Close Enough to Touch (Jackson Hole 1)
Cole braced himself for that first deep jolt of pain when he pushed himself from bed. He’d been cutting back on ibuprofen for the past few weeks, but now he had to admit that this wasn’t the time. He’d have to get back to the prescription-strength pills for a little while. Just while his body adjusted to working again. His physical therapist was still trying to push muscle relaxants to let him get some sleep at night, but Cole wasn’t going to touch them. He was doing the stretching now. Doing everything he was told to do. When that didn’t help, he just dealt with it.
Like this morning, when the ache in his leg was spreading up through his hip to his back and digging in there like a rabid badger.
Jesus, he was only thirty-four. He had another forty years of injuries ahead of him. If he got back to riding. If he could still be a cowboy. If not…
No, he wasn’t going to think that way. He’d get through this and move on. Soon enough, he’d be past it. It’d be a distant bad memory.
He turned the shower up to scalding, then stood there with his head down for as long as he could take it.
Half an hour later, he knocked on Grace’s door. A tiny glimmer of light caught his eye, and he noticed that she’d scraped the paint off the peephole in the door. The light darkened. He smiled and mouthed “Good morning.”
She yanked the door open a moment later. “Hey,” she said, her voice still sleepy.
Cole took her in for a moment. She was already wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Her feet were bare again, blue toenails in such stark contrast to her white toes. His eyes wandered back up. The T-shirt was rumpled and worn. And intriguingly tight.
Cole cleared his throat. She was always smaller than he expected. Petite and almost delicate-looking. Small breasts. Hips that—
She crossed her arms as if she were cold. “Dude. Hello.”
“Have you had breakfast?” He looked past her toward the kitchen. No coffeepot. Nothing but a jar of peanut butter with a plastic knife sticking out of it.
“Yes.”
Wow. These L.A. girls really didn’t eat much. No wonder she looked so small. He could never understand how women starved themselves. He couldn’t go more than a few hours without grabbing at least a snack.
“What about coffee?” He seemed to remember plenty of coffee drinking in Hollywood. And smoking. And there were always calories available for martinis.
“Um. Not yet.”
“I’ve got a pot on now. Want some?”
Oh, he had her number. She didn’t want to say yes. Her mouth, so wide and full and pink, had pressed itself into a flat line. But her eyes were sharp with interest. He had something she wanted, and the price for that was time.
Her nose twitched, and Cole realized the scent was drifting into the hallway. He smiled. She scowled. Her blue-painted toes curled.
“I’ll pour you a cup,” he said, then turned his back and walked into his apartment, feeling a little like he was trying to lure a feral cat. She snuck in silently a few seconds later. He vowed not to make any sudden moves.
“Want some bacon? I’m making it for myself, may as well make some for you.”
“Sure,” she said warily.
He got breakfast started, throwing in some eggs for her, too, then handed her a cup of coffee. “I hear you were a makeup artist in L.A.”
“Yeah?” She hunched over the cup, and Cole reached for the thermostat again. “Who’d you hear that from?”
“Jenny.” He figured it wouldn’t hurt to be extra sure, so he asked again. “So, what are you doing out here?”
“Seeing the world.”
“Yeah? And you decided to start with the middle of Wyoming?”
She glared at him through the steam that rose from her cup. Today, her makeup was perfect. Apparently, she’d already been up and put it on. A secret vanity. Interesting.
“What kind of work did you do in L.A.?”
“The makeup kind.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Cole just looked at her until she slumped a little and conceded. As if telling him about herself was a defeat. “I worked in fashion a little, but mostly in the movies.”