Remember Me, Cowboy. C.J. Carmichael
the bells.
Expecting Corb, she was surprised to see a balding, middle-aged man looking hungry and cranky.
Right behind him was Corb.
Yesterday the cowboy had been wearing work clothes. Faded jeans and a shirt that had seen so many washes that the fabric was threadbare at the cuffs and collar.
Not today.
Today he was in dark, pressed jeans and the shirt he’d worn at the rehearsal party the night before the wedding day.
He came up to the counter, right next to the balding, cranky man and she waited to see what he would say. If it was anything about the town getting sweeter, she would know that she was stuck in an endless loop of Groundhog Day.
“Hey, Laurel. How’s it going?”
“You remembered my name this time.”
“No bumps to the head in the past twenty-four hours. Generally—and you’ll have to take my word on this—I’m pretty good with names.” He gave her a warm, approving look. “And faces.”
Not five minutes had passed since he’d walked in the door and already she was feeling it. Sizzle. For whatever reason this cowboy totally did it for her.
God help her.
“Excuse me,” said the balding cranky man. “I don’t remember your name, little lady, but I’m pretty sure I was here first. Doesn’t that entitle me to some service?”
“Of course, sir. What would you like?”
“Two coffees and a half dozen of those sticky buns to go.”
“Cream or sugar?” she asked, all too aware of Corb watching her.
“Nope. Black like the creek.”
This seemed to be a standing joke in the town, since it had been named for the creek that ran through the town with water the same color as a weakly brewed pot of joe.
As she boxed up six of the cinnamon buns, Corb settled himself on a bar stool.
Laurel willed her hands to be steady as she poured the coffee. A few minutes later, she sent balding cranky man on his way, locking the door behind him and putting the Closed sign in the window.
Turning, she removed her apron and gave Corb a nervous smile. “I’ll just clear off the dishes from the back booth, then we can sit down and talk.”
Corb was off his seat in a flash. “Let me help.”
They each carried some of the mugs, plates and cutlery to the dishwasher. When it was loaded, Laurel started a wash cycle, then stood awkwardly.
The kitchen seemed a lot smaller when Corb was sharing it with her. They stood so close that she could smell the scent of his soap.
“You must think it’s pretty strange that I asked you to come here.”
“Not strange,” he insisted. “I was glad.” He looked at her intently. “Since we met yesterday, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
His words gave her a warm, sweet thrill, and she was reminded of why she had fallen so hard for this cowboy, so fast. He was totally sexy and a terrible flirt. But he had a soft side, too. And could be disarmingly honest.
She poured them each a glass of water, then led the way to the back booth. She slid onto one bench and he settled in on the opposite side.
He looked at her expectantly.
Nervously, she sipped the water. “I see you’re wearing your lucky shirt.”
“I am.” His eyes widened. “But how do you know that?”
Their eyes met and held. His, dark green and fringed with thick short lashes, were oh so familiar to her. But what did he see when he looked into her eyes? Did any of the memories of their time together come back to him?
Like their first dance, when he’d held her in his arms and told her he was glad he’d worn his lucky shirt because that night was turning out to be one of the best of his life?
“Laurel, ah, just how well did we get to know each other in that week before the wedding?”
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