Chapter 2

He shook his head and beamed an aggressive grin that I found as intoxicating as whiskey, a grin that just about dropped me to my knees. He said, “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure we will be.”

“We can play a game tonight, but only if you want.” I threw it out like rice at a queer wedding, showering his handsome frame, ready to take him on.

He shook his head. “Not tonight, pal. I’m heading back to Stockton County. Your loss. You should have tried to pick me up sooner.”

I think I managed to grin at him; I really wasn’t sure. But I felt the sting of his words, which knocked the wind out of my sails—and out of the other part of me that was taking an interest in the cowboy.

He chuckled at my disappointment, and said, “I’ll stay under one condition.”

“What condition is that?” My hope rose as he spoke. Not much, just a little, but it was still there.

“You show me around town, take me to one of your favorite bars, and… be on your best behavior with me. What do you say?”

“I’m game,” I said quicker than I meant to. I was agreeing to his game, his charm, and everything else that made my heart beat rapidly and my knees wobble.

“Game on,” he said as he tossed the paper towels into the waste can and left the restroom, returning to his private meeting with my bosses, Kepler and Dance of K&D Designs.

* * * *

I returned to my cluttered desk at the design company and Googled the cowboy. Cord Wallace Darringer came from money. His parents, Deidra and Milton Darringer, had owned a feed company up till the turn of the century. Then they sold their multi-million dollar business to a farming-supplies conglomerate. They’d moved to Maui, many miles from their ranch life in Stockton County, Oklahoma. Some of the money went to Cord, and he used a chunk of it to start Buckling Broncos, which specialized in making belt buckles for cowboys and cowgirls of all ages.

Long story short, Buckling Broncos was successful and Cord was making a fine living through its worldwide sales. Buckle themes included everything you’d expect: country music stars, tractor and gun-company logos, fishing, horses, and cattle. In the last seven years, Cord’s company had made twenty-seven million in profit, and it was growing every day. Business stories suggested that he was going to open a plant in Canada, which would be his first international site.

K&D Design got a whiff of Cord’s money about six months ago. They immediately started courting him and he’d finally agreed to fly in for a meeting. If the deal worked, K&D Design would make some really big money—two million in the next eighteen months. The meeting in Suite Z was serious shit. Cord had a lot of money to spend, and K&D wanted to get their share.

Cord’s personal details were intriguing, too: an only child born on the Fourth of July; quarterback and prom king in high school; graduate of Oklahoma State with a business degree; never married; bought the Arched Q Ranch three years ago; on the cover of Forbestwice; Democrat; enjoys listening to Garth Brooks; drives a Ram 3500; enjoys reading, riding, and supporting a number of charities; cooks a little; supports animal rights; likes money but has his own ideas about how to make it in business.

I spent over an hour Googling the man before I felt satisfied. Before I knew it, my day at K&D was over and it was time to leave. So I packed up my bag, turned off my computer, and found my way home, smiling the entire way, knowing that my life was about to change thanks to some fun with a new cowboy. 2: Beneath His Stetson

Turtle Bay Apartments

Naples, Florida

6:42 P.M.

“You’re desperate,” Melanie said, touching up her dragon-red lipstick in my third-floor apartment looking out over the Gulf. She looked like a blonde bombshell, but she had an award-winning quarterback’s junk between her muscular legs. Someday Melvin “Melanie” Banks would take the plunge and have her gender-change operation. I still sometimes caught myself thinking of her as a man—my best friend since childhood and someone I considered my blood, no matter what.

But I’d long since found her sassy push-up bras, satin blouses, four-inch heels, and expensive handbags normal. She was always a lady when I needed some heavy-duty girl talk. I never judged her, never embarrassed her about her long process of gender morphing, and never doubted her ambitions. Hell, if she wanted to be Oprah Winfrey or Taylor Swift, I was fine with it. Whatever.

“Do you really think I’m being desperate?” I asked, lounging with a longneck on the couch. Kenny Chesney was playing, echoing off the stucco walls. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was the sleepy Gulf: blue with a rising tide and a bruised sunset, all spectacular and Kodak-perfect.