Broken Cowboy: Rocky Ridge Creek, #2

By Shannyn Leah

The perfect vacation fling just got complicated.
I had one job: give the romance author a tour of The Wilde Ranch.
Not bang her in the ranch's secret library.

And I certainly shouldn't have extended the tour to a week.
I'm a single dad raising a six-year-old daughter who's away at horse riding camp.
This is my free time to screw em' and leave em'.
Not wake up next to her and invite her for a shower.
I'm broken.
She doesn't trust me.
Heck, I don't trust myself … especially not around her.
She's lost her faith in romance.
And now we're living every single one of the rom-com books she's written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lily-Mae Montana
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224491674

Shannyn Leah

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR, Shannyn Leah welcomes you to her small town of bad boys and smart, sassy heroines. Contemporary romance with the perfect blend of humor, heart and heat.  To be notified when new books, exclusive excerpts and contests are released, join her mailing list here: http://www.shannynleah.com/newsletter-and-secret-access-club.php

Book preview

My hero wears cowboy boots, and I call him Daddy.

Xoxo, Libby Wilde (Wheeler’s daughter)

PROLOGUE

WILMA AND FAYE

(The Quilt Queens)

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WILMA QUYLT’S RUSTIC brown-colored furry slippers pad down the stairs of The Quilt House B&B.

She turns the corner at the bottom of the stairs. The quilting club waits for her in the living room.

Did you get it? Faye Quylt wrenches her fingers together in anticipation.

Wilma holds up a square of material she cut from a quilt upstairs.

The quilting club silently cheers. It’s six in the morning and the guests of the bed and breakfast are still fast asleep.

And I woke up Bucky and he gave me this. Faye holds up an advertising placemat from the bar.

Another round of silent cheers unfolds.

This is the spot the romance began. Faye slaps it on the coffee table. Who would’ve known they’d find each other without our little push.

Fate, Wilma says the single word like it holds magic, which she and her sister believe it does. And now we get to quilting. Wilma strolls across the room to her antique wingback chair. Let’s take a moment to remember and thank our ancestors whose foresight guided them to weave quilts for those destined to be together.

Here, here, the circle of quilters chant.

And we will continue to be grateful that we can continue the quilting journey.

To the Quilt Queens. The quilters lift two fingers in the air and salute Wilma and Faye. Silver thimbles embossed with QQ rest on the tips of their fingers.

The town’s local folklore is known for miles around. It’s also as common now, as it was hundreds of years ago, for parents and family members to gather scraps of material from their children and hand them over to the current Quilt Queens. These sentimental scraps include detailed hand-written notes with meanings behind each scrap which assist with the matchmaking process. 

Wilma lifts a block lying on a tote beside her. This belongs to Wheeler Wilde. Compliments of his mom. She’s the serious one in charge, and you’ll never find her wearing anything besides denim pants and an embroidered western shirt.

And now we just need a patch from Lena Thorpe. Faye is bright and cheerful, like a sunny day. She’s never seen without a tea dress and extravagant Kentucky derby hat. And I believe we can talk her sister into helping. Wilma nods approvingly. Get ready, ladies and gents, this is going to be a whirlwind romance, and with whirlwind comes quick quilting fingers.

Chapter One

LENA

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I WAKE UP next to a cowboy’s naked body wrapped around mine like he owns me.

What did I do?

I know what I didn’t do. I didn’t stay in my room last night and prepare for today’s busy schedule.

Flashes of last night buzz in my hung-over mind.

The bar.

The drinks.

The dancing.

And the sexy cowboy who flirted his way into my pants. Like it was difficult. After a few shots, the crappy life I’ve been slugging through suddenly brightened into sunshine that I hadn’t felt in almost a year.

Now, here I am, naked and spooning with a complete stranger. Whose big, solid body I fit perfectly alongside. One of his rock-hard arms is under the crook of my neck, surprisingly comFording and snuggly. The other arm is draped over my middle. He clutches my side, even in his sleep, as if he never wants to let go.

Good lord, this is the beginning scenario of a bazillion rom-com books I’ve written. Situations I’ve giggled or laughed about so hard tears streamed down my face.

Today, I don’t find the humor.

And my pounding head isn’t helping.

I close my eyes until my breathing settles. Until I notice it settles in rhythm with the man beside me. I also notice how much I enjoy lying here.

Crap! No!

Get out.

I slant my head to face him.

Mistake.

His head snuggles into my shoulder. His slightly parted lips remind me of how wicked they can be. I’m grateful to find his eyes closed. Eyelashes sweep over his skin, hiding the dark gems beneath. He’s handsome, even in his sleep. Waves of dark hair. Sand-rough stubble. Concrete jaw. I need to get the heck out of here.

