Fast & Loose by Elizabeth Bevarly (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📕

she added, “Alone. Right, Lulu? Next time we run into Cole, you’ll make yourself scarce, right?”

So obviously Bree had detected the weird sizzle. Damn. Though why, exactly, Lulu was cursing that development, she couldn’t really say. What she did say was, “Yes, Bree.” Because there was no way she would ever stand in the way of her friend’s lifetime dream.

Even if it was a stupid dream. And even if, suddenly, Lulu was starting to think maybe she had a dream of her own.

COLE WATCHED THE TWO WOMEN AS THEY MADE their way to the exit, wondering when someone had snuck up behind him and hit him with a brick. Because sitting with Bree and Hortense—what had her parents been thinking to name her that?—he’d begun to feel and think things he hadn’t felt or thought for a very long time.

Like how nice it felt to spend an evening doing nothing but chatting and drinking beer. Cole couldn’t remember the last time he’d just kicked back and relaxed for the hell of it.

A beer drinker, he marveled about Hortense—what had her parents been thinking? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out with a woman who’d ordered a beer, either. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ordered a beer himself. Although he loved an ice-cold longneck at the end of the workday when he was on the ranch, or if he was at a track when he didn’t have a horse running and didn’t have to be King Cole. He just didn’t order it when he was out, because it wasn’t the sort of thing major players in the horseracing industry drank.

And that was another thing. Although Bree had been pretty knowledgeable about the industry he worked in and pretty much lived for, Hortense—what had her parents been thinking?—didn’t know squat. Cole didn’t normally associate with people who knew so little about bloodlines and broodmares and gate assignments and all the things he’d built his career—hell, his very life—upon. Even worse, she knew nothing—and cared less—about “King Cole.” How could anyone in this town, at this time of year, after the way he’d been hounded by the local press, not know—or care—about him? She’d talked to him as if he were a regular guy, not the larger-than-life image of a man he’d cultivated for himself in the business.

And that was when another—bigger—brick hit him. Because he realized then how enjoyable it had been to drink beer with Hortense Waddy who knew nothing about horses and cared less about him. And then he was slammed by another projectile, this one about the size of a basement foundation: Drinking beer with Hortense Waddy and her friend had kept the groupies and autograph hounds at bay for a good part of the evening. Once the three of them left the Ambassador and came here to…whatever the name of this place was, the celebrity-seekers had dwindled to nearly nothing. Having the women with him had created a nice buffer zone that kept the Trainer Hangers at bay. Of course, that hadn’t been the case at the Ambassador. He’d been constantly interrupted in his conversation there. Here, though, it hadn’t been a problem at all.

So what was the difference, he wondered? The two bars were both popular, active nightspots. They were both filled with people. The clientele here was a little younger than the other bar, but that should have lent itself to more autograph-seekers, not fewer. The only difference was that, at the Ambassador, Cole had been alone when he entered, something that, he supposed, made him fair game. Here, he’d entered with someone else. Two someone elses, actually, but it would have been safe for any observer to conclude that at least one of the women was a date. People were polite enough to make allowances for a man when he was out socially with a guest, more so than they were when he was out alone.

So it stood to reason that if Cole started going out in public with a guest, people would be more likely to leave him alone. Certainly there wouldn’t be any more offers of sexual encounters that might send a lesser man right to the nearest hotel—and, later, to the nearest clinic for a penicillin shot. If Cole could avoid any more of those offers—hell, if he could just avoid more requests for autographs and interviews—he’d be a very happy man. Not only were the sexual overtures even more annoying than the demands for signatures and photographs, but when it came to sexual encounters, he wanted to be the one to decide the who, what, when, where, and why. Okay, and also the how. So he was old-fashioned that way. Except for some of the hows, in which case, all modesty aside, he could be pretty damned inventive. So sue him.

He’d also be a more focused man if he could avoid those things. He’d be less stressed out about the race. He’d be able to concentrate on what he needed to be doing between now and Derby Day.

Obviously, what he needed to ward off the Trainer Hangers and preserve his peace of mind for the next week and a half was a buffer zone. To create a buffer zone, he’d need a buffer. Someone of the feminine persuasion who would look to the casual observer like a romantic interest and inhibit the casual observer’s approach. Someone who wouldn’t compromise Cole’s focus on Silk Purse or distract him from his single-minded pursuit of winning the Derby. Someone who wouldn’t distract him by being sexually attractive to him, but whose company he would still enjoy. Someone who knew little—and cared less—about King Cole and wouldn’t be sexually attracted to him, either.

Someone like Hortense Waddy.

She was pretty enough that no one would question his reason for wanting to be with her. If you went for the wholesome, decent, down-to-Earth-shoes type. Which Cole, of course, did not. And although he could see now why some guys might go for her