Tempted by a Cowboy. Sarah M. Anderson

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       Two

      Light. Too much light.

      God, his head.

      Phillip rolled away from the sunlight but moving his head did not improve the situation. In fact, it only made things worse.

      Finally, he sat up, which had the benefit of getting the light out of his face but also made his stomach roll. He managed to get his eyes cracked open. He wasn’t in his downtown apartment and he wasn’t in his bedroom at the Beaumont Mansion.

      The walls of the room were rough-cut logs, the fireplace was stone and a massive painting showing a pair of Percherons pulling a covered wagon across the prairie hung over the mantle.

      Ah. He was at the farm. Immediately, his stomach unclenched. There were a lot worse places to wake up. He knew that from experience. Back when his grandfather had built it, it’d been little more than a cabin set far away from the world of beer. John Beaumont hadn’t wasted money on opulence where no one would see it. That’s why the Beaumont Mansion was a work of art and the farm was...not.

      Phillip liked it out here. Over the years, the original cabin had been expanded, but always with the rough-hewn logs. His room was a part he’d added himself, mostly because he wanted a view and a deck to look at it from. The hot tub outside didn’t hurt, either, but unlike the hot tub at his bachelor pad, this one was mostly for soaking.

      Mostly. He was Phillip Beaumont, after all.

      Phillip sat in bed for a while, rubbing his temples and trying to sift through the random memories from the last few days. He knew he’d had an event in Las Vegas on...Thursday. That’d been a hell of a night.

      He was pretty sure he’d had a club party in L.A. on Friday, hadn’t he? No, that wasn’t right. Beaumont Brewery had a big party tent at a music festival and Phillip had been there for the Friday festivities. Lots of music people. Lots of beer.

      And Saturday...he’d been back in Denver for a private party for some guy’s twenty-first birthday. But, no matter how hard he tried to remember the party, his brain wouldn’t supply any details.

      So, did that mean today was Sunday or Monday? Hell, he didn’t know. That was the downside of his job. Phillip was vice president of Marketing in charge of special events for Beaumont Brewery, which loosely translated into making sure everyone had a good time at a Beaumont-sponsored event and talked about it on social media.

      Phillip was very good at his job.

      He found the clock. It was 11:49. He needed to get up. The sun was only getting brighter. Why didn’t he have room-darkening blinds in here?

      Oh, yeah. Because the windows opened up on to a beautiful vista, full of lush grass, tall trees and his horses. Damn his aesthetic demands.

      He got his feet swung over the bed and under him. Each movement was like being hit with a meat cleaver right between the eyes. Yeah, that must have been one hell of a party.

      He navigated a flight of stairs and two hallways to the kitchen, which was in the original building. He got the coffee going and then dug a sports drink out of the fridge. He popped some Tylenol and guzzled the sports drink.

      Almost immediately, his head felt better. He finished the first bottle and cracked open a second. Food. He needed food. But he needed a shower first.

      Phillip headed back to his bathroom. That was the other reason he’d built his own addition—the other bathroom held the antique claw-foot tub that couldn’t hope to contain all six of his feet.

      His bathroom had a walk-in shower, a separate tub big enough for two and a double sink that stretched out for over eight feet. He could sprawl out all over the place and still have room to spare.

      He soaked his head in cool water, which got his blood pumping again. He’d always had a quick recovery time from a good party—today was no different.

      Finally, he got dressed in his work clothes and went back to the kitchen. He made some eggs, which helped his stomach. The coffee was done, so he filled up a thermal mug and added a shot of whiskey. Hair of the dog.

      Finally, food in his stomach and coffee in his hand, he found his phone and scrolled through it.

      Ah. It was Monday. Which meant he had no recollection of Sunday. Damn.

      He СКАЧАТЬ