I lift his arm, ignoring the pangs of heat pooling below. I wiggle free of his grasp and roll off the bed. Yes, buck naked, half asleep, and hung over like I’ve never experienced in my life.

The carpeted floor cushions my knees and palms. A wave of nausea threatens to bring up last night’s delicious dinner. I’m sure Buffalo wings don’t taste nearly as good coming up. Although, I wouldn’t know. This is my first real hangover.

Do you know that girl who sits in her pajamas reading and writing all day? That girl is me. I’m that girl. Jumping into a stranger’s bed is not on my regular everyday agenda. A glass of wine and a good book are all I need.

The thought of wine brings another roll of gut rot. Breathe, I whisper to myself.

I crawl across the floor when the feeling passes, searching for last night’s clothes. I snatch my bra from under the bed—if you can even call the flimsy thing a bra. I spot the little black dress my sister convinced me to wear last night. I prefer comfy pants and tees. I’ve never been on top of fashion like my fashionista sister.

I inwardly scold myself at how cliché rom-com that entire thought sounds.

I yank the stretchy lace masterpiece over my head and down my curvy hips. I have to rearrange the upper half to keep my girls from flopping out.

I steal a look at the man stretched out on the bed. His golden skin runs everywhere except over his ass cheeks. And those cheeks are tight and taut. His whole body is a temple of muscles and grooves and mounds my fingers would love to be reacquainted with.

Am I drooling?

There’s the writer in me, ogling over my hero. But my heroes are fictional characters I craft and mold into perfection. This man is real. And I had sex with him. And now I’m trying to escape before he awakes.

Fricken rom-com to the max.

I quietly sprint across the room. I snatch my panties off a potted plant and grab the door handle.

Not a breakfast gal?

My hand freezes. My body warms. His southern drawl does something to my city girl head. Turns it to mush and makes me want to crawl right back into bed with him.

Taking a deep breath, I plaster a smile on my lips before turning to face him.

He’s half sitting, propped up with an arm resting on the headboard behind his head. The floral linen sheet is draped over his manhood, but it’s not hiding much. His morning wood erects a teepee. I try not to stare. He’s making it impossible lying there all smug and confident in his morning gorgeousness.

I have difficulty finding the words. Funny, considering I write for a living. Last night was fun. Understatement. But let’s just keep it in this room.

His lips curve into a wickedly hot grin that heats my core. Sweetheart, in that case, what’s your hurry? The morning promises plenty more fun.

My eyes land on his teepee. I can’t help it. Half the night may be a bit of a blur, but I remember rocking that shaft.

No. No. No.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

While that’s tempting, I’m running late. You know, things to do, people to meet. Horses to ride. I can think of someone else I’d like to see ride.

I don’t mind sharing a shower.

My eyes flutter to the adjoined bathroom. The clear shower walls beckon me to let him pin me against them and slam me until we’re both crying out in orgasmic relief. My insides scream go for it. My brain shuts it all down. Fantasies aren’t realistic and are meant for the pages of my books.

Maybe another time.

I’ll hold you to it.

Right. I won’t be seeing this cowboy ever again. One-night stands are just that, one night. Have a good day.

Have a good life.

I shut the door behind me. A sigh of relief blasts out of me. I lean against the door and take a deep breath.

That’s when it hits me. 

He’s in my room!

***

WHEELER

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I RUB ONE out in the shower.

It isn’t difficult with the sweet little city lady fresh in my mind.

Tousled copper caramel hair.

Sleepy blue eyes the color of a cloudless day.

Pouty lips that drove my body wild with hunger last night.

I have a rule: fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. Not fall asleep in their bed and invite them for seconds.

Hell no.

When I saw her creeping around, I should’ve let her sneak out the door, words unspoken, never to be seen again.

But I didn’t.

Then I enjoyed the sleepy morning surprise written across her face when she cautiously eyed me. And I wanted to drag that fine curvy body back to bed with me and ravish her all over again.

Fuck me.

If I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m going to be rock fucking hard again.

I towel dry faster than I ever have. Last night’s clothes smell like liquor and sex. I drag them on, ignoring the tropical coconut scent lingering from the city girl. I expected her to be saturated in some expensive perfume, not dipped in beach waves.

Where the hell is my hat? I grumble to myself, scanning the room. "Ah-ha." It’s made itself at home on one of the four bedposts.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from my brother Dean. You missed breakfast. Must’ve been one helluva a fuck.

I slide my phone away, not planning to give him any details. It’s not a common night I get out to Bucky’s bar, unlike Dean, who’s there every night. However, my nights have opened up, with my six-year-old daughter