Page 4 of Cowboy's Christmas Girlfriend

Look on the bright side, said Suzanna. You can tell your mom we broke up, no harm, no foul. How am I going to explain my beach house to my publisher?

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” said Will. It’s not that simple, he sent. My best friend’s having this big Christmas wedding, and now my whole family’ll expect you on my arm. Mom’s even pushing for you to join the Christmas Games.

Suzanna typed a long time, so long Will’s beer turned sour on his tongue. Then a massive text filled his screen.

You mean your family’s whole over-the-top Christmas Olympics? With the epic snowball fight? And the ugly sweaters??? That actually sounds awesome. At least, when you compare it to sitting home alone. Or hiring myself out shoveling cow pats. Which, the way things are going, might be my best shot!

Will stared at his screen, a far-fetched idea taking shape in his head.

You know, I might have an idea that could save both our butts.

I’m listening.

Will gulped more beer. Either this was genius, or he’d lost his mind. Come for Christmas, he sent. I need a wedding date. You need a ranch. What do you say?

I say call me, said Suzanna. If we’re going to do this, I need to hear your voice.

Will swallowed hard. Was he really going to do this—this wild, reckless thing? Just to save face? To get Mom off his back?

The phone rang on Suzanna’s end. When had he dialed?

“Hello? Will?”

Will couldn’t breathe. Her voice was warm, slightly nervous, sweet as maple syrup. She let out a giggle and his heart skipped a beat.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice thick and gruff. “Listen, if—”

“So I’d be like your date-date, or I’d be there as a friend? What did you tell your mom? How serious are we?”

“Not too serious,” said Will. “But we’d be more than friends. Pretending to be.” The blood rose to his head, a hot, prickling flush. “I’m sorry. It’s just, my mom—”

“No. No, I get it.” Suzanna chuckled again. Will detected a rueful note, something deep and wounded. “It’s a full-time job, isn’t it? Parents and their expectations?”

“Then you’ll come to Montana?”

“I’m packing already.”

Will leaned back, laughing. This might actually be fun—Suzanna on the ranch, getting her hands dirty for real. Suzanna on horseback, in Wranglers and—

“So, like, do I need spurs for this, or is that just in movies?”

Will choked on his beer. What had he done?

2

Suzanna fought her way through baggage claim, barely snagging her bag through a forest of elbows. She felt like a beach ball in a boisterous game of catch, batted this way and that as the crowd boiled around her.

“Hey, hey. Gangway!” A wheelie bag rolled over her foot. She jumped back with a yelp. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she scrambled to get it out—a new voicemail from Marcy, her publisher’s assistant.

“We’re so glad you’re on board,” sang Marcy. “It’s going to be magical, showing your readers how you spend Christmas on the ranch. We thought for the interview, you could arrive in a horse-drawn carriage, or even a sleigh? Do you have those on your ranch, or is it more just, uh, cows? Anyway, call me. We’ll workshop ideas.”

Suzanna hung up and her phone buzzed again, a text from Will this time. He’d promised to meet her at baggage claim, and sure enough, he’d come through: I’m here. Can you see me? I’m in the brown Stetson.

She did a slow turn, craning to see. Plane rides usually made her grateful to be short—at five-two, she was travel-sized, able to fit neatly in the average plane seat—but when it came to spotting someone through a crowd, her height became highly inconvenient. A brown hat caught her eye, but the man underneath couldn’t be Will. He was prime-time soap hot, square-jawed and slate-eyed, with a dusting of stubble across his broad chin. And he was tall, towering over Suzanna at well over six feet.

Wave so I know it’s you.

Will raised his right hand, half-wave, half-salute. Suzanna’s knees turned to water. He’d tricked her, she thought—hidden all that hotness under a grainy snapshot.

---