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 baddest girl in high school with the worst reputation, and she’d liked it. She’d liked doing the unexpected and following her gut and having some fun. And she’d really liked Jesse James Chisholm.
So much so that she’d been ready to put off attending the University of Texas—her uncle’s alma mater—to follow Jesse onto the rodeo circuit. To continue their wild ride together, cheer him on and take enough live-action shots to launch her dream career as a photographer.
But then Jackson had been killed, and Charlie had stopped talking for six months. She’d realized then that she couldn’t just turn her back on her little sister and go her own way as her brother had done after their parents had died. Charlie needed her.
And she needed Charlie.
So she’d packed up her camera and her dreams and started playing it safe. She’d followed in her uncle’s footsteps, securing a business degree before taking a position as city planner.
Meanwhile, Jesse had ridden every bull from here to Mexico.
They were worlds apart now, and when they did happen to land within a mile radius of each other, the animosity was enough to keep the wall between them thick. Impenetrable.
Animosity because not only had Gracie stood him up on the night they were supposed to leave, but she’d refused to talk to him about it, terrified that if she heard his voice or saw him up close, her determination would crumble. Fearful that the bad girl inside of her would rear her ugly head and lust would get the better of her.
Lust, not love.
She hadn’t been able to leave with Jesse, and she’d refused to ask him to give up his life’s dream to stay with her in a town that had caused him nothing but pain, and so she’d done the best thing for both of them—she’d broken off all contact.
And her silence
