To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before: The Hottest Western Romance of 2019!

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © D. R. Graham 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

D. R. Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008328399

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008328382

Version: 2018-12-18

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Other books by D. R. Graham

Acknowledgements

Also by D. R. Graham

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

To Integrity

Chapter 1

Della

And there goes my tea. Over the railing. Onto the library concourse. Shoot. “Sorry,” I shout to the students walking below who had to jump back to avoid the spray of scalding liquid. Mortified that I could have maimed someone, I gather my transfer papers, stuff them into my bag, and rush down the stairs to clean up the mess before anyone slips.

No paper towels nearby. Awesome. Guess I’ll have to use the silk scarf in my bag to soak up the tea. Actually, come to think of it, this isn’t my scarf. It’s my sister’s. She’s going to kill me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a better option.

I should have known it wasn’t going to be my day. There was no hot water in the shower at the sketchy motel I’m temporarily staying at. My car, although it made it through the seventeen-hour drive to get me here, wouldn’t start this morning. I had to take the bus, which made me late. Then I showed up for my first engineering course, only to find out I wasn’t even on the class list. Sorting it out meant waiting in line at the registrar’s office for over an hour.

At least the tea didn’t burn anyone. I sigh and pick up the paper cup to drop it in the recycling bin. I might as well throw the scarf in the garbage while I’m at it. It’s soaked and stained beyond repair. And my phone fell in the trash with it. Of course, now, the phone is ringing.

I reach elbow deep into the bin to fish it out. Ew. Whatever that was, it’s sticky. “Hello?”

It’s my cousin Stuart, my saving grace. “Everley is able to meet you at the house to give you a key, but it has to be this morning. Can you swing that?”

“Oh. I don’t know, Stuart. I have class. And I’d need to take transit.” I twist my phone to look at the time. I’ll be late if I try to squeeze in a visit before my next class. “Does it have to be right now?”

“Do you want to spend another night in that rat-infested motel?”

“No.” Absolutely not. “Okay. Thank you for setting up a place for me to live. I’d be lost here without you.”

“It’s Stanford not New York. You’d be fine without me, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Hold on a second.” He speaks to someone away from the phone briefly before he comes back on the line. “Some sort of disaster has come up with one of the model’s outfits. I need to get back to the studio. Do you still have the address for the house?”

“Yeah, somewhere. Thanks for everything.” I hang up and search through my bag as I walk towards the bus stop. I wrote the address on the back of a receipt. Somewhere.

Stuart is a famous photographer who lives in San Francisco now, but he graduated from Stanford and knows a lot of people here. Which is great since finding available housing at this time of year is a challenge. He’s made arrangements for me to rent a room in a shared house with three other women who are post-grad Stanford students. The one named Everley has done some fashion modeling for him. They probably won’t be the type of women I would normally be friends with, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here to study not socialize. As long as they don’t throw huge parties every night it should be fine to live with three strangers.

I hope.

I definitely don’t want to have to go back to that disgusting motel.

Where did I put the address? Ah. Here it is, on the back of a Chili’s receipt. I board the Palo Alto bus and ask the bus driver to let me know which stop I should get off at for the two hundred block of Coleridge Avenue. When we reach the next stop, he turns and waves. Wow. It’s way closer to the school than I expected – probably should have checked how far away it was before I paid the bus fare. This could work out great. I could walk to class, save on gas and parking. I like it already.

I step off the bus and squint at the house numbers to figure out which direction to walk. Mental note: a blazer works for spring in Canada. Here, I’m suffocatingly overdressed. The street is cute. Tree-lined. Wide sidewalks. Nice family homes. Tons of joggers—California types, but whatever, at least it seems safe. And the fuchsia-colored flowers on the hedges smell amazing. The house that matches the address Stuart gave me is bigger than I expected. And despite the traditional Spanish style, it’s more modern than I imagined for a student rental.

I walk up the brick path and knock on the door. Nobody answers, so I knock again, louder. There isn’t a doorbell. In fact, I look around, duh, it’s not even the front door. It’s a side door to the garage. Smooth, Della. Hopefully a security camera didn’t catch that air-head move. Before I enter the courtyard that leads to the actual front door, which is unmistakable since it’s much grander and made from carved wood, I glance over my shoulder to check if any of the neighbors saw my dorky mistake. The gardener across the street might have, but he’s pretending he didn’t.

