Taming the Heart (Crimson Ridge #3)

by Elliott Rose

“Come here, you cocksucking little slut.” My head whips up from mindlessly scrolling on my phone, jerking on reflex at the sound of the female voice yelling from opposite me on the sidewalk. Goddamn. I’m in my biggest hoodie, even though it’s seventy-eight out, with my cap pulled as low as possible. The last thing I need is some crazed fan thinking they know anything about me or my life to launch a tirade of obscenities in my face. I’m in the process of moving back to Crimson Ridge to get away from the city psychos.

a waterfall of crap spills down the steps of the art gallery storefront a few paces directly in front of me. “You motherfucking, cheap whore, piece of shit.”

Whoever this is has their hands full with a to-go coffee in one, a cell phone in the other, as the contents of their handbag—which seems large enough to comfortably contain a small dog—are busy forming a tsunami of personal items down the flight of steps. The bottom of the world’s largest purse has busted apart, leaving everything inside to imitate a tumbling bag of marbles pouring down the staircase, with her shit busy flying in all directions. Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I take a couple of steps forward. The least I can do is stop this lady’s stuff from rolling straight out into the street. “This is what you do to me? After everything? Little bitch.” She’s bent double, trying to trap notebooks and pens and highlighters from skittering down the steps using only her feet. While the useless bag with no ass hangs limply at her side. I have to bite my tongue not to laugh. She hasn’t even noticed I’m here gathering up as many bits and pieces as I can in an effort to help.

Darting a glance up, I see that she’s set the coffee down and is busy scooping up items off the stairs, hidden behind a curtain of shiny, dark hair. I can’t see her face. What I can see, however, is a fantastic ass. Curvy thighs and figure-hugging charcoal denim that makes sexy-as-hell creases just below her waist. A simple black tank skims the high waistband, and holy shit, that’s when I realize my eyes have drifted up. The side profile of an incredible pair of breasts hidden beneath silky fabric leaves my mouth dry and the back of my neck heating instantly. Fuck. This is not the time or the place to get busted gaping like a horny teenager at a pretty girl on the main street of Crimson Ridge.

I clear my throat in order to grab her attention, since she’s still muttering obscenities at her handbag beneath her breath and doesn’t seem to have noticed that I’m right here. I’m preparing to thrust everything into her arms and beat a hasty retreat to hop in my truck, when she seems to finally notice my boots where I’m standing before her. One hand whips up, flicking her loose waves out of the way, and fucking hell… honeyed, dark eyes meet mine. There’s a flash to them. A spark catches me entirely off guard. “Oh, Jesus. You saw all of that? What a clusterfuck.” She stands up and dusts her palms on the front of her jeans in the process. There’s no double take, no lingering curiosity. This girl just matter-of-factly tucks her hair behind one ear and huffs out a frustrated breath.

“Here.” One syllable is about all I can offer. Why am I suddenly tongue-tied? She meets my eyes again, then drops her gaze down to where I’m still clutching a bundle of items rescued from the exploding handbag situation. As I hold out my fist, her eyes widen, drawing my gaze to see what she’s reacting to. Immediately, my gut clenches because my first instinct is to consider that maybe she’s recognized me after all… “Oh, well, aren’t you a real gentleman cowboy.” My brows scrunch together, a little confused, trying to figure out her meaning. Clutched in my palm is a small drawstring bag. It’s gold, velvety fabric, and something juts from the top where the strings haven’t been pulled tight. A purple silicone curve peeks out. “Huh?” Confusion must be etched all over my face. As she arches one eyebrow at me, followed by that pretty mouth of hers tipping into a wicked smirk, my slow-ass fucking brain catches up with the play. I’m standing on the sidewalk, waving this girl’s vibrator around like a hot dog vendor at a ballpark. Her wearable vibrator.

