The Pretty Lady and the Cowboy (Songs from the Heart) Read online

  THE PRETTY LADY

  AND

  THE COWBOY

  Dana Lee

  Copyright © 2013 Dana Lee

  All rights reserved

  eBook Formatting by FormattingExperts.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  This is for my daughter who said, “Do it, Mom!” and for my husband who, just for me, made the ultimate guy sacrifice of reading a romance novel. Love you both!

  The Pretty Lady and the Cowboy

  Romance is the last thing on Kitty’s mind when she discovers a super-handsome cowboy in her running store, and helps him trade his boots for the latest from Nike. Her best friend and store manager tells her the guy is Levi McCrory, a major country music star—and to her surprise, he wants to see more of her while he’s in town for the week. She tries to tell herself their romance will surely end when Levi’s tour moves on. But will his songs change her mind… and her heart? The Pretty Lady and the Cowboy is the first novel in Dana Lee’s “Songs from the Heart” series.

  Chapter 1

  I had no idea who he was when he walked through the door of The Finish Line, which probably made me the only person on the planet who didn’t recognize him. The eyes of early morning shoppers followed him as he strolled toward the wall of running shoe samples. He was obviously not your typical runner.

  He turned slightly as he saw me coming, put his hand to the brim of his cowboy hat, and tipped it as he drawled, “Hey, pretty lady!”

  I don’t think I had ever seen a man tip his hat to a woman except maybe in a PBS historical drama or one of those Gunsmoke reruns my dad used to watch. I felt a snippy comeback on the tip of my tongue but restrained myself. A favorite unmarried aunt taught me to believe in gender equality and I longed to put him in his place and let him know that I was MIZ Katharine Addison, independent woman and owner of the store, thank you very much, not some helpless “lady”. The practical side of me, however, wanted to make a sale.

  I looked him dead in the eye, did my best to ignore the scent of his incredibly sexy aftershave, and gave him a right-back-at-you tip of the Finish Line cap I was wearing.

  “How can I help you?” I was cheery and in charge. At least for now. I’d think about my money problems later, after I made this sale.

  “I can think of plenty of ways you could help me,” he said, grinning. “A couple of them might even involve selling me running shoes.”

  Who did this guy think he was? And honestly, was that supposed to be a pick-up line? Puh-leez.

  Most people who come into my running gear store are dressed pretty casually, many as if they’ve just finished a run. This guy looked like someone out of Cowboys and Aliens—the cowboy part, that is, not the alien. He was part Daniel Craig with a dash of young Harrison Ford, from the Stetson on his head to the creamy white Western-style shirt unbuttoned to reveal a deeply tanned chest, to the jeans that fit better than any glove I’ve ever worn, to the jeweled silver belt buckle, and right on down to the hand-tooled cowboy boots.

  Bottom line, I kept telling myself. Remember the bottom line and ignore the flirting and the crazy get-up. I needed customers, now more than ever since the registered letter I’d gotten from my landlord that morning told me the future held a huge hike in rent. And so I kept smiling, trying hard not to even think about a comeback.

  No, sir, not even thinking about a comeback.

  I got right down to business. “Where do you do most of your running? Indoors on a treadmill or outside on pavement?” I was proud of the fact that my shop didn’t just sell running shoes—our real expertise lay in the personalized service that helped runners choose exactly the right ones.

  The cowboy gave me a slow, sexy glance that swept from the brim of my cap all the way down to my Nike Pegasus running shoes and back up again, lingering on strategic spots in between. “Wherever I enjoy the scenery most, darlin’.”

  “And how about your pace,” I continued, trying to maintain my professional demeanor. “How fast and how far do you go?”

  “Well, I could run pretty far and fast trying to catch up with someone special like you!”

  I had left myself open for that one! I blushed even as I felt my hackles rising again, but I kept smiling as I shot back, “We’ll just have to see how far and how fast that might be.”

  Wait a minute. Did I really say that? What about my policy of not flirting with the customers? But even as I gave myself a mental talking to, I had the feeling that something he had said sounded familiar. What was it? Some phrase he’d used?

  I tried to tear my mind away from the puzzle as I gestured toward the bench and asked him to take a seat. When he removed his hat, hair the color of golden straw fell over his forehead. When he brushed it out of his steel-blue eyes, I noticed a silver thumb ring on his right hand and a yin-yang tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. Yes, he was gorgeous, but really, so not my type!

  I asked him to take off his boots and socks so that I could watch him walk barefoot. Not every running store takes the time to do this, but I’ve found that observing a customer’s natural stride gives me invaluable information about which shoes would do the job best. I was all business once more.

  But as he bent over, his woodsy, outdoorsy, totally masculine scent drifted my way again, and I caught myself enjoying the way the white of his shirt contrasted with his gorgeous tan chest. This was one hunk of a guy!

  Feet, I told myself. Think feet. But a little voice somewhere inside me was nagging that I hadn’t been on a date in weeks. Or was it months? Somehow starting up a business had left me precious little time for romance. What harm could there be in a little flirting?

