Bouquets and Buckles: An Age Gap, Snowed In, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge)
Bouquets and Buckles: Chapter 2

My toes and the balls of my feet don’t have any sensation left in them. Neither do my fingers.

Neither does the cavity left hollowed out inside my chest.

Fumbling in my jacket pocket for my keys, I’m like a shadow in the night, disappearing back toward my car as fast as I can fucking move.

Humiliation has kicked my heart out into the snow, leaving it to freeze amongst the rows of illuminated reindeer and gaudy candy canes.

The backs of my eyes sting, and I’m about two seconds from bursting into a torrent of ugly, snotty tears.

What a piece of shit.

Is there a worse way to spend your Christmas than discovering by accident that your boyfriend has been fucking around behind your back?

As I dash across the curb to reach the driver’s door and get myself the hell out of here, I nearly collapse at the sight before me.

Oh my fucking god. Not right now. No, please, no.

The front tire on my car is as deflated as my stomped-on little heart. Sitting flaccid and drooped, helpfully lit up for me to see that I cannot possibly drive away from here by the array of red flashing Christmas lights on the fence of the house I parked in front of.

That’s the moment the waterworks erupt.

Fuck this. Fuck it all. Fuck Jere and whatever slut he’s been secretly banging down here in Crimson Ridge every time he needed to come and ‘house sit,’ … which, now that I think about it, was a lot.

Ugh. I’m so tired and can’t even process what the hell I’ve done to deserve a night like this.

With fat tears rolling down my cheeks, I slide into the driver’s seat and grab my cell. Stabbing at my contacts list, I know Brad will save my ass. He’ll come rescue me, cuddle me, and let me watch a rom-com marathon while bundled under a blanket on his sofa. If there is any man I can count on to have enough booze and ice cream to drown my every last sorrow through the duration of the holidays, it’s him.

Bradford Rhodes will also know how to change a tire because he was raised on a ranch, and as much as I’d love to claim to be Miss Independent, I simply do not.

My knee bounces. The phone rings several times. Just when I think he’s not going to pick up, to my relief, the line connects.

I don’t even wait, launching straight into full melt-down mode, blurting out everything through sniffles and hiccups.

“Brad… he’s such a douchebag… cheated on me… you were right all along… I can’t believe I was so fucking blind… and now, I’m stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire, and it’s about to snow like crazy leaving me stuck here on Christmas Eve, and god help me, I will die if he realizes I’m out here… please, please say you can rescue me from this living hell?” I sniff loudly, wiping tears away with the heel of my palm.

“Skylar?” The gritty-sounding voice in my ear makes me do a double take.

“Brad?”

“Skylar, is everything ok?” The voice on the other end of the line is most definitely not Brad. It doesn’t sound like Flinn, his boyfriend, either.

My eyes are blurry with tears when I pull the phone away, and my hand flies to my mouth when I see the name lit up on screen.

Brad’s Dad.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

I just accidentally sobbing-dialed my life long, cannot ever stop swooning over, hottest man in existence, cowboy crush.

My best friend’s father.

“Skylar, what’s going on?” His voice echoes through the quiet of my car.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rhodes. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I meant to call Brad.”

“You’re upset.” He ignores my feeble words.

“Uhhh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry. I’m hanging up now. Hope you have a lovely Christmas.” My heart is in my throat. I want to bury myself in a shallow grave alongside Rudolph.

“Don’t even think about it. Where are you?” His voice sounds a little rough, like he’d maybe been sleeping, and that makes me wince harder. My damp cheeks grow hot with the embarrassment of everything colliding together in the worst possible sequence of events.

“I’m over on Jones Avenue, but honestly, please erase this from your memory, forget this call even happened. I’m so sorry my thumb must have slipped and hit your contact.”

Fuck my life. My eyes squeeze shut, and I lean my head forward against the steering wheel. I can already taste the sweet burn of whiskey and salted caramel ice cream that I know Brad cannot survive without. That boy always has a gallon of the good stuff stashed in his freezer.

“Are you inside your car?”

“Yes. Honestly, I’ll be fine, I—”

The line scuffles a little and he cuts me off. “Turn your ignition on and keep the heating running, otherwise you’ll freeze. Give me ten minutes.”

That makes my eyes pop open. What?

“Oh, no… no, you really don’t have to—”

The man doesn’t allow me to finish speaking.

“Skylar, I’m already in my truck and on my way. Stay put.”

With that, he hangs up on me.