“Do they not have toys to play with in this little part of the mountains?” Bright flecks of amber glow in amongst the rich ochre of her eyes, which in turn match the deeper, sun-bronzed brown of her skin. “Cat got your tongue, hot stuff? You know, it’s got ten different speeds and customizable settings. It also does this awesome pattern if you set the mode just right where it really makes your eyes roll back.”

“Shame really.” Mystery girl makes the decision for me, reaching out to pluck the bag and its contents from my hand. “As much as I’d love to give you a Ted talk about finding a woman’s clit before I’ve even had a drop of caffeine, alas, I’ve got places to be.” With no more than a shrug and a wink, she tucks the toy away and pulls the side strings to seal up the bag. Not a hint of embarrassment or shame or annoyance at this situation.

“Wow. Really melted your brain there, didn’t I, cowboy?” I clear my throat. “I don’t need the Ted talk.” A devastating curl touches her lips as she looks me up and down. “Sure about that?” “You betcha.” My skin prickles, and the words come out sounding a whole lot like a grown man growling, even to my own ears. Mystery girl looks mighty pleased with herself for continuing to get under my skin. Meanwhile, I’m still clutching half her crap, minus the wearable fucking vibrator I’m not gonna be able to stop wondering about now. Why does she have it in her purse? Does she use it often? What does it look like nestled inside her soft pussy? Christ. Stop. This is not a drill, I need to exit through the emergency doors right this instant. “Well, since you’re standing there stumped by a vibrator, can you at the very least do a gal a solid and point me in the direction of where I might find myself something to shove all this crap in? Better yet, could you be a country gentleman and duck into the gallery upstairs and see if they’ve maybe got a cardboard box or something?”

no, the fragrance of wild orange and honeysuckle demands my attention and floods my veins. Just like everything about this girl, it’s not a performance. It’s purely magnetic and sexy, and holy fucking shit, I absolutely cannot be looking at this girl with that bag tucked between her plush lips and its sinfully hot package inside, thinking these thoughts. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Even though I want to. Clearing my throat like it’s full of rust, I readjust my cap, squeezing the brim. “Wait there.”

My grip wrenches open the back door to my truck, and I fist the duffel sitting on the floor. Upending it without so much as a second look, I let my own things tumble out, then proceed to head back to the far-too-beautiful girl who I am absolutely not looking at in any way. I’m helping a stranger. This is just me doing a good deed. Not like I’m desperate to ask her name or find out if she works in town or something insane like that. “Lovely.” Her eyes roll as I shove the faded canvas into her hands. “Do I get to keep your sweaty gym socks, too?” “Best I could do. Left my spare designer purse back at the ranch.”

A pretty girl with fire in her eyes kneeling in front of me. I have to cough into my fist and think about the last time I had my nuts nearly crushed during a gnarly ride. “I’m not gonna find a dirty jockstrap you’ve stuffed in here as a memento, am I?” Her nose scrunches as she efficiently shoves everything in and zips up my duffel. I guess her duffel now. “No. Maybe just a cock ring, if you’re lucky.” The retort is out of me before I can do anything to stop it. Fuck it, I want this girl to know I’m not boring, I’m not usually so tongue-tied, and I certainly don’t want her thinking I’m a stuffy old country bumpkin. “Well, if the wearable fits…” Laughing a little, she stands up then slings the strap over her shoulder. With one hand now reacquainted with her coffee, the other shoves her phone into a back pocket, and then she sticks out her palm. This is the moment, right here, when I could take her hand and shake it and feel how soft her touch might be in contrast to that sharp tongue. It’s tempting, hovering right there. Urging me on and recklessly goading me into doing the thing I shouldn’t do—the thing I can’t do considering my life and my circumstances—to ask for her name, her phone number.

Just as I lift my hand, reaching out to take her extended palm, just as I see the split second when her gaze falls to my mouth, another arm snakes through the crook of my elbow. My fingers curl into a clenched fist, dropping back to my side like a stone. “Hi, babe. Sorry I took so long.” I watch as my mystery girl’s eyes bounce rapid-fire taking in the woman glued to my side, flicking down to where her arm threads through, interlinking with mine, before landing with a thud on the spectacular diamond adorning her left ring finger. Before I can say a word, she plasters on a polite veneer. “Right. Well… thanks for the help. You guys have a good one.” Her smile flashes with a tightness to it, a glance that avoids my eyes, and she whips around on her heel.