  And that’s when it hit me. Jess, my good friend and the manager of the store, had been trying for months to persuade me to let her set up a blind date with some guy she knew. I had successfully fended her off. At least I thought I had been successful.

  Now I remembered the words she repeated with each attempt. She was sure there was “someone special” for me out there and that her friend might be the very guy. She had brought it up about twice a day on average, while I cringed and tried to change the subject. And this customer had used those same words, “someone special.”

  Well, thanks, Jess, but no thanks.

  Mentally fuming, I went to the stockroom to look for the cowboy’s running shoes. This was too much, being ambushed in my own store.

  As I pulled down boxes from the shelves, I forced myself to refocus. He needed a “neutral” shoe since he had a tendency to supinate, meaning that his foot struck the ground with the outside of the heel first. He had a high arch, and lovely, long toes. Yeah, I know. Only someone who sells shoes for a living would think of toes as the least bit lovely. I gave myself a mental smack on the forehead and reminded myself to concentrate on business. There was no way I was going to let myself be set up with a guy, any guy, even a guy this attractive. I wasn’t some ugly duckling charity date case.

/>   I returned with a stack of boxes and began the serious task of finding him the perfect fit. As I opened the first box, I offered a chatty and ultra-professional sales pitch about why I thought this particular shoe was an excellent choice.

  “You’ll find it has terrific arch support. Your feet are on the narrow side, and this brand tends to run a bit narrower than others. Let’s get it laced up so you can see how it feels.” I smiled my best salesperson-of-the-month smile as I took out a shoe and held it up for him to see.

  We both stared in amazement. The shoe was bright, bubblegum pink with a purple sole. I gave a nervous giggle.

  “Honey, does that come in any other colors?” he asked, totally deadpan. But his eyes were twinkling with mischief.

  Of course I realized my mistake immediately. I’d been so busy fuming about Jess trying to set me up that I’d gotten the stock numbers mixed up and brought him four boxes of women’s size ten-and-a-half instead of men’s.

  My face turned about the same color as the shoe. I apologized and said I’d be right back with the men’s version, but he only smiled a leisurely smile and said, “Well, pretty lady, you just take your time. I guess now I have an excuse to enjoy your company a little bit longer.”

  The way he spoke was casual and unhurried, so different from the quick-clipped speech of Connecticut Yankees around here. Where the heck had Jess found him? He was straight out of central casting for the male lead in a country western romance.

  I hurried away, too embarrassed to think of a witty response. Fortunately for me, Jess was at the bank getting some change. But I could just imagine the laugh she and this man would share later when he told her about my mistake.

  I ground my teeth at the thought of being the butt of their little joke and forced myself to regain my composure as I located four more boxes of shoes for him, checking the stock numbers extra carefully this time. The first box I opened revealed a neon green pair. Shoe manufacturers seemed to think customers wanted brighter colors these days.

  He waved that pair aside. “I don’t typically wear a lot of pink or lime green,” he said. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he was smiling as if we shared some secret joke. But all I felt was mortified. And ticked. First of all I was ticked at Jess, second at a guy who could get me this flustered, and third and most especially at myself. I don’t do flustered. I do calm, slow, steady, and dependable.

  When he stood up to test the next pair, his movements were easy and flowing and, even though I knew this whole encounter was a set-up, I found myself looking forward to seeing his lean body run on the store treadmill. Not my type, maybe, but I could enjoy the scenery, too.

  “I think I’d like to give these a try,” he finally said, after I had laced up the third pair. I said “Great!” and pointed toward the rear of the store. And then, before I knew what was happening, he had caught my hand and tucked it under his arm as we walked. That was the precise moment that I knew I had had enough.

  “Okay,” I said. “You can stop now. I get it. I know what’s going on. You and Jess have had your little joke.” I said it with as much of a smile as I could muster. I wanted him to get the point, but I didn’t want to be unpleasant. He seemed nice enough.

  He gave me a slightly puzzled look, disengaged my hand after giving it a quick squeeze, and got on the treadmill. I punched in the store code and stood back to observe his stride to make sure the shoes he had chosen were a good match for him. At least, that’s what I told myself I was doing.

  Really, I was mesmerized. Watching him run was… just lovely. You see all types in here. I’ve watched customers who run way up on their toes, ones who slam down their heels, ones who flail their arms, the slow ones, the fast ones. With this man, I simply found myself giving in to complete enjoyment, the way you watch a gazelle or something on a National Geographic special about the African plains. My reverie was quickly interrupted, though.

  “Who’s Jess?” he asked.

  “Pardon me?” I said as the treadmill stopped.

  “I was just wondering who it is that I’m supposed to enjoy a joke with,” he said. He was totally deadpan again. For a minute, I almost believed this hadn’t been a set-up.

  Almost.

