Page 2 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

"Welcome to ranch life, princess." He winks—actually winks—and starts walking toward the main house. "Better keep up. Sir Clucks-a-Lot gets aggressive around feeding time."

I look back at the demon rooster, now pecking at my abandoned Jimmy Choo like it might actually fight him back.

Thirty days. I just have to survive thirty days.

The inside of the main house is actually.

.. nice. Not New York penthouse nice, but there's a certain rustic charm to its exposed beams and stone fireplace.

It smells like leather and coffee and something distinctly masculine that makes me aware I'm probably the first woman to step foot in here since Aunt Maybelle died .

"You planning to work in those?"

Another voice floats over me, this one smooth as aged whiskey.

I turn to find guy number two leaning against the doorframe, some kind of huge sack slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing.

Where Gavin is all cocky grins and obvious trouble, this one's different—lazy smile, knowing eyes, the kind of casual confidence that says he doesn't need to try. And knows it.

"I have boots," I blurt as he continues to stare at my one high-heeled shoe.

Yeah, I have boots. With fringe. And heels. Made of some sort of exotic leather that may or may not be legal.

Probably not what he means.

"Yeah, I'm sure you do." He sets down the sack and extends a hand. "Asher Holt. I handle the business side of things. Negotiations, contracts, making sure Gavin doesn't sell the horses for magic beans."

"That was one time," Gavin calls from somewhere deep in the house.

Asher's handshake is firm, warm, and lasts about two seconds longer than necessary. "You're prettier than your aunt."

"She was eighty-seven."

"Still true." His thumb brushes my palm as he lets go. "I'll show you to your room. Unless you're planning to bunk with one of us? Save on heating costs?"

"In your dreams. "

"Every night, darlin'."

A door slams somewhere, and suddenly the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. Not literally, but the man who walks in is all presence and barely controlled irritation.

"You're late," he barks.

Well then. This must be Trent. He looks like responsibility and hard work had gotten together and had a very unhappy baby. Broad shoulders, calloused hands, and a jaw that could cut glass. Also, he's looking at me like I'm personally responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened to him.

"My flight was actually early?—"

"I meant late to work. Chores started two hours ago." He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. A list. A long list. In very neat handwriting. "You can start with the chickens."

"I just got here. Like, literally just arrived. My suitcase is covered in mud, there's a demon rooster outside who wants me dead, and I'm wearing one shoe."

He looks down at my feet—one designer pump, one bare foot with chipped polish that had looked cute in the city but now seems wildly impractical—then back up at my face. Slowly. Taking his time.

"Better find that other shoe, then."

From somewhere behind me, I hear a crash. We all turn to see another guy, younger and not so confident—standing in a puddle of spilled coffee, staring at me like I descended from heaven instead of from of a rental car.

"You're... you're her," he breathes with wide eyes. "The new owner. You're so..." He went red. "I mean, welcome! I'm Billy! I work here, helping the other guys. You know, with the... the cows and... stuff."

Trent pinches the bridge of his nose. "Billy, clean that up. Asher, show her the place. Gavin, stop smirking."

"I'm not smirking," Gavin says, definitely smirking.

"And you." Trent turns that laser focus back on me. "Work starts at dawn. Every day. For thirty days. Think you can handle that, city girl?"

Something about the way he says it—dismissive, like he already decided I'd fail—makes my city-girl don't-fuck-with-me spine straighten.

I've dealt with way worse than some grumpy cowboy with control issues.

I've survived fashion week, PR disasters, and that one client who tried to launch an app for rating your ex's bedroom performance.

"I can handle anything you throw at me, cowboy," I challenge, hands on hips.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile, but not quite. "We'll see about that."

After I change into jeans and a T-shirt—which still probably scream "city girl trying to play country"—I find myself back in the kitchen with all three guys. And Billy, who drops things every time I look in his direction.

Poor kid.

"So here's how it's gonna go," Gavin says, boots up on the table like he owns the place. Which, technically, I guess he sort of does since he runs part of it. "You won't last a week."

My face gets warm. "Excuse me?"

"Five days, max," Asher adds, playing with a deck of cards he pulls from his shirt pocket. "You'll be running back to your fancy coffee and yoga classes before Sunday."

"I don't do yoga."

"Pilates, then."

"I don't—" I stop. I do actually do Pilates. "That's not the point."

"The point," Trent says, his voice cutting through the banter, "is that this ranch needs someone who's committed. Not someone playing dress-up for a month to get their inheritance. Not someone who thinks they can waltz into town and slum it with a bunch of cowboys for thirty days."

The dismissal in his tone, the nerve of it, makes something hot and defensive rise in my chest. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He stands, and Jesus, he's tall. "I know you've never worked a day of manual labor in your life. I know those hands have never held anything heavier than a champagne flute. And I know that the second things get hard, you'll run."

