The Stillwell Cowboys

JILLIAN

I studied my reflection in the old, cracked mirror on the back of Gram’s bedroom door. The freckles and acne were long gone, but the sad, lonely eyes were still there.

Was there ever a time in my life when I wasn’t alone?

Not really.

It was just me and Gram when I was a kid. My mother got pregnant at sixteen. She took off right after I was born, making the occasional appearance throughout my childhood.

Her visits were short, usually ending with her storming out the door when Gram wouldn’t give her money.

Gram had a busy social life. I always felt like a burden. It wasn’t her fault. My grandfather was killed in a car accident when she was pregnant with my mother. She’d raised her child by herself.

And just when she was about to have her freedom, she got saddled with another kid.

She put a roof over my head and kept my belly full. I knew she loved me, but affection wasn’t her strong suit. Hugs and kisses were rare.

If I tried to talk to her about a problem, she would usually pat my head and tell me everything was fine. Then she would jump in her bug and take off to Bingo or lunch with her friends.

I spent my twenties alone. The characters in my books kept me company. When I got married at age thirty, I thought I’d finally have the family I’d always longed for.

The joke was on me. My husband was a lawyer and a workaholic. We tried unsuccessfully to get pregnant for the entire seven years we were married.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re rich and successful. Get a cat if you’re lonely.

“Jillian!” Deanne hollered. “Where are you?!”

I headed out to the kitchen. “How did you get in?” I asked.

“The key under the mat on the porch, silly.”

“Give me that,” I ordered, holding out my hand.

“Your grandmother kept it there for emergencies. In case she fell or something, and I needed to get in.”

“What was the emergency tonight?”

“I was afraid you were going to back out of the reunion.”

“That is not an emergency.”

“I disagree. And I’m very glad to see you dressed. I thought I was going to have a battle on my hands.”

“I agreed to go.” I sighed.

“You look good, Jilly. That dress really suits you.”

“I had to buy a dress at Fran’s! I look like I’m going to church!”

“It is a tad conservative,” she agreed. “But teal is a nice color on you.”

“You know what? I don’t care what these people think. If they want to make fun of my old-lady dress, let them.”

“That’s the spirit!” she cheered.

***

“Why does this feel more like a high school prom than a reunion?” I grumbled.

Our reunion was being held at the actual high school. The gym was decorated with balloons and streamers, with a giant Class of 2002 banner.

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Why would they do that?”

“What?” Deanne asked, following my gaze to the massive screen on the far wall, displaying a slideshow of yearbook photos. “That was my idea.”

“Why? Nobody wants to see that.”

“Stop being such a drag.”

“That’s who I am.”

“Relax, Jilly,” she sighed. “Go find the bar.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” I agreed. “You’re driving me home, right?”

“Yeah. I’m the designated driver. I can’t drink.”

“Right,” I laughed. “I forgot.”

“The big belly didn’t remind you?” she snorted. “I’d better go rescue my husband. That Rachel Wilson already has him cornered. Twenty years, and she still can’t take a hint.”

I headed for the bar, passing several of my old classmates. Not one of them spoke.

Did you speak to them?

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“Something strong.”

“Okay,” he chuckled. “How about a Long Island iced tea?”

“I don’t think that’s going to get me through this shindig,” I said. “I’m thinking more along the lines of some bourbon, with just a splash of ginger ale, no ice.”

“Coming right up.”

I downed the drink in two gulps and ordered a refill. The warm burn in my belly calmed my nerves, giving me the courage to leave the safety of the bar and find a table.

I sat alone with my booze, watching from the sidelines while my classmates mingled and danced. It was high school all over again. And I was still the loser with no friends.

Dee was my only friend. We had nothing in common once we hit puberty. She was interested in makeup, boys, and her rapidly expanding chest. I just wanted to read books.

When we started ninth grade, she made lots of new friends. I made none. She finally succeeded in dragging me to a school dance in the eleventh grade.

That was the night she got together with Dave Dunkley. I spent the entire night sitting alone. And I lost my best friend. They were inseparable for the rest of high school.

When they got married, I was Dee’s maid of honor. I didn’t have a date for her wedding. I spent the evening sitting alone at a table.

The best man was plastered before dinner was served, so I never even got the obligatory dance with him.

What was I thinking, coming to my high school reunion? I don’t belong here.

I drained my glass, glancing over at the bar to make sure nobody was there before I headed up for a refill.

Once a loser, always a loser.

I was so wrapped up in my self-pity, I didn’t notice him approaching until it was too late to escape.

“Is this the table for people who don’t want to be here?” he asked.

I glanced up at the hulk of a man hovering on the other side of the table, his deep brown eyes pinning me with a sexy stare that threatened to reignite my dead sex drive.

The last thing I needed was a one-night stand with my high school crush.

As if Ethan Stillwell would fuck you.

“It is the loser table,” I confirmed. “Sit at your own risk. If you want to be invisible, this is the place to be.”

“I would love to be invisible,” he chuckled, folding his long body into the small chair across from me.

“Good luck with that,” I muttered. “You’re one of the Stillwells. Captain of the football team, prom king, most popular boy in our class. Shall I go on?”

