The Cowboy's Three-Date Deal

The scent of burnt coffee and stale grease hung in the air of the diner, a smell that was usually comforting but now felt suffocating. Alisha stirred her lukewarm coffee, the spoon clinking against the thick ceramic mug, a desperate attempt to look busy. Across the red vinyl booth, Mark droned on, his voice a familiar, grating whine.

“I just don’t see why we can’t have one dinner, Lish. For old times’ sake,” he said, leaning forward, his cologne too sharp and sweet. “I’m a major donor for the Founder’s Day festival. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. It would be less awkward if we just cleared the air.”

“There’s no air to clear, Mark,” Alisha said, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “We broke up. Two years ago. I’m busy with the bakery.”

“Too busy for one meal?” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. She pulled her hand back as if burned, tucking it under her thigh. His face fell into a pathetic pout. “I just thought—”

A shadow fell over their table, blocking the afternoon light. A large frame slid into the booth beside Alisha, pressing his solid, denim-clad thigh against hers. The immediate heat of him was a shock, his body a wall of muscle and warmth. A heavy arm draped around her shoulders, pulling her firmly against a hard chest that smelled of hay, leather, and clean male sweat.

Alisha’s breath caught. She didn’t have to look to know who it was. She’d recognize that scent anywhere, a memory from her teenage years that was still lodged deep in her gut. Mason.

“She said she’s busy,” Mason’s voice was a low rumble next to her ear, the vibration moving straight through her. He didn’t look at Alisha, his gaze fixed on Mark, flat and unreadable. “Is there a problem?”

Mark’s jaw worked, his eyes darting from Mason’s possessive arm around Alisha to the sheer size of the man who had just claimed her. Mason was everything Mark wasn’t—broad-shouldered, weathered by the sun, with hands that were calloused and capable.

“Who the hell are you?” Mark sputtered.

Mason’s fingers tightened slightly on Alisha’s shoulder. “I’m her boyfriend,” he said, the words simple and absolute. He leaned down, his lips brushing the hair at her temple in a gesture of ownership that sent a jolt straight to her groin. “And you’re bothering her.”

The challenge hung in the air, thick and heavy. Mark’s face paled, his bravado vanishing completely. He fumbled for his wallet, throwing a few bills onto the table. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t know.” He practically scrambled out of the booth, shooting one last wounded look at Alisha before hurrying out of the diner, the bell above the door jangling in his wake.

The silence that followed was deafening. Mason didn’t move. His arm was still a heavy, warm weight around her, his thigh a solid brand against her own. Alisha could feel the steady beat of his heart against her back, and she was suddenly, intensely aware of every single point of contact between their bodies.

Slowly, deliberately, Mason drew his arm from around her shoulders. The loss of his heat was immediate, leaving the skin there feeling cold and exposed. He shifted in the booth, putting a few inches of space between them, but the imprint of his body lingered, a phantom pressure against her side. Alisha’s own thigh still tingled where his had been pressed so solidly against it. She finally turned to look at him, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“Thank you,” she managed, her voice a little shaky. His eyes, a deep hazel she remembered obsessing over in high school, met hers. There was no mockery in them, just a quiet intensity that made the air feel thin. “I… he’s been relentless since I moved back.”

“I figured,” Mason said, his voice still a low rumble that vibrated through the cheap vinyl seat. He leaned back, one arm resting on the top of the booth, the posture casual but his gaze anything but. It roamed her face, making her feel stripped bare.

“The thing is,” she started, needing to fill the charged silence, needing to make this situation less about the way her stomach clenched and more about a practical problem. “Mark’s father is basically funding the entire Founder’s Day festival. Mark is on the committee, he’s a major donor… I can’t just tell him to fuck off. I have to work with him for the next month, and I need him to believe I’m completely unavailable.”

An idea, wild and ridiculous, sparked in her mind. It was a way to take back control, to turn this raw, unsettling chemistry into a game she could manage. A playful smile touched her lips, though she wasn't sure she felt it in her eyes.