“Jesus, Tessa. Did you fucking have to?” I wrench my arm away. “Babe? Really?” “Oh, excuse me, Beau Heartford, for doing my job.” My goddamn sister flutters her eyelashes at me, thinly disguising an eye roll. The extensions I pay for, along with her fabulous salary for being the best damn manager I could have ever hoped for. Doesn’t change the fact that she’s my baby sister and gets on my every last nerve. “You don’t have to do that every time, you know.” I hiss, well aware there’s a black cloud forming over my head. “Oh, shit…” Tessa’s blue-gray eyes, the ones that match my own, widen. “Were you into her? I can go get her number if you want?” “No. It’s fine. Leave it be.” Shaking my head, I hurl myself into the driver’s seat of my truck.

My teeth grind, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel. Nope. That girl is too young. A PR nightmare waiting to happen. I’m not interested in looking for anything but some peace by finally moving out here, and if that means being on my own, then so be it. “You done all the shit you need to do?” “Jeez. Let’s make a stop to get you a coffee or something on our way outta town, because I sure ain’t paid enough to put up with your grumpy ass.”

Fuck the circumstances I’ve found myself in. Fuck the world and their opinions and their incessant need to demand I be someone I’m not. I’m going to put all that just happened clear out of my mind. I have to. I’m not going to cheat on my wife.

ONE MONTH LATER

“Did you land safely? Did your bag arrive? If you meet a nice cowgirl or cowboy, please promise you’ll bring them home to meet me. Don’t make me fly out to Montana just to get a scrap of information about your love life.” “Mom… Christ… take a breath.” “Well?” I readjust the wide duffel strap on my shoulder and make my way through the small crowd milling around the baggage claim area.

It’s like I’ve stepped off the plane and entered into an alternate reality, one where everyone walks around wearing their best hats, boots, and belt buckles. Though I’m certainly not complaining at the way all these pairs of jeans are hugging asses like it’s their only job.

“Sage Ashwini Maloney, are you even listening to me?” “Oooh. Did you just middle name me? Fine. No, we spiraled into a fiery heap on the runway. Sadly my bag has been charred amongst the wreckage, but on the upside, a cute cowgirl in faded cut-offs saved me. Would you believe we’re currently on the back of her horse clip-clopping off into the sunset together.” “Good lord. What did I do wrong in a past life?” “Remember, I’m the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Excuse me.” I tuck my phone against my shoulder and gesture at the slowly approaching siren-red suitcase. “Here, let me, pretty lady.” One of the dude-ranch tourists closest to the carousel reaches out to grab the handle and sweeps the case off the conveyor with the kind of flourish you’d expect from someone landing the catch of the day. Do not wear your mood on your face. I mouth a silent thank you, and quickly whisk myself away from their eau-du-frat-boy.

“He had a better manicure and more regularly moisturized hands than I do, is who that was. No, thank you.”

“Look, I’m going to have to wrap this interrogation up. I’ll text you when I get to Crimson Ridge, yeah?” “At least Layla is there to keep an eye on you.” She sighs at me. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one place her eyes are occupied these days. Besides, I’m not gonna be doing anything but working my ass off this summer. Remember, I’ve got three different client projects all going on.” “And we’re mighty proud of you. Maloney’s will take over the world.” My dad’s deep voice calls from somewhere in the distance. “Thanks, Dad.”

My parents are sickeningly in love, and deserve every single moment of their happily ever after. It’s probably no surprise my standards are so skyscraper high, soaring amongst the clouds—set to have my heart turning to ice from living at such an altitude. In my experience, nothing and no one has ever come close to the kind of relationship they have, and I simply refuse to settle for anything less than the person who lets me shine the brightest while being myself. So, rather than dull my spark, or shrink to fit someone else’s expectations, I have plenty of fun and keep my heart safely locked away.

