with what is likely his last ten bucks and then escorts her over to our table.

I stand to slide over a chair from the table next to us and offer her mine. “Della, that’s BJ,” I say. “This is Chuck.” I shoot them both glares, intended to warn them to be on their best behavior, which they both ignore.

“Ah, Della,” Chuck says. “We’ve heard all about you. Welcome to Stanford. Have a seat.”

She sits cautiously and places the tray with the fresh salad and milk on the table. “Hi. Nice to meet you both.” She glances at me and presses her lips together as if she’s forcing herself not to say more.

“If you need help with anything, I’m happy to show you around,” BJ offers before he raises his eyebrows at me.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

With all of us watching, she takes a sip of milk. She doesn’t touch the salad, though, as if she’s uncomfortable eating in front of people. Maybe I should get the key back from her. If I don’t, I’ll be leading a lamb to the wolves.

BJ leans back in his chair, sipping his milkshake, sizing her up, and literally licking his chops. “You have an interesting accent, Della. Where you from?”

“Vancouver, but I was born in Russia. We moved to Canada when I was eight. Then I moved to California yesterday, so here I am. How about you guys? I know Easton is from here. Where are you both from?”

“Chuckie’s from Oregon. I’m a Texan born and raised.” BJ watches as she finally picks up her fork and eats a small bite of lettuce.

“Do you prefer to be called Bailey and Taylor or BJ and Chuck?” she asks.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” BJ says. “Rodeo nickname. Real name. I answer to both.”

She nods and glances at Chuck, waiting for him to answer.

With a straight face he says, “You can call me Big Poppa.”

Her eyebrows angle together as she attempts to read him. I’m pretty sure he’s joking, but honestly, it’s not always easy to tell with Chuck. Either way, I shake my head to let her know that she shouldn’t take him seriously.

“Are you going to eat this pickle?” He asks me after he’s already taken it off my plate and bitten into it. “You know anything about Rodeo, Della?”

Her head swivels side to side. “No. Only that there are bulls and horses. And animal rights activists who claim it’s cruel.” She opens the package of salad dressing and it squirts onto the table. “Shoot,” she mutters under her breath as she wipes it up.

BJ sits forward, defensive. “You think the animals are mistreated?”

“Oh. No. I don’t know.” Her cheeks flush from his confrontational tone. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never even been to a rodeo.” She clenches her eyes shut for a second as if she’s trying to reset the conversation, then she glances at Chuck’s wrapped shoulder and BJ’s swollen eye. “It does appear to be cruel to cowboys, though.”

I laugh. Chuck nods to agree and BJ relaxes back in his seat.

I like her. I don’t know why. She’s not the type I normally go for—awkward, eyes that are so innocent it makes me worry about her safety in the world, and really conservative. We probably have nothing in common. Then again, dating woman I have a lot in common with hasn’t really worked out for me so far.

BJ pokes Della’s arm to tease her. “Is shoot the worst cuss word you’ve ever said?”

She frowns and glances at me before she answers him. “I guess. Why?”

“Do you drink?”

“Like alcohol?” She immediately cringes and points at the milk carton as if she can’t believe she didn’t realize that was implied. “Obviously that’s what you meant. Everyone drinks. Liquids. Milk. Water. I’ve had a glass of champagne. Once.”

Chuck and BJ both laugh at her lack of experience. This is bad. She’s a lamb. A cute, defenseless little lamb. They’re going to eat her alive. And we definitely have nothing in common.

“Why’d you choose engineering?” I ask to prevent them from grilling her on anything that might embarrass her.

She pauses mid-bite and retracts the fork. “Um, honestly?”

I nod.

“Because my dad thinks women aren’t smart enough to be engineers. I’m here to prove him wrong.”

“Good on ya,” Chuck says and gives her a fist bump.

“Hell yeah,” BJ adds.

I nod again. Okay. I definitely have a thing for her. She can’t live with us. I don’t have an extra thousand dollars to give the guys.





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