After I knock, rock music inside the house stops, and a few seconds later the door opens. Standing in the doorway, bathed in the glow of the California sun, is a shirtless, perfectly sculpted, slightly sweaty, long-haired, brown-eyed, dark-skinned, gorgeous specimen of a man.

He wipes a towel over his face and then extends his arm to offer to shake my hand. “Della?”

I blink repeatedly, stunned by the testosterone overload. Eventually, I raise my hand and clasp his. It’s huge.

“I’m Easton.”

“Hi,” I eventually whisper, then clear my throat to regain composure. “Nice to meet you. Is Everley here? She was going to meet me, so I could get a key.”

“I’m Everley.”

“Oh.” Didn’t he say Easton? More importantly—“You’re a—” I scan his physique again. “Guy.”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles and steps back into the foyer to open the door wider and invite me into the house. “Your cousin didn’t mention that?”

“Uh.” I step onto the terra cotta tiles hesitantly and glance sideways at him. There is no mistaking he’s male, but his raven black hair falls to the middle of his back and is shinier than the hair of any female I’ve ever met. He is strikingly beautiful but definitely a guy. “Stuart said you modeled, and Everley sounds, um—” I stop myself before actually telling him his name is feminine. Based on his amused grin he already knows why I assumed he was female. “Is it Easton or Everley?”

“Everley was my mom’s maiden name. I only use it for modeling. Easton Lewis is what everyone here knows me as.”

“Oh.” He’s pretty enough to be an Everley, but Easton suits him better; homegrown and wholesome but also unique. And really cute. “Uh.” I clear my throat to give myself a second to refocus. “The other roommates are female, right?”

His smile widens, but then he turns without answering and walks down the hall towards the back of the house. I follow, scanning the rest of the downstairs on my way to the kitchen. He pours two glasses of a green concoction from the blender. “Smoothie?”

I step up to the island and take the glass from him. “What’s in it?”

“Kale. Papaya. Coconut milk. A scoop of peanut butter.”

I sip at first but then tip it back. It’s delicious. And if it’s the reason his skin is that flawless, I’m completely willing to drink it, three meals a day. “So, you didn’t answer the question. Is Taylor male or female?”

“Male.”

“Bailey’s a girl, though, right?” Please. Please be female.

Easton laughs and washes out the blender. “Bailey’s sensitive deep down, but he won’t ever show it to you. He’s cowboy to the core. And nobody calls them by their real names. Taylor’s nickname is Chuck. And Bailey goes by BJ because his last name is Jackson.” Easton’s thick lashes raise, and he shoots me a look that makes me gulp down the smoothie. “Your cousin didn’t tell you he was sending you to live in a house with three rodeo cowboys?”

I shake my head slowly side-to-side and place the glass on the tile counter. “Nope. He left that part out. I’m sorry there has been a miscommunication, but this isn’t going to work out.” I glance at his etched muscles one more time.

“You don’t have to worry about the boys. They’ll treat you like a little sister.”

“Thanks, but I can’t live with three men. My parents are very old fashioned.” And I am very not the kind of girl who could live with three guys. I mean, I assume I’m not. I’ve never lived with anyone other than my family.

He stares at me quietly as he comes up with a counter point. “Your parents don’t need to know. Don’t tell them.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. I try not to make a habit of lying. Well, except there was this one time with a friend, but it was to spare her feelings. I grappled with myself over the ethics, but I think omitting the truth was the right decision in her case. Not that you probably care about that. Sorry. I get sidetracked sometimes.”

With his arms crossed he rests his butt against the edge of the countertop. “Maybe you could omit the truth with your parents. I’m desperate. We really need the extra person to cover the rent by this Friday or we’re all out on the street. Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay?”

Hmm. With my feet still anchored in place I take a look around. The backyard has a pool. The appliances are stainless steel, gas stove. Everything is spotlessly clean. It’s walking distance to the school. The rent is affordable. Easton is a piece of moving art. But three rowdy cowboys. No. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m on a scholarship and can’t afford to let my grades slip. If you guys are partying all the time like a frat house I won’t get any studying done.”

“They don’t party here. They might stumble in at four in the morning, but you’ll mostly have the place to yourself. We travel for rodeos almost every weekend.”

