Fight For Her (More Than A Cowboy 1)

“What about it?” I replied, my words a sharp bite. I went to my kitchen and leaned against the granite counter. Nothing was out of place. No crumbs. Not even a coffee cup in the sink. Emory was right, it was ridiculously clean. God, I didn’t want to think of her when I was talking to my old man, but she kept popping into my head at odd times, and when it happened, it felt like Christmas morning. Christmas morning for those who had Norman Rockwell childhoods, not a fucker for a father.

“I’ve got money riding on it. Don’t blow it.”

I shook my head and laughed, then pinched the bridge of my nose. That’s all he wanted from me—another bet. “Yeah, that’s why I’m training him to be the best, so you can make your money.”

My dad barked out a laugh. “You think I’m betting on your guy? Hell no. I’m betting on Ramirez. Just keep doing a fuck-up job of your life and your kid’ll blow it and I’ll rake in the dough.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear, slowly shook my head. “Fuck you,” I muttered. I heard my old man’s miserable laugh as I pushed the End button. Yeah, no sunshine and unicorns in my family.

How I could let my dad push my buttons after all these years was something I’d never understand. He was a fucking asshole and I’d walked away after high school graduation and never looked back. Somehow, he kept getting my unlisted numbers and called just to fuck with me. But betting against me? This was a new low and it was hard to handle. I wanted to punch the shit out of something and that’s why I had the gym downstairs. Instead of taking that shower, I punched the button on the elevator to go and hit the bags and work off some of the anger.

A few hours later, with my anger tamed and my muscles sore, I finally got that shower. After, I climbed into my car to head to a lunch meeting across town. The ping of a new text came from my pocket. I hit the air conditioning to high and grabbed the phone.

Emory: Is this a date? You said I’d know for sure when you asked me out.

I grinned, remembering my words. Whatever angst lingered from the shit with my dad slipped away as I typed.

Gray: It is if you say yes. Otherwise it's a not-date.

I put on my seat belt.

Emory: I will be in my scrubs and gross, so I will want a redo.

I shook my head and shut my eyes briefly at her humor.

Gray: You can have a redo. Definitely. As many as you want.

I didn’t hear from her right away, so I set off for my appointment. She was probably on some kind of quick break, so I didn't expect to hear from her right away. But five minutes later, my cell pinged again. I pulled into a strip mall lot to read the text.

Emory: I forgot. Someone is bringing me dinner. Long story. Come over at 7:30.

Later, when I walked up the sidewalk to her place a few minutes early, I knew the man and the boy sitting on Emory’s steps were part of the long story.

CHAPTER EIGHT

EMORY

Not used to attractive men waiting for me on my steps, I stopped short as I walked up the sidewalk toward my house. I couldn’t help but ogle the two men sitting there. Gray leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. The other man I’d never met, but was most likely Marco’s uncle. The boy sat on the step above and the family resemblance was strong. Marco’s hands waved in the air, animated and lively as he talked. While the man was focused on his nephew, Gray watched me as I approached and I felt the familiar flutter at the sight of him. I was becoming used to the sensation and I wasn’t afraid of it any longer. He was so relaxed, so at ease. So flippin’ hot. And he was here for me. Watching me. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward them once again. His dark eyes raked over me, from my work clogs, my scrubs and to my messy ponytail. I could only imagine what he thought of me dressed like this, in the outfit I considered man-repellant.

Gray stood, slipped his hands in his pockets. Once he saw me, Marco’s uncle got to his feet as well. Marco, too, only after a gentle nudge on the head.

“Hi, Miss Emory!” Marco’s youthful exuberance had him knocking the men out of the way and jumping down three steps to give me a hug. The other men held back, clearly having learned about boundaries unlike the boy, although I wouldn’t have minded if Gray grabbed me so eagerly. Over Marco’s head, I glanced up at him. His eyes gave away nothing about his feelings, but I hoped to discover them once we were alone.

I looked down at Marco’s upturned face. “Hello. Have you been busy?” It was impossible not to smile at him.

His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flushed. He wore shorts, T-shirt and sneakers once again. After spending the day in a well air-conditioned hospital, the air was hot and muggy. Already after seven, the temperature hadn’t dropped out of the eighties.

“I’m Frank, Marco’s uncle.”

The man came down the two steps at a much more sedate pace than his nephew and held out his hand, smiling. About six foot, he had the same black, curly hair as Marco, yet his eyes were a pale blue. The contrast was quite striking with his olive complexion. Standing next to Gray, he was lanky, long legged, yet fit. He had the perfect build for a rower. I put him in his late twenties and with his wicked smile, I could only imagine he had to fight off the ladies.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I replied. His grip was firm, his eyes were kind. He did not have an accent like his father, so I had to assume he was born here.

“We have your lights replaced and your dinner is in that bag.” He pointed to a large brown grocery sack sitting by the front door. “While my father couldn’t be here, he asked me to give you his contact information. If you need anything at all, please call.”

I glanced down at the business card he handed me. It was for Casale’s Restaurant. I flipped it over and there were several phone numbers handwritten on the back.

“Thank you. You and your father have been very kind.” I turned to Gray and my heart melted a little. “Hi,” I murmured.