UNKNOWN Sage, it’s Tessa Diaz. I’m so sorry to do this to you when you’ve only just arrived. Something has come up, and I can’t be there to meet you at the airport. Look for your name on a board when you get to the meet and greet area.

This is the opportunity of my dreams—not only have I landed multiple clients for my freelance marketing business straight away, but this gig with the ranch I’ve secured includes bed and board as part of the deal. A full package to see me through the summer I’ll be working there.

bestie, Layla, the biggest hug ever for her connections. As soon as they heard I’d come recommended by Stôrmand Lane—a friend of her man, Colt, and local rodeo celebrity—what was supposed to be an interview instantly pivoted to become a straightforward conversation confirming my rates and when I could begin. Naturally, I jumped to sign and agreed to start at the earliest opportunity.

So, here I am, back on Montana soil, preparing to settle into life among the mountains for the next few months. At least, until fall flutters her first golden leaves to the ground that is. By then, I’ll be on my way to the next project calling my name. Not only will I be able to experience first-hand what it’s like to be on the ranch, I’ll be staying there as if I’m a future guest. Getting a sense of how the place will feel once the business eventually welcomes booking into the cabins on-site. In addition to that, Tessa was so determined to have me on board that I’m going to be able to work with my other clients I’ve got lined up at the same time. All of which suits me perfectly, because the last time I was in Crimson Ridge, I managed to leave town not only with a list of prospective business opportunities, but a lingering crush on a complete stranger. The kind of fuckery that never happens to me. Ever.

In no universe do I need to be stuck thinking about the kind of man who gives you bedroom eyes one minute, only to discover he’s got a wife with a big fuck off wedding ring that could poke an eye out if she so much as wiggled a manicured finger, the next. As much as I enjoy a whole lot of fun, I’m in no way interested in being a homewrecker. Single, uncomplicated, and down for no-strings-attached fooling around: that’s the only bio I’m interested in swiping right on.

Life is too fleeting, too precious, not to enjoy every moment with both hands in the air and head tossed back, screaming your favorite lyrics at the top of your lungs. A man or woman with baggage? Nope. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

Miss Maloney. Mine peeks back at me over the top of the heads of the few others waiting on passengers, and I flick my eyes to follow the arm holding my name aloft. An arm that extends, muscled, tanned, and deliciously veined beneath a white t-shirt. Holy shit. My mouth gapes, and the words tumble out with no hope of stopping them. “Cock Ring? Is that you?”

“Oh my god. Cock Ring? It is you.” Tilting my head to one side, I take in the sight of the cowboy I’d left standing on the sidewalk on my last visit. He’s just as goddamn handsome—if anything, more so with his stupidly golden tan from obviously being outdoors so much, paired perfectly with unruly dark hair curling out from beneath his cap. To make matters worse, that mustache is also just as dreamy as when I first laid eyes on him.

“Christ. Keep your voice down, would you?” His face is unreadable, but judging by the way his jaw just slammed shut, and he’s hissing at me through gritted teeth, I’m not sure this is a welcome reunion. In fact, this man looks like he wants to shove me back through the doors I just emerged from. “Do you work for Tessa—I mean, Mrs. Diaz, too?”

“Apparently,” he snaps, without looking my way. Well, hottie cowboy sure as hell is losing his luster now that I’m getting a chance to see his cold shoulder up close. This is miles away from the flirty conversation we exchanged while the guy helped gather my things and juggled my wearable, looking adorably flustered the whole time. Yet again, I have to remind myself that none of that even matters because this dude is locked down, living in wedded bliss, hitched to his forever Mrs. Mustache. Lucky bitch. “You’re Miss Maloney... Sage Maloney?” He doesn’t look back, but dips his chin and talks so low out of the corner of his mouth I feel like we’re in some sort of weird whispering game.

