CITIEST OF CITY SLICKERS
BRIDGER
If I never signed another talent contract in my entire fucking life, it would be too damn soon. At this point, I didn’t even want to see a football, much less hold one. I’d lived the sport for so long, loved it even, and all this media bullshit made me want to throw my TV and mySports Illustratedsubscription in the trash so I couldn’t even watch a professional football game again, much less play in one.
Instead, I found myself driving through the winter wonderland of Bear Claw Valley, Colorado, the quaint small town where I grew up, wishing I could stay for longer than just the time off I had for our bye-week. I slammed the door of my faded red ‘67 Ford pickup truck, stomped up the sidewalk through the gravel and slush leftover from the last storm, and shoved my way into the Mayne hardware store. The familiar smell of pine and sawdust, layered with the sharp tang of winter, welcomed me home.
The bell above the door jingled in the way only a small business in a quaint country town could. A poster for my local Cause for Paws charity event that was happening next weekend hung by the entrance. I’d take the sound of that bell over the ringing of my phone any day, all day, twice on Sundays. I made my way through the familiar aisles, not needing a damn thing except the peace and quiet.
I nodded to Tex behind the counter, who was busy flipping through the pages of a catalogue. He gave a chin jerk response. “Kingman.”
That’s what I liked about him. He didn’t blather on and on and on and on like some people I knew. Like my fucking agent.
I glanced at the new display from Husqvarna, because I needed a new chainsaw as much as a hole in my ass, then headed over to the lumber section. The scent of sawdust and fresh cut pine seeped in, better than any icy-hot muscle rub down from a trainer. I took my first full, deep breath in an hour. My work boots scuffed against the linoleum floor, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, scowling at the options in front of me.
Both the wood and my career.
I was about to grab a few castoffs I could carve up when I caught sight of something hot pink and furry, out of the corner of my eye. The scent of orange, vanilla, and sweet cinnamon wafted over and went straight to my cock.
My days of adrenaline fucking were over. But man, a good railing, up against a wall, making a woman scream my name as I pounded into her...I told my libido to cool it. I was not good company right now. Even the media knew that. Since I’d just been named the league’s meanest player.
I stared through the shelves anyway and found my feet shifting toward the tempting sex-on-a-stick. She was an aisle over, her basket filled with an odd collection of items — paint brushes, a bag of nails, a roll of duct tape, and a trowel. I couldn’t begin to imagine what she was planning to do with all those items.
I stepped into the aisle full of small tools she was perusing and fu-uck. She was no stick. Sexy cinnamon roll more like it. Tits I could get lost in, an ass that didn’t quit, hips I wouldn’t break if I grabbed on tight while fucking her, and thick thighs I wanted to use as earmuffs.
She wasn’t a Colorado mountain girl, that much was clear from her outfit. Maybe she’d fit in with the kind of people who lived in Aspen. Nobody in Bear Claw Valley would be caught dead in fake leopard fur trim on a coat that didn’t look like it would hold up to forty-degree weather, much less forty below. And those boots. While I’d like to see her in nothing but those black shiny knee-highs, heels weren’t exactly good for the snow.
She moved from section to section, her gaze flitting over the items, grabbing all kinds of random shit. And I turned into a god-forsaken stalker, watching her, lusting after her.
Just say something to her, creeper.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to talk to women. I’d charmed my fair share of ball bunnies. But I didn’t have a clue what to say to Cinnamon Roll.
Can I taste your ooey gooey sweet center was not a good pick-up line.
She paused and turned toward me, so I reached for a roll of wallpaper. Pale pink with little unicorns on it, as it happened. I examined those unicorns like they were the San Francisco offensive line. I kept my eyes glued to the paper so hard, I didn’t even move until something jolted against my foot. I glanced down to see the woman’s overflowing basket tipping over, dumping half the contents onto my feet as she squatted and reached for something on the very back of the bottom shelf.
Her jacket rose up her back, and the waistband of her ridiculous black suede pants gaped so that I got a clear view of the intricate tattoo scrawled across her lower back. A unicorn. A god-damned fucking unicorn prancing in some kind of magical sunlight.
Holy hell. There was no talking my cock down this time. The second she looked up, she was going to get a load of the pop-up tent in my jeans.
“Watch where you’re going,” I ground out and tried to step around, over, away from her, practically falling all over myself.
The deepest sky blue eyes, framed with long, dark lashes, stared up at me. She didn’t seem fazed by my attitude or my hard-on that was practically in her face. Instead she smiled sweetly. “Oh, so sorry. I thought you might need this gold trim paint to go with your pink unicorn wallpaper. Excellent choice, by the way. Is it for you? Or maybe your girlfriend, wife, daughter? Please tell me it’s for dear old Granny’s kitchen remodel.”
Her eyes sparkled up at me. They fucking sparkled.
I was a dead man.
She was fishing to see if I was single, and I had absolutely no response. Even my own name escaped me at the moment. Sweet baby Jesus, what was my name?
Cinnamon Roll stood, straightened her jacket, and held out her hand. “I’m new in town, and I’m trying to fix up my cabin up in the mountains, but I don’t know what I’m doing. You don’t happen to be a contractor who could help or know of one I could hire?”
My brain turned back on and piqued at the mention of the cabin. “What cabin?”
“Up on Bear Claw Mountain.”
That’s where I lived. Who in the hell sold a chunk of the Bear Claw to a city slicker? She had the tiniest hint of a Texas twang, and I had an idea who’d given her that land. “Up at the top?”
