Free How to Kiss a Cowboy by Joanne Kennedy

to her.
    And when had his ego gotten so big? He’d gone and assumed Suze was making breakfast for him, when he should have known she was the type that would eat right. No fast-food breakfast burritos for Suze. She had too much class for that.
    He pictured her at her pretty little table, eating eggs and bacon and maybe some pancakes. And Frosted Flakes. His favorite. His stomach rumbled at the thought.
    He found his pickup in the parking lot, which was starting to fill up with the sedans and minivans of today’s fairgoers. Later on, it would be jammed with vehicles from rodeo attendees. Brady wasn’t competing today; he’d blown it yesterday by riding a little too close to the edge and getting bucked off. But Suze would be racing. Maybe he’d go back and watch her later on. He started up the truck and headed over to his meeting at the Buck ‘n’ Bull Diner.
    Dang it, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Images from the night before flickered through his mind like an old movie, the frames flipping and changing in his mind’s eye.
    He saw Suze as she’d edged around the dance floor in the beer tent, trying not to be noticed. He saw her face lit by the lights from the midway, and saw it again reflected in an oil-slicked puddle on the asphalt.
    He saw the wonder in her eyes as that falling star had streaked across the sky. But mostly, he saw her sprawled on the bed naked—beautiful, lost, and hurting.
    He pressed the accelerator a little more firmly to the floor, figuring speed would force him to pay attention to the road. But the images just flickered a little faster, torturing him even more.
    He walked into the diner praying he didn’t look like he’d had a bad night—because the elation he’d felt from the great sex with Suze had been erased by her dismissal. It had hit him hard, even though he’d needed to leave. It hurt , dammit.
    And Brady Caine was never hurt. Not by broncs, not by life, and definitely not by women.
    He slid into a booth beside Cooter Banks. He and Cooter had endorsement deals with Lariat Western Wear, and the meeting was with the ad director. They’d been asked to scout around for a suitable woman to be the face of a new line of women’s wear. The ad manager had suggested they check out rodeo queens, trick riders, and, in their words, “even” barrel racers.
    Cooter had been testing out rodeo queens ever since, as if being good in bed was a stiff requirement for the job, when really the only thing stiff was between Cooter’s legs.
    Brady didn’t think much of Cooter. Most successful rodeo cowboys grew out of the buckle-bunny braggadocio stage, but Cooter was still slavering over the sweet young things that followed the cowboys around like dogs scenting bacon. Cooter used women, and took advantage of the small-town girls—even the young ones. He was a player, the kind of guy Suze thought Brady was.
    Actually, Brady wasn’t much better.
    Sure, he drew the line at underage girls and girls who’d had too much to drink. But he never got exclusive with women, never slept with the same one twice—for the most part.
    By the time Brady got there, Red Sullivan, the advertising director, had already ordered coffee all around. Brady reached for the sugar packets and stacked three together, then tore them all at once and dumped them into his cup.
    â€œMan, you like it sweet,” Cooter said. His arch tone made it clear he wasn’t just talking about coffee.
    Brady ignored him.
    â€œI hope you guys came up with some suggestions for me,” Red said. “We’ve got a couple girls in mind, but I thought you gentlemen might have some insight into what kind of girl best represents Western women today.”
    â€œWe sure do.” Cooter slurped his coffee, which was apparently too hot to drink. Carefully, he poured some into his saucer, then lifted that to his lips and slurped it out of there.
    Brady