“Problem? Is there something wrong with that?” I arch an eyebrow. This is really going to put the final nail in the coffin of any perceived attractiveness of this man if he doesn’t explain himself. He tugs on the brim of his cap forcefully, pulling it lower over his brow, then glances side to side. “No… of course not… it’s got nothing to do with you—or your name.” The man looks as if he’d gladly climb the walls in search of an escape hatch hidden in the roof of this airport. “Then what?” “It’s—I just—I wasn’t expecting you.” “Ok, well, cool your jets… I wasn’t expecting you either, cowboy. I was preparing myself for Daddy Dentures and pureed TV dinners.”

“Holy shit. It’s him—I mean, it’s you.” A voice cannons our way from across the expanse of polished concrete flooring, and for the briefest second, there’s a flicker I see in the blue-gray of his eyes. His expression tightens, the line of his brow furrows deeper, and then he turns with a forced smile toward the direction of the eager voice. “Beau Heartford? Man, my dad is fully gonna kick himself that he ain’t here right now.”

“Do you mind?” He gestures at his phone clutched in one fist. “Not at all.” Mystery cowboy—Cock Ring—keeps that forced smile tightly pinned to his face and poses for a selfie with the young buck, who flashes a broad grin and thumbs up at the camera. “My old man watches replays of your championship year all the time. Says there’s never been a run to take the buckle like it.” “Appreciate it. You want me to sign something for him?” “Hell yes… I mean, thank you, sir.” He whips his trucker cap out of the back pocket of his jeans, and then looks crestfallen for a second. With a sigh, I unzip the side pocket of my duffel and pull out a marker. “Here.” “You’re a lifesaver, ma’am.” Blondie looks like he’s about to cry, or melt, or who knows, maybe piss himself with excitement, as he hands over the hat and the pen. Who the fuck is this guy?

“Is Mandy not traveling with you?” The young cat asks, but I can feel the way he’s side-eyeing my presence ever so subtly, or maybe not subtly, because it’s clear he’s wondering who I am and how I fit in the picture. The air thickens instantly. If there was ever a moment to pull out your sashimi knife and slice away at the immediate tension, this would be it. “Mandy’s currently touring for the latest album, but I’ll be sure to let her know you asked after her.” Cowboy looks ready to stuff the hat down blondie's throat. “How about you give your email to my assistant here, and she’ll organize tickets for you and your family to the next rodeo champs.” “Oh, man, for real?” All of a sudden, I’ve got a bouncing puppy in front of me, and this time, I’m almost certain he’s going to pee all over my boots.

Assistant? Jesus. Whatever, I’m not going to argue the point. But things aren’t looking particularly healthy in the feminine-empowerment department either if this is going to be a regular occurrence. I’m certainly not here to scratch around pandering to men who think the workplace pair of tits is only good for fetching coffee and running errands. Fighting back the scowl that wants to come out to play, I bat my eyelashes and pull out my planner.

Beau Heartford, the cowboy apparently worthy of being called by both his first and last name, takes off like there’s a rocket under his ass. An ass that I am most certainly not looking at hugged by those wranglers.

He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight, I decide to zip my lips and not waste my breath. This guy has clearly got a problem with me, and I really don’t fucking care to understand why. Hopefully we won’t have to work together much this summer. A fine ass doesn’t compensate for having the personality of a urine cake. His wife must be something else if she puts up with this kind of bullshit. I bet she’s gladly away doing whatever it is that she does touring.

After about ten minutes of deafening quiet and passing mountain scenery, he grunts. “What did you do to my gym bag?” I glance down at the duffel tucked at my feet. “Oh, that? I made it more fashionable.” “It’s got weird shit stuck all over the place.” “It’s bedazzled. Cute, huh? Do you want the bag back, by the way? Since this is a weird little moment of fate bringing our worlds back together again.” “There are pink rhinestones on it.” “And?”

“So… Mandy?” I decide to approach the elephant in the room. Recalling the sight of the woman latched onto his arm, flashing her diamond in my face, she was certainly very pretty. A sweet little country-Barbie-doll package to match her dashing, dark-haired cowboy-Ken.