  “Oh, and by the way, I’ll take these.” My face must have registered the shock I felt. I couldn’t believe Jess had been so desperate and determined to get me a date that she’d offered him a free pair of running shoes. I hadn’t felt this mortified since my dad’s best friend had somehow coerced his son, a little guy a full head shorter than I was at the time, to invite me to a dance back in eighth grade.

  “I said, ‘I’ll take them.’” He grinned and gave me the head-to-toe glance again. “And you, too, if you happen to be free for an early dinner.”

  “Nothing here is free,” I said. “And, really, you can stop pretending now. The costume was a nice touch, and you delivered your lines extremely well, but the joke has gone far enough.”

  His face registered surprise, as if he couldn’t imagine being turned down. It didn’t do my ego a lot of good to know that he and Jess had just assumed I was free for dinner on a Friday night.

  I swiped his credit card (maybe Jess hadn’t offered him a free pair?) and had him sign the receipt. Even then his name didn’t ring the faintest of faint bells. Levi McCrory. Huh. “Levi” like the jeans. Well, the name fit with his get-up, anyway.

  “How about a cup of coffee next door?” He wasn’t giving up. What could Jess have offered the guy to keep going with this charade after I’d made it obvious that I knew what they were up to?

  “Sorry,” I said icily. “Carrot-apple juice is probably the strongest thing I drink.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I was kicking myself for the sheer lameness of the comeback. Argh. Why is it you can usually think of about ten snappy replies the day after you need them?

  “Well, at least tell me your name so I’ll be able to tell my friends about the cute little lady who waited on me here at The Finish Line.”

  I felt my blood begin to simmer again, but I held out my hand for a handshake to convince myself I was in charge of the situation. I felt the warmth of his hand surround mine, but I tried to ignore the way his touch aroused a secret yearning. I pulled myself up to my full height and said, “My name is Katharine Addison. My friends call me Kitty. I own this store. And,” I added, “I am perfectly capable of getting a date on my own.”

  At this point, I could barely manage to be civil. I think being described as “cute and little” was what did me in, even though it’s true I’m only five foot two and my dad had called me cute all my life. I felt my chin jut out.

  “I’m sure you can rustle up all the dates you want,” he said, grinning.

  I was way too mad to be impressed with his ability to improvise flirtatious lines. In fact, I was half a heartbeat away from telling him a thing or two about women running a business when he took my hand, bent over, kissed it, and said, “I sure do hope, Miss Kitty, that you’ll count me as one of your friends.”

  And then he picked up the shopping bag, tipped his hat one last time, and was gone.

  I had to hand it to him. Even after he knew I’d figured the whole thing out, he stayed right in character.

  Seconds later, Jess came tearing through the door yelling my name.

  “Kitty! I can’t believe it! Do you know who that was who just walked out of here?”

  “Oh, please,” I said, giving her a steely look. “Yes, I know exactly who it was.”

  I checked the receipt that was still on the counter. “Levi McCrory.” I gave her a stern look. “I suppose that’s a real name? I sure hope so since it was written on what looked like a real credit card.”

  When Jess gets excited, she tends to talk in italics. She put her hands on her hips and glanced heavenward. “So what you’re telling me is that you actually have no idea who he is,” Jess said.

  “I’m sure he’s a great guy, Jess,” I said. “Where did you find him?”

  And then
she absolutely exploded with information about this Mr. McCrory in speech that tumbled out so quickly I figured she must have memorized it for the occasion. “Levi is the number one star in the country western music skies, gossip pages have linked him with everyone from Lindsay (I’d heard of her—who hasn’t?) to Taylor (nope), his recordings repeatedly top all the charts, he has over a million friends on his Facebook page…” Her voice trailed off as she gave me a puzzled look.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “What do you mean, where did I find him?”

  Jess looked like a firecracker with her green eyes and her wild curly red hair, and frequently came on like one, too. But her good sense and good humor usually kept her feet and mine planted firmly on the ground. I knew she had been an acting minor in college, but this act had gone way over the top and I was way beyond tired of it.

  “Come on, Jess. Joke’s over. It’s pretty obvious that this was the guy you’ve been trying to set me up with.”

  It seemed to take her a while to process this and I confess I was savoring the moment. I had figured it out all by myself. I was one up on her and this Levi guy.

  But she seemed to feel compelled to go on with the gag. “Girlfriend, practically every female in the country from age sixteen to ninety-six would like to be set up with this man. Trust me, if I had any influence at all, I’d have set myself up with him.”

  “Jess, really. I’m not a total lost cause. I can find my own dates.”

  “Sure you can, honey. The place has been positively littered with them the past few months.” As she spoke, she dug her iPhone out of her pocket, typed something, and then passed it over to me. It was the homepage of a person named… Levi McCrory.

  An awful realization dawned on me. I felt a blush start somewhere down around my toes and slowly work its way up until my face was once again running-shoe pink.

  “And you didn’t dummy up this website?” I asked lamely.

  “I may be many wonderful things, but computer code literate isn’t one of them,” Jess said.