Page 12 of Roaring Fork Wrangler

My eyes opened wide. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

I studied him. “What is it I do that makes you, err, crazy?”

“The way your cheeks turn pink and you lower your gaze. It makes me wanna…”

“What?”

“Ready to order?” asked Mary Beth, standing over us.

“May I?” Cord asked.

“Um, sure,” I responded, even though I had no idea what he meant.

“Two orders of Italian French toast and two orders of bacon, make mine crisp. Juniper?”

“Crisp for me too, thanks.”

“What to drink?” Mary Beth asked as she jotted the rest of the order on the notepad.

“Coffee for me, please.”

“Same,” said Cord. “I’ll tell you later,” he added once she walked away.

“Tell me what?”

“What it makes me wanna do.”

My cheeks flushed, and I looked away. Not on purpose. I hadn’t realized, until now, how often I did it. When I raised my eyes, Cord was brushing his lower lip with his index finger, and based on his expression, it appeared he wanted me for breakfast.

4

CORD

Alarm bells were going off in my head. I’d met this girl less than twelve hours ago, and for the second time, I was thinking about how soon I could get her into bed. Seducing a woman who’d lived in this small town her whole life was a terrible idea.

Crested Butte was just as small, but that it was a ski town meant, during the winter, the place was overrun with tourists, including lots of pretty girls looking for a hookup with a cowboy—a fact my brothers and I had taken full advantage of in our youth.

We’d all settled down as we got older, not that any of us, besides Buck and our sister, Flynn, were married. Holt, who was the youngest other than her, still sowed his wild oats plenty, but he was also in an über-famous rock band.

As far as long-term relationships were concerned, all of us had someone from our past we’d stayed with longer than we should’ve because it was easier than the drama of breaking up. For me, it was Sandy Volk,whose ancestors were among the founding families of our town—like mine were. We’d known each other since we were kids, started dating as teenagers, hooked up when she was home from college, and broke up more times than I could count. She was certain we’d get married someday. I was equally sure we never would.

While on the road between there and here, I got a couple of text messages saying she was home for Christmas and wanted to see me. I probably should’ve responded, but I had no idea what I’d say. If I told her I was on my way to New York, where I’d be living for the next year, she would’ve been full of questions I didn’t have answers to.

“So tell me about the history of East Aurora,” I said, resting against the chair.

“Let’s see. First, there’s the Roycroft.”

“The inn, right?”

“Yes, but so much more. A man named Elbert Hubbard started the American Arts and Crafts Movement here in 1897. For twenty years, it flourished, with craftsmen of all kinds traveling to the village to live on the campus he constructed.” She rolled her eyes. “I sound like a tour guide.”

I chuckled. “Why only twenty years?”

“He and his wife died on theRMS Lusitania.”

“Right. Was that the one torpedoed by the Germans?”

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