“You were very convincing,” she said, tilting her head. “That ‘boyfriend’ line was… effective.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Looked like you needed one.”

“I do,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping. “Just for a few weeks. Through the festival. You’d have to show up with me to a few events, hold my hand, look like you mean it. Scare him off for good.”

Mason just watched her, his expression unreadable, letting her proposal hang in the air.

She rushed to finish, sweetening the pot. “In return,” she said, her playful tone gaining a bit more confidence, “I’ll keep you supplied with pies. For a month. Free of charge. Anything you want. Even that ridiculous strawberry-rhubarb you used to steal off my mom’s windowsill.”

Her offer was out there, a ridiculous, desperate bargain. But as she looked at Mason, at the way his gaze dropped to her mouth before lifting back to her eyes, she knew this wasn't just about her ex anymore. It was about the man sitting across from her, and the sudden, overwhelming urge to see just how convincing he could be.

A slow smirk spread across Mason’s face, a lazy, confident curve of his lips that did unsettling things to Alisha’s insides. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and closing the small space between them. The air grew thick, charged with the same potent energy that had filled the booth when his thigh was pressed against hers.

“A month of your pies,” he repeated, his voice a low drawl that made her skin prickle. He held her gaze, his hazel eyes darkening, dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to meet hers. “That’s a sweet deal, Lish. But it’s not enough.”

Alisha’s breath caught. “Not enough?”

“If we’re gonna sell this, we have to be good,” he said, the logic a thin veil for the raw intent in his eyes. “Mark’s not an idiot. He’ll be watching us. He knows you. He’ll know if we’re faking it.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “So, I have a condition.”

The playful upper hand she thought she’d gained evaporated. “What kind of condition?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

His smirk widened into a full-blown grin. “Three dates,” he said, the words landing like stones in the quiet diner. “Practice dates. So we can get our story straight. So when I pull you close, you don’t jump. So I know how you feel in my arms when we dance, and how to make you laugh for real.” He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping until it was a vibration she felt in her bones. “If I’m going to be your boyfriend, Alisha, I’m going to be a damn good one. And that requires practice.”

Her mind went blank. Every clever retort, every teasing deflection she’d ever used, died on her tongue. He had her completely cornered, not with intimidation, but with a direct, searing challenge that spoke to a part of her she’d kept locked away. He wasn’t just offering to play a part; he was auditioning for the real thing, and he was making it clear that he expected to get it. A hot flush crept up her neck, her blood heating until it felt like it was simmering just beneath her skin.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “You think you need the practice?” she managed to get out, the words a weak attempt to reclaim her footing.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Oh, I’m not worried about me,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I want to make sure you can handle it.”

That was it. The deal was no longer hers to command. She had started a game, and he had just raised the stakes to a level that both terrified and exhilarated her. He was calling her bluff, daring her to admit that this was what she wanted, too.

“Fine,” she breathed, giving in.

“Fine,” he echoed, the grin on his face softening into something genuine and impossibly handsome. He reached across the table, his large, calloused hand open. “Deal.”

She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, enveloping hers in warmth and strength. He didn’t just shake it. He turned her hand over, his thumb sweeping a slow, deliberate path across the sensitive skin of her palm. The simple touch sent a jolt straight to her core. He held her eyes for a long, charged moment before finally letting her go.

He stood, pulling a few bills from his pocket and tossing them on the table. “I’ll call you,” he said, his voice back to its easygoing tone, but his eyes still held the fire of their new arrangement. “To set up our first practice session.” He winked, and the gesture was so full of cocky charm it made her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. “Try not to wear yourself out thinking about it.”

Then he turned and walked away, his long-legged stride eating up the distance to the door. Alisha was left alone in the booth, her body humming and her hand still tingling from his touch. The game was on, but it was no longer a game she was in control of. It was his. And God help her, she couldn’t wait to play.