“Your wife?” I press. This time, he exhales a long breath through his nose and holds up his ring finger, spinning the metal band around with a thumb. “Yep.” There’s something in that single word that I can’t quite place. Regret? Anger? It’s not the response I was anticipating, and it throws me for a loop.

This is just a job. I’ll knock it out of the park, scoring myself a stellar client testimonial with a glowing recommendation to build my portfolio while I’m at it. Not to mention I’ll do it all with a wink, a smile, and my bad bitch boots. Crimson Ridge won’t know what has hit it.

The remainder of our trip passes in silence, until the sight of mountains rising above wide-open pasture greets us. We turn onto the long gravel drive leading up to what is presumably the ranch. As we pass beneath a wooden framed entranceway, it’s impossible not to notice the obvious lack of a nameplate in the location where I would have expected to see one hanging proudly. “She doesn’t have a name yet?” I say under my breath. There’s a fluttering sensation in my chest, while my eyes bounce everywhere at once because this place is fucking breathtaking. We’ve arrived right on golden hour, with the setting sun coating every blade of grass and summer leaf in a shimmering, glittering dusting of twenty-four karats.

Missing an opportunity to capture a scene like this feels criminal, because holy shit, it looks like a dreamscape out here. I can already hear the credit cards swiping to book up a week-long adventure beneath expansive skies and the watchful gaze of those striking mountains. This place is cool as shit. Utterly drool-worthy. In my mind’s eye, I’ve already created half a dozen promotional graphics and banners, and oh my god, I just want to get my laptop fired up so I can begin throwing ideas together. My creative itch demands to be scratched at the earliest possible opportunity. Then, there’s the main house itself. We draw closer to a cluster of buildings, and I have to bite back an audible whimper. The facade of cedar, stonework, and double-peaked roof gables are all bathed in that warm glow of an impending sunset to swoon over, and I catch sight of a circular outdoor fire pit set up out front of the main living and dining area.

“There aren’t any horses or stock here?” My eyes keep scanning over all the details—spotting the barn and other smaller buildings that must be the cabin accommodation, set a little further back from the main house. “Not yet.” We pull up to a stop outside a garage where a similar white truck is already parked. “Is Tessa around?” I start to gather up my things. “She texted to say she’d brief me once I’d arrived.” “She’s not here,” he mutters and pulls out his phone before frowning at the screen. Whatever he reads leaves him fidgeting with the brim of his cap before lifting it and dragging a couple of fingers through his hair. Certainly, none of which I’m looking at out of the corner of my eye. Nope. Not looking at the way his eyes have a slight crease around the corners, giving him that roughened, older, experienced look. Not catching a glimpse of a few silver streaks feathered along his temples in amongst the dark brown strands either. I’m not even ovulating right now, yet my body and brain are in two completely different universes where this man is concerned.

“Ok. Clearly, this is going to call for a re-do.” I clear my throat while swiveling in my seat and stick out my hand. “I’m Sage Maloney—founder of Wild Jasmine Studio. I’ve been hired for the summer to run the ranch PR and marketing. Tessa was supposed to fill me in on everything I needed to know, except without her to navigate this voyage, I’m going to need some help to get a feel for the lay of the land, cowboy. So do you fancy rummaging around in that vocabulary of yours for a few more words than just yes or no?”

“C’mon, cowboy. I’m not gonna bite.” I wiggle my fingers. “Let’s give the whole introduction thing a little re-run, hmm. Clean slate?” I watch as his throat dips, and he reaches out to take my hand in his own. His palm swallows mine with a powerful grip that wraps me up inside his calloused, hard-worn, and unbelievably warm hold. Tingles sweep up my forearm like fireflies prancing through my veins as he squeezes my hand. “The name’s Beau.” This time, he holds my eyes, and I genuinely wish he wouldn’t, because the energy of that day when we first met races back into the space between us.