Bouquets and Buckles: An Age Gap, Snowed In, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge)

“Oh my god, Sky… are you ok? I’ve got like fifty missed calls and you didn’t leave a single message. Way to freak me out.” Brad’s voice booms down the phone when I answer.

Across from me, the cowboy who I’d just been locked in the most intense moment of… I don’t even know what that was… slams his door and strides toward the front porch.

Whitewashed boards, worn down in places where countless boots have stepped on them over time, a particular spot that holds a thousand memories from when I would hang out here as a teenager.

A teenager with a big, fat, secret crush.

“Hey B, I’m ok now.” With one shoulder, I clamp my phone against my ear, carrying my bags as I follow his bootprints left in the soft powder coating the gravel.

“Do I need to send out a search party, or call a lawyer, or post bail, or what?”Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

“Nah, you can stand down. Crisis averted for the moment.” My eyes drift up to the open doorway and the broad shoulders waiting just inside. The man holding the door for me because that’s the kind of thing this man does without question. The cowboy who ended up being my knight in shining armor, after all.

“Did you make it to Crimson Ridge, ok? The weather turned to shit over here real quick tonight.”

“Over here? Where are you?” Walking into the Rhodes home feels as natural as anything. I know every nook and cranny in this house, and there’s something comforting in the fact it hasn’t changed hardly at all that I can see at first glance.

“We’re spending Christmas with Flinn’s family this year, remember?”

Oh, shit.

“Sorry, crown me world’s crappiest friend right now. Totally forgot you guys were heading out of town for the holidays.”

“I’ll forgive you. Can’t blame you for forgetting, considering the fact you didn’t sleep and made like five thousand Christmas wreaths in two weeks, Sky. Crazy bitch workaholic that you most certainly are.” He chuckles in that deep voice that reminds me of weekends spent teasing each other and driving back roads with the windows rolled down, blasting Nirvana, and daydreaming of bright futures for what our lives might bring.

I’m standing in the entrance hall, knowing exactly how many steps it takes to reach the guest room at the top of the staircase to my left. A room that I’ve stayed in too many times to count over the years. Yet, I don’t make a move. Something about this particular visit, when Brad isn’t here, changes things.

“So why were you blowing up my phone, bestie? Do I need to egg a certain wank face’s house when I get back?”

Scrunching my eyes, I brace myself for the inevitable. “Yeah… so… you were right about him. The guy was cheating on me.” I say that last part as hushed as possible, because I don’t know where Brad’s father has disappeared off to inside the house after shutting the door behind me, and I also feel insanely embarrassed at the prospect of having to discuss the truth behind my road-side-rescue.

“Bitch, I knew it.” The phone rustles as Brad does something on the other end of the line. “Flinn, babe, I told you,” he hollers in the background.

“Ok, ok, you don’t have to alert the entire village.” I hiss.

There’s a pause while he mutters something under his breath and hums in agreement. “Flinn says he wants you to know that ‘he knew it’ too, by the way.”

“Well, aren’t you both just a pair of clair-fucking-voyants.”

“Our powers extend beyond bi-panic and having excellent style, you know.” He clicks his tongue at me. “Wait… so, if you’re in Crimson Ridge… but you’ve ditched Jere-prick-face…”

Shit. Here it comes.

“Um, so I might be standing in your house.”

“Huh?”

Words tumble out as I give Brad the rundown of my shitty night while shifting in place awkwardly in the entrance. It’s set back a little from the open-plan farmhouse kitchen, and as I fidget on the spot, I still don’t know where the man of the house has vanished to.

“God, Sky, I’m so sorry…” he groans. “But, I’m warning you now, Dad’s probably gonna insist on his incredibly lame, old man Christmas routine. Where he plonks his ass in a chair reading by the fire and alternates that with going to sleep, snoring, and just being super boring in general.”

A smirk threatens to escape onto my lips because Brad should know by now that is one hundred percent the perfect sounding day for me. My best friend is the social butterfly extrovert out of the two of us, and right now, curling up in front of the fire with a book sounds like my kinda heaven, Christmas or otherwise.

That quite possibly might be the perfect solution as I wait for the snow to clear, in order to soothe my bruised ego, thanks to Jeremy and his kitchen blow job, and recharge my drained social battery after the craziness of the shop.

“I fucking heard that.” A gruff voice appears in front of me.

“Actually, maybe it’s kinda perfect, you two can both hate Christmas together.” Brad lets out a hearty laugh down the line. “Take good care of my girl, won’t ya, Dad?” He says loud enough for him to hear.

I’m internally dying at this entire situation.

Why yes, I would very much like to be taken care of by this slab of cowboy.

“Merry Christmas, guys.” It’s impossible to miss the way those dark eyes lock on mine as he replies to Brad.

“Yeah, you too. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, and we’ll aim to be back once the snow has cleared in a couple of days.”

We say our goodbyes, and by the time I hang the phone up, I’m squirming beneath the weight of this man’s stare.

He’s stripped out of his outdoor gear to reveal a faded denim shirt pushed to his elbows. Those jeans he wears the hell out of are far too easy to appreciate up close.

Lucas Rhodes has reached his forties, but is the epitome of a man who could easily pass for much younger than that. It’s only the dusting of gray at his temples, the salt and pepper beard, matched with a sexy white streak that has always curled through the front of his disheveled hair that belies his age.

I’ve swooned over that rogue lock of white in amongst the longer dark strands falling across his forehead for more years than I can remember.

“Let me take your coat.” His voice comes out husky and I swear to god my knees buckle a little.

He steps around to stand behind me, and our height difference is marked at this proximity. I barely reach the man’s chest, even in my heeled boots.

I’m a curvy girl with thick thighs, a soft stomach, and tits I wish were bigger to give me more of an hourglass shape. I know how to dress in order to feel myself, yet, no matter what, there’s no disguising the fact I’m short.

Standing with this man at my back, I feel dwarfed by his size. He’s thick-chested. Broad and muscled. The kind of steadiness to him, that is a constant reminder of how strong and sturdy he is, with absolutely no interest in being cut or showing off.

This is a man who has a body capable of hard graft and days on end working with his horses and the land.

God, I’ve got to get my ovaries under control and stop drooling over this cowboy.

Only, he keeps making it nearly impossible to do so. Strong fingers hook beneath my coat collar as I undo the buttons. And that’s when I remember.

The outfit I’ve got on underneath.