I rub my hand over my face, torn. My dad really would flip if he found out I was the only female in the house. Mind you he’s already practically disowned me for leaving in the first place. If I don’t move in here I’ll have to stay at the motel. And I’ll have to do a house search to find a better place. Not that a better place in this price range probably even exists. This is exactly why Stuart left out the minor detail of them being male. He knew I’d turn it down flat if I knew. They’re just roommates, does it matter what gender they are? I know what my dad would think. I’m not sure what I think. Shoot. What to do. What to do.

Easton finishes his drink and says, “I need to hop in the shower. Why don’t you hang out and look around? The room you’d be in is the first on the left at the top of the stairs. You’d have your own private en suite bathroom. The boys and I share the other upstairs bathroom. Laundry is in the garage. A maid service comes in once a week. We take turns grocery shopping.”

I nod, letting it all sink in. It sounds perfect. He knows it does. His mouth makes a cute half-smile before he leaves the kitchen and heads upstairs. The shower turns on, so I wander around and peek out the patio door. Admittedly it would be relaxing to take study breaks out by the pool. The lush backyard is obviously maintained by a gardener. And there’s a gazebo! Dining el fresco was something I was definitely looking forward to when I decided to move from Canada to California.

Despite how clean everything is, there is no doubt three guys live here. Six pairs of athletic shoes and a collection of cowboy boots are lined up by the back door. The barbecue is enormous, as is the stacked wall of empty beer cans next to the recycling bins. And they have a full universal gym, boxing bag, and huge free weights set up on the patio next to the hot tub. I wonder if they’re all as fit as Easton. Probably. That would definitely be a distraction.

After checking out the laundry room in the garage, I tread quietly upstairs. Why does it feel like I’m sneaking around? Maybe because I keep imagining Easton standing naked in the shower. This is why my dad wouldn’t approve. He shouldn’t approve. I’m going to completely fail all my classes if I live here.

Oh my. I swing the door to my room wider. It’s ideal. I should leave before I fall in love with it. Too late. Why? Why are you so perfect? Walk-in closet. Queen-size bed that looks brand new. A solid wood dresser and matching desk. A huge window with a window seat and sunlight filtering through the leaves. Wooden California shutter blinds. Crown moldings. My own gigantic bathroom with a soaker-tub and separate shower. I have to leave.

As I step into the upstairs hall, Easton emerges from his room directly across from me. His hair is wet and tied in a bun at the back of his head. He looks just as good in jeans and a white T-shirt as he did in only athletic shorts. He smells amazing, like Hawaii. I absolutely need to leave.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks as I make my way down the stairs in front of him, trying not to trip.

Once we’re safely back in the foyer I turn and answer, “Uh, it’s really great, but like I said, it’s not going to work. Three men and me.”

He nods, looking kind of disappointed as he reaches for a set of keys in a glass bowl on the hallway table. “That’s too bad, but I understand. You have to do what’s best for you.” He opens the door for me and follows me out, then locks the door. “Do you want me to walk you back to school?”

“Um, yeah, okay. That would be nice. Thank you.” My skin is tingling. What is that about? Apparently, the idea of walking with him makes me giddy like a fourteen-year-old. Get a grip, Della. He’s just a dumb cowboy who happens to have stunning looks. We walk in silence for a while, which feels awkward, so I ask, “What are you studying?”

“I’m working on my MBA.”

Oh boy. He’s not dumb. My legs feel weird. Maybe I should take the bus.

“How about you, Della? What are you studying?”

Wow. The sound of my name coming out of his mouth is like melted chocolate flowing over ice cream. I’m already distracted, and I haven’t even gone to one class yet. Guys like him are definitely experienced in the woman department. I wonder what he thinks about girls like me, AKA girls who went to an all-girls’ private school and haven’t had a lot of boyfriends. Or any, to be more specific. It’s not like I’ve never had offers. Guys have asked me out, but when I was younger I refused all invitations to date because my father forbid it until I was sixteen. By then I was so terrified at the thought of getting pregnant or contracting an STD and having to tell my dad, that I basically avoided anyone who showed an interest. Once I was older and more open to the idea of a relationship, I just never met anyone I was that into. Definitely never met anyone even remotely as intriguing as Easton.

These are not great shoes for walking. It’s really hot in Palo Alto. What was the question again? Oh yeah. “Studying post-grad. To do the engineering. I mean being an engineer. Environmental systems. Spring term entry. That’s what I’m learning for or doing. I’m going to be that.” Oh, my goodness, be quiet, Della. Abort. Abort the conversation. Change the subject. “You have very nice skin.”