The kitchen goes quiet except for the tick of an ancient clock on the wall. Even Billy stops dropping things.

"You want to know what I know?" The words come out before I can stop them, my voice rising with each word.

"I know you've all already written me off.

I know you think I'm some spoiled princess who can't handle real work.

And I know you're all sitting there smirking, just waiting for me to prove you right. "

"Aren't you?" Gavin asks, that cocky grin still in place.

Something snaps inside me. "I'll make you all eat those words. Thirty days from now, you'll be begging me to stay."

"Big talk," Asher says, shuffling his cards with practiced ease.

"You want our respect?" Trent steps closer, his gray eyes intense. "Earn it. Thirty days of real work, no special treatment, no giving up when things get tough."

"And when I do?" I cross my arms, channeling every boardroom negotiation I've ever survived. "When I prove I can handle anything you throw at me?"

"Then we'll eat our words," Trent says, his voice quiet but firm.

"All of them," Asher adds, still shuffling his cards but watching me intently .

"Every single one," Gavin finishes with that cocky grin.

"And if you don't last?" Gavin asks with a snort.

I think about it. What do I have to lose, really? Pride? I lost that somewhere between the mud puddle and the demon rooster.

"Then I'll sign the ranch over to you three. No cattlemen's association. You get it all."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"You can't be serious," Trent says.

"Dead serious." I step closer to him, close enough to see the surprise flickering in his eyes. "Unless you're worried I might actually make it here?"

Gavin laughs, loud and delighted. "Oh, I like her."

"She has no idea what she's getting into," Trent argues, but I can see the moment his pride kicks in, his jaw tightening with determination.

"Then you have nothing to worry about." I tilt my head and throw him my best resting bitch face. "Unless you're scared of losing to a city girl with a Pilates membership."

That does it. I witness the exact moment his pride kicks in, his jaw tightening with determination.

"Fine." Trent extends his hand. "Thirty days. Starting tomorrow at dawn."

We shake, his hand completely engulfing mine, rough and warm and steadier than my pulse.

"Looking forward to it, boss," I sing-song.

He holds my hand a beat too long, his thumb brushing my knuckles just once before letting go. "I'm not your boss. You own this place, remember?"

"Then why are you giving me orders?"

"Because someone has to." He grabs his hat from the counter. "Dawn means five a.m., city girl. Set an alarm. Or three."

He walks out, leaving me with Gavin's smirk, Asher's calculating gaze, and Billy's hero worship.

"That was hot," Billy blurts, then goes red again. "I mean, not hot! Just... intense? I'm gonna go do some... stuff." He runs from the room.

Asher stands, pocketing his cards. "Word of advice? Trent hasn't lost a challenge in the ten years I've known him."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Maybe." He moves closer, close enough that I can smell his clean, simple shampoo. "But if you want to survive this, you're going to need allies. I could be very... helpful."

"I'll keep that in mind, Asher."

"You do that." He winks and saunters out, leaving me with Gavin.

"Just you and me then, princess." He stands, moving into my space with the confidence of someone who's never been turned down. "Want to know a secret?"

"Is it the location of a Starbucks?"

"Better." He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "That demon rooster? Sir Clucks-a-Lot? He was your aunt's favorite. She trained him to attack anyone who didn't respect the ranch." He pulls back, grinning at my expression. "Got get it, city girl."

He leaves me alone in a kitchen that's probably seen more history than I can imagine, in a house I almost own but don't understand, with thirty days stretching ahead of me like an obstacle course designed by someone who really, really wants me to fail.

I look down at my hands—soft, manicured, clearly not ranch hands. Yet.

My phone buzzes. Gerald, finally calling back about the PR crisis I abandoned. I look at the screen, then out the window where Sir Clucks-a-Lot patrols around like a feathered security guard.

I decline the call.

Thirty days. I can do thirty days. How hard could it be?

Not that I'd let any of these cowboys in on my thoughts, not for all the money in the world, but the truth is that Dusty Spur is bigger, dustier, and more… intimidating than I'd expected. The kind of place that smells like sweat and earth and lives up to its reputation in every creak of barn wood.

But I'm going to square my shoulders, slap on my best boardroom scowl, and pretend like I own the joint. That's always been my move—fake it till they're too scared to ask questions. My mother taught me that much—confidence, even if it's only skin deep, can carry you farther than the truth.

Inside, though? My stomach's doing barrel rolls. This place is nothing like the city. Nothing like the deals I've closed. And three very large, very smug-looking cowboys are standing there like they can already smell me floundering.

So I arch a brow and let my "don't mess with me" face do the talking. If they think I'm rattled, I'm dead.

From somewhere outside, Sir Clucks-a-Lot crows like he heard my thoughts and found them hilarious.

I'm ready, bitches.