“No. I think you pretty much covered it.” He tilted his head, a slow, sexy grin spreading across his lips. “Jillian Jennings, correct?”

“That’s impressive.”

“What is?”

“You didn’t know who I was in high school, but you know me now.”

“I knew who you were,” he said, taking a sip of his drink without breaking eye contact.

“Sure you did,” I laughed. “Deanne told you to come over here and pretend you remembered me, because I had a huge crush on you in high school.”

“Is that so?” he mused, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

“It was twenty years ago, Ethan.”

“Just for the record, Deanne did not ask me to come over here. And I do remember you. You were the quiet girl who always had her nose in a book.”

“And you were the football star with the gorgeous cheerleader girlfriend.”

His smile disappeared, his eyes flickering with sadness.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “That was a really insensitive thing to say. I know it’s not an excuse, but I don’t drink that often. Booze makes me say stupid things. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Am I correct in assuming you’re also here alone tonight?”

“Yes.”

“No husband?”

“He passed away last year.”

“I’m very sorry,” he said softly.

“I guess we’re just a couple of widowed people,” I sighed.

“I guess so,” he said, pushing up from his chair. “Can I get you another drink?”

“You’re coming back?”

“Do you want me to come back?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I definitely want to,” he said, his deep voice and lust-filled stare ending the year-long drought in my vagina.

I watched him walk away, giggling like a schoolgirl when he glanced back with a seductive wink.

Get a grip, Jillian.

He returned a few minutes later with two glasses of whiskey. “To old times and new beginnings,” he said, tapping his glass against mine.

“To old times and new beginnings,” I repeated.

“So, tell me, Jillian Jennings, what have you been up to for the past twenty years?”

“I’m a bestselling author of teenage mystery books.”

“Wow. Congratulations.”

“And I’m rich.”

“Nice,” he chuckled. “Me too. But I didn’t earn it like you did. I was born into it.”

“Luck of the draw.”

“I guess so,” he agreed. “My daughters read a lot. But I don’t recall ever hearing them mention your name.”

“I write under a pen name.”

“What is it?”

“Judith Jasper.”

His jaw dropped. He blinked rapidly, his shock slowly evolving to a starstruck stare. “You’re Judith Jasper?” he gasped.

“Yes,” I laughed.

“My ten-year-old is really into your books right now. She’s never going to believe it when I tell her you were here tonight.”

“Would you like an autograph for her?”

“That would be awesome, Jillian.”

“I can do you one better,” I suggested. “When I get home, I’ll mail her an autographed book. What’s her favorite?”

“She loves them all.”

“Okay then,” I said, pulling out my phone. “What’s your address? I’ll have my assistant ship out an entire autographed series first thing in the morning.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I want to, Ethan. What is your daughter’s name?”

“Katie.”

I typed the address he gave me and fired off the text.

“Done!” I declared.

“Thank you.”

“Anything I can do to brighten a little girl’s day. I know what it’s like to grow up without a mother. And mine didn’t die. She left voluntarily.”

“Did your father raise you?”

“No. I don’t even know who he is. I lived with my grandmother from the time I was born. She passed away a few days ago. That’s the only reason I’m in Rocky Mountain House. To settle her affairs.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Where do you live?”

“Calgary.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

I laughed nervously, fiddling with my napkin like an awkward weirdo. I wasn’t used to men flirting with me.

“Are people who don’t want to be here allowed to dance?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not,” I said.

He stood up, holding out his hand. I rose from the table, linking my fingers with his as he led me onto the dance floor.

He held me at a respectable distance while we fell in step, finding our rhythm as we moved across the floor to a slow love song.

“This definitely beats sitting at the loser table,” I said as we glided through our third song, our bodies moving closer together.

“It sure does,” he whispered, letting go of my hand to wrap his arms around my waist. “It feels good to have a beautiful woman in my arms again.”

“You’re very charming, Mr. Stillwell,” I teased, locking my arms around his neck. The alcohol was soaking into my brain by that point, lowering my inhibitions to a dangerous level.

He leaned his head down so his mouth was right next to my ear. “I can be when I want something,” he murmured, his warm breath sending tingles directly to my throbbing lady parts.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask what you want,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

He gazed into my eyes, the heat threatening to ignite between us, right there in the middle of the dance floor, with our former classmates looking on. My heart rate took off in a boisterous flutter of excitement.

Ethan Stillwell wanted me!

I was sixteen again, hiding my face in my locker while he made out with his girlfriend. Lisa Johnson’s locker was right next to mine all through high school.

They started dating in ninth grade. I lived through four years of locker kisses, fantasizing that it was me he was making out with.

And now it was finally going to happen.

My thirty-eight-year-old self rolled her eyes while she reminded me I’d consumed a considerable amount of alcohol. But there was a teenage girl inside me who wanted this.

She’d waited twenty years. Why couldn’t she live out her fantasy for one harmless night?

“I’d like to go somewhere quiet and talk,” he said.

Talk?

Eighteen-year-old Jillian didn’t want to talk.

And neither did half-drunk, thirty-eight-year-old Jillian.