His eyebrows angle comically as we cross the street. “Thank you. It runs in my family.”

Really? Gah. Complimenting him on his skin. How is that any less awkward? Ask him something normal. “Where are you from?”

“Here in California.” He stops on the curb to wait for a light—fortunately—since I’m completely oblivious right now and would have definitely stepped out into on-coming traffic. “Mojave,” he adds.

“Mojave? Like the desert?”

“Like the people.”

“Ah.” When the light changes, we cross and then cut through a small park. “So, you’re a bull riding, Mojave Native American, super model, studying for his MBA.”

“Bareback bronc rider, actually. And I haven’t modeled in ages. The rest is true, though. And I’m also a rancher.”

“Wow.” I follow him along a path that shortcuts through another neighborhood. “You’re very unusual.”

He glances at me with an expression that’s impossible to decipher. Hopefully he didn’t take it the wrong way. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t?

“In a good way,” I blurt out. “Unusual. Not the bad unusual. I didn’t mean weird. Diverse. The opposite of everyday run of the mill. Interesting. Not dull like me.” I’m an idiot. One second, I’m drooling over him, the next I’m putting my foot in my mouth. Just stop talking, Della. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll never run into him again.

He slides his index finger over his eyebrow in an uncomfortable gesture. “The guys don’t know I used to model. Maybe we could keep that between you and me.”

“Sure.” Ugh. Now that I know it’s a secret I have an impulse to whisper it to the first person I see.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to campus, then he stops in front of a building. He stares at me for a second before he says, “You seem unusual too.”

As I’m wondering if he means the good kind of unusual or the bad, he hands me a key.

“The guys and I are leaving on a road trip tonight. We’ll be gone two days for a training clinic. Stuart gave me your number. I’ll message you mine. Think about renting the room. If you decide yes, then just move in and make yourself at home. If you decide no, drop the key in the mail slot. Cool?”

I nod. Yeah, cool, not really. Wait. What? I should just give the key back now. My hand isn’t moving. Why can’t I speak? He smiles and turns to bound up the stone stairs. He moves like an Olympian. Everyone in the vicinity watches as he waves back at me and then disappears through the front doors. A few of the females size me up, apparently because I was seen talking to the Mojave god. He must have Stanford celebrity status. Obviously he would. I mean look at him. And listen to him. And bask in his presence.

Okay, I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my hand out and a key on my upturned palm. Move, Della. Carry on. At least pretend to be a normal human being. In a less than convincing attempt to appear cool, I slide the key in my pocket and pull out my class schedule to figure out where I’m supposed to be. What time is it?

Chapter 2

Easton

Chuck and BJ are already seated at the back of the lecture hall when I sneak in. Professor Cavendish isn’t cool with students being late and, unfortunately, she just made eye contact with me. I wave apologetically and shoot her a sheepish smile. She’s strict. It might not work. I pause halfway to my seat, waiting to see if she’s going to kick me out or let me stay. Her left eyebrow raises in a cautionary way, but then she carries on with the lecture without giving me the boot.

“Impressive,” BJ says around the toothpick that is perpetually propped at the corner of his mouth.

Chuck nods to agree with the impressiveness and pops an ice pack to apply to his injured shoulder. “Future generations will gather at the foot of your bronze statue as they recall the legend of Havie the Mojave: The only person in the history of the school to get away with being late to Cavendish’s class.”

Chuck is quintessentially redneck—mullet and lame-assed hunting tattoos to prove it. BJ’s more sophisticated, and he’s black, so the other cowboys call us the Village People when we show up on the circuit together. I don’t really care what they call us as long as we’re taking home the money. And we usually do.

BJ waits until Cavendish turns around before he asks, “How’d it go with the new roomie? What’s she like?”

I shrug, purposely evasive. I don’t want him getting any bright ideas about dating or sleeping with her. “She seemed all right, but she’s undecided. She’ll let us know.”

“Come on, Havie.” BJ lowers his voice to a whisper after Cavendish shoots us a glare, “We need the money by Friday. If she’s not in, we have to ask someone we know.”

I shake my head. “No way. The last two guys were slobs, and I’m not letting a woman either of you guys have slept with or want to sleep with rent the room. You’ll piss her off. She’ll move out. And we’ll be right back in this same position in a month. Or worse, you’ll end up some buckle bunny’s baby daddy and need to come up with child support too.”