Going Cowboy Crazy Read Free Page B

Scroggs, then he was Prince Charles. And he was no pansy prince.
    Still, the resemblance was uncanny.
    The impostor swallowed and wrinkled up her cute little nose. A nose that was the exact duplicate of Hope’s. And so were the brows that slanted over those big blue eyes and the high cheekbones and that damned full-lipped mouth. A mouth that had fried his brain like a slice of his aunt’s green tomatoes splattering in hot bacon grease.
    The kiss was the kicker. Slate never forgot a kiss. Never. And the few kisses he’d shared with Hope hadn’t come close to the kiss he’d shared with this woman. Hope’s kisses had always left him with a strange uncomfortable feeling; like he’d just kissed his sister. It had never left him feeling like he wanted to strip her naked and devour her petite body like a contestant in a pie-eating contest.
    But if the woman wasn’t Hope, then who the hell was she?
    He’d heard of people having doubles—people who weren’t related to you but looked a lot like you. He’d even seen a man once who could pass for George W. in just the right lighting. But this woman was way past a double. She was more like an identical twin. And since he’d known Hope’s family ever since he was thirteen, he had to rule out the entire twin thing. Hope had two younger sisters and a younger brother. And not one of them was a lookalike whose kisses set your hair on fire.
    The woman laughed at something Kenny said, and her head tipped back, her entire face lighting up. He’d seen that laugh before, witnessed it all through high school and off and on for years after. Hell, maybe she
was
Hope. Maybe his lips had played a trick on him. Maybe he was so upset about losing last night’s game that he wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe, it being a year since her last visit, he was so happy to see her that he read something in the kiss that wasn’t there.
    It was possible. He’d been under a lot of stress lately. Football season could do crazy things to a man’s mind. Especially football season in West Texas. Which was why he had planned a two-week Mexican vacation after the season was over. Just the thought of soft rolling waves, warm sand, and cool ocean breezes made the tension leave his neck and shoulders.
    What it didn’t do was change his mind about the woman who sat on top of the bar with her legs crossed—showing off those sexy red high heels. Hope didn’t cross her legs like that. And she hated high heels. She also hated going to the beauty salon, which was why her longbrown hair was down to her butt. This woman’s hair was styled in a short layered cut that made her eyes look twice as big and was highlighted the color of Jack Daniels in a fancy crystal glass.
    Of course, Hope had lived in Hollywood for five long years. Maxine Truly had gone to Houston for only two years and had come back with multiple piercings and a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass. So big cities could screw you over. He just didn’t believe they could change someone from an outspoken extrovert to an introvert who hadn’t spoken a word, or even tried to, in the last hour.
    Laryngitis, my ass.
    That couldn’t be Hope.
    But there was only one way to find out.
    Pushing up from his chair, he strolled around the tables to the spot where her adoring fan club had gathered. It didn’t take much to part the sea of people. Hope might be the hometown sweetheart, but he was the hometown football hero turned high school coach. In Bramble, that was as close as a person could get to being God.
    As usual, Kenny Gene was talking to beat the band. Sitting on the bar stool next to her, he was monopolizing the conversation with one of his exaggerated stories.
    “… I’m not kiddin’, the man blew a hole the size of a six-year-old razorback hog in the side of Deeder’s doublewide, then took his time hoppin’ back in his truck as if he had all day to do—hey, Slate.”
    Slate stopped just shy of those pointy-toed shoes and trim little ankles.