He led me off the dance floor, stopping at the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey before we exited the gym.

“Where are we going?” I whispered.

“Somewhere quiet.”

“The library?” I gasped when we stopped in front of the familiar oak doors that led to my happy place in high school.

“I can guarantee nobody will bother us in here,” he said, turning the door handle.

“I didn’t expect it to actually be unlocked,” I laughed.

“Me either,” he admitted, gesturing for me to go ahead of him.

We crept through the dark library until we came to a seating area nestled among the towering shelves, the high windows flooding the alcove with moonlight.

“This is new,” I said, studying the weird chairs designed to replicate an armless stick person leaning against the wall with their knees bent.

“Yes, it is,” he laughed, pushing two orange chairs together.

The weird seats were surprisingly comfortable and sturdy, but not really designed for a woman in a dress. The hump prevented me from crossing my legs.

“Would you like a drink?” Ethan offered.

“I think I would,” I said, accepting the bottle. I took a swig before handing it back to him, the whiskey warming my chest as my inhibitions crept even lower.

He brought the bottle up to his lips, grinning when he took a drink. “I like the taste of your lipstick,” he said, smacking his lips.

“I didn’t realize it had a taste,” I laughed, my belly doing cartwheels when he stared at my mouth.

“It tastes like sweet strawberries,” he murmured, his voice coming out in a husky whisper.

“How many kids do you have?” I asked.

Nice subject change, chicken shit. The man wants to kiss you.

“Six,” he replied, grinning proudly. “All girls.”

“Holy…”

“That’s what Stillwells do. We’re a fertile bunch.”

“How old are they?”

“Alannah is sixteen; Jasmine is fifteen; Samantha is thirteen; Katie is ten; and the twins, Faith and Fiona, are six.”

“I bet you have a lively household.”

“It was,” he said solemnly, “but the past year has been rough on all of us.”

“I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

“We’ll get through it,” he sighed. “What about you, Jillian? Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“How long were you married for?”

“Seven years.” I reached for the bottle, taking another fortifying gulp. “We tried to have a baby, but it never happened. I went to see a fertility specialist, and he said I had an inhospitable uterus.”

“I see that in cows occasionally. The issue is usually with the cervical mucus. I do intrauterine insemination, which bypasses the cervix and takes it out of the equation.”

“Are you a veterinarian?”

“Yes. I’m what they call a theriogenologist. I specialize in animal reproductive health.”

“Maybe I should’ve gone to see you then,” I joked.

“Maybe,” he laughed.

“We waited too long to see someone,” I said sadly.

“My husband was a criminal lawyer. He was involved in a high-profile case for two years, and the fertility problems were put on the back burner. I was thirty-seven when we finally went to the specialist.

“He recommended in vitro because of my age and declining egg production. My husband suffered a massive heart attack the day we were supposed to go for the egg retrieval and sperm collection.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep. Life sucks. He was playing hockey that morning. Most of the guys on his team were firefighters and paramedics. There was a defibrillator in the arena. But they couldn’t save him.”

“I’m really sorry, Jillian,” he said softly, reaching for my hand.

“Me too.”

“No more depressing talk,” he announced, tipping the whiskey bottle back before handing it to me.

“No more depressing talk,” I agreed, taking a long swig.

“What shall we talk about?” he asked.

“I think it’s time for the talking portion of our evening to end,” I suggested.

“I would agree,” he rasped, turning on his side so he was facing me.

My heart hammered against my rib cage, the heat in my belly dropping about three floors down when he lowered his mouth to mine.

His lips were soft, his breath a mixture of whiskey and peppermint. He smelled clean and fresh like a spring day, with just a hint of woodsy cologne.

Ethan’s kisses were gentle and unhurried, his hands finding my waist to pull me closer. He sucked on my bottom lip, nipping it gently, his stubble brushing over my mouth and sending waves of pleasure crashing through my body.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, moaning softly when his tongue slipped past my lips, sweeping my mouth with hungry strokes.

His hands began to wander, sliding over my ass as he pulled me closer, his erection poking into my belly. I tried to wrap my leg around his hip, but my stupid dress was in the way.

He rolled on top of me, dropping open-mouthed kisses down my neck while he nudged my knees apart with his thighs.

I felt the chairs sliding apart underneath my back before I landed on the carpet with a loud thump. Ethan caught himself, rolling to the side so he didn’t flatten me.

It was probably a good thing I had a significant amount of liquor in my bloodstream. I burst out laughing.

Not just a giggle. A full-blown, tears-running-down-my-face spectacle. Ethan joined me, his deep roar echoing through the quiet library.

“Are you okay?” he asked once we settled down. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Just my pride.”

“I guess these chairs weren’t designed for what we were doing on them.”

“That’s too bad,” I whispered.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I didn’t want you to stop,” I admitted breathlessly.

“I didn’t want to stop.”

“I noticed,” I giggled, staring at the bulge in his pants.

“I have a hotel room down the street,” he said, reaching out to caress my jaw while his eyes burned into mine, his question hanging between us like a piece of forbidden fruit.

We were both single adults.

Why couldn’t we spend the night together?