Page 9 of The Cowboy's Off Limits Option

Maybe that's what he was going to tell me earlier today? When he came in for the flowers. He probably came to get those flowers for her, not his mom.

Shit! I am so stupid. This whole unrequited love thing is stupid, holding out for a fantasy that I should have known was always impossible.

Between my idiot brother that won't let a man anywhere near me, and me mooning over an older man who obviously never saw me as anything but his friend's little sister; I'm way behind the curve for a lot of life experience.

By the time I've washed my face off, done my hair and makeup, and put on the denim mini skirt and the red halter top I pulled out of the closet, I'm ready to do some catching up.

Problem is, Slow River is a small town and it's only Wednesday.

We don't exactly have a hopping club scene and the only place in town that stays open past nine on the weeknight's in O'Hare's, and Virgie's bar isn't the place you go dancing. Not to mention, everyone down there knows me-- and my brother.

My mood almost crashes, thinking I'm destined for a night at home with too much time on my hands that's only going to give me an opportunity to start feeling sorry for myself.

Then it dawns on me; The Tollhouse.

I've never been out there, but I know there's a bar off the highway going through Keller's Ferry. The Pereiras hang out down there a lot because the Lazy P is closer to the Ferry than to Slow River. It's got a reputation for being loud and having a crowd that gets pretty crazy, but I doubt it'll be that bad in the middle of the week.

And the only people I know who hang out down there are the Pereiras anyway, and I don't think they'll tell anyone if they see me there.

Problem solved, then, I think as I stash a few twenties and my ID in my bra and grab my keys on the way out the door.

Archer

The best thingabout having your name on the operation is not having to be one of the guys on the ranch before dawn, so it's not unusual for me to still be up at this time of night.

The worst thing about having your name on the operation, however, is not having to be on the ranch before dawn-- which means that, on nights like this, I've got nothing to do with myself but think about Callie.

About the way she looked today in that pretty sundress she was wearing under her apron. The way all those flowers made a nice backdrop to the messy bun pinned high on her head to hold back her caramel brown hair and the bright, hazel eyes that always seem like they're looking right inside of me.

The way her skin felt so soft under my rough-ass hands when I touched her arms.

All the things that were on the tip of my tongue right then and how close I came to saying them out loud when Rowan walked in honking like a goose over Jake and Jerry's comments about his sister.

On the coffee table, my phone lights up and dances across the surface while it buzzes with a call from an unknown number.

Nobody I know needs to be calling me after ten p.m. on a weeknight. With a flick of my thumb, I send the call to voicemailand go back to not paying attention to whatever show I've got running on the TV in the background of my thoughts.

Things can't go on like this.

On one side, I've got Mom insisting that me and Cal would be a good couple-- and I can't tell her how right she is on that. On the other side, I've got Rowan telling me to throw good sense to the wind and stake my claim on a woman he doesn't have a clue is his sister. Boxing me in on every other side is my duty to not pissing off one of our suppliers and getting the ranch cut off from local sources that we rely on.

My phone goes off with another call from the same number. This time it calls back again as soon as I cancel it, and again when I cancel the next call.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shout into the microphone when the number calls right back, "Whatever scam you're pulling--"

"Yeah whatever, man. Look, Calla's out here. She could use a ride back to Slow and I don't wanna get Rowan involved in this." The deep voice on the other end of the line drawls with a faint hint of slur that tells me that where ever "out here" is, there's alcohol involved.

"Who's this?" I demand of the unfamiliar voice, ice prickling my spine and driving me into action even before I understand what's happening.

"Look, man, it's Rowdy--" there's a pause after the Ralston introduces himself, probably knowing my first impulse is to hang up on the bastard. "Like I said, she don't belong out here. Someone needs to come get her before she gets into trouble. If I call Rowan, he's gonna come in here swinging and get his ass beat. This isn't a crowd that you fuck around with."

"Tollhouse, right?" That's the only place out of town where a Ralston would be drinking on a weeknight, and the onlyplace where the regulars don't already know Callie and wouldn't hesitate to break Rowan's spine.

"Yeah, man. Thanks for taking care of this."

The line goes dead before I get a chance to ask him how the hell he has my personal number.

That's something I can figure out later, right now, I have to cut the forty minute drive to the bar in the next town down to three minutes without getting stopped by the sheriff or ending up in a ditch.

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