To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before. D. R. Graham

let’s make a rule. What’s her name again?”

      “Della. But she hasn’t agreed yet.” I bite into my sandwich.

      BJ pauses to give a woman walking by the eye, then continues, “Okay, if any of us sleeps with Della we owe the other two five-hundred bucks each.”

      Chuck laughs. “I don’t even have a hundred bucks. I can’t come up with a thousand bucks.”

      “Then don’t sleep with her, dummy.” BJ extends his hand towards me. “Are you in, Havie?”

      He’s got a scheming look in his eyes. Probably because he thinks the snowy skin comment means I have a thing for her. I don’t. I barely know her. “Yeah, I’m in.” I shake his hand. “All I want from her is her rent money.”

      Chuck looks confused. “Have we determined whether she’s good looking or not?”

      “It doesn’t matter. Either you keep your hands off her or you owe us a grand.”

      Chuck squints into the sun as his brain wheels tick. You’d think he’d been kicked in the head by one too many broncs, but he’s naturally like that. Book smart and life dumb. It’s actually painful to watch him figure things out. “What qualifies as sleeping with her? Just so I’m clear on the parameters.”

      BJ checks with me, “Kissing? Heavy petting? Penetration? What should the line be?”

      I shake my head to end the stupid conversation. “No touching. Period.”

      Chuck gestures in protest. “No way, man. We need to be able to shake her hand or give her a hug if she’s crying or something. Penetration is the line.”

      “Fine,” BJ says. “If any part of your body enters any part of her body you have to pay up.”

      “What if she initiates the sexual contact?” Chuck asks.

      “Still counts,” BJ says as he gets up to order a milkshake at the counter.

      Chuck leans his elbows on the table, processing the situation. “What if she decides not to room with us? Is she still off-limits then?”

      I don’t answer because Della just walked in. She grabs a tray and loads it with a carton of milk and a salad. Her hair is the good kind of brown—long, thick and wavy. It’s held back with a thin navy ribbon headband and she has dark-rimmed glasses on now, so she looks even more like a library monitor. Despite the modest outfit it’s obvious she’s fit. Probably a runner or tennis player. BJ has already spotted her and is checking out her ass. Chuck is about to notice her, too. He’s not into good girls, but her big brown doe eyes, heart-shaped face, and the way she smells, like a mixture of vanilla and peppermint, will mesmerize him into giving it his best shot. One of them is going to spook her. Guaranteed.

      Della steps up to the cashier where BJ is waiting for his milkshake. He says something to her that makes her cheeks flush. She responds quietly without looking directly at him and passes the cashier a twenty. When BJ points over at our table, Della turns and our eyes meet. I smile. Not in the ‘trying to wheel her’ way, but in the ‘her looking at me actually made me smile’ way. Uh oh. Maybe I do have a thing for her already. This is potentially not good.

      She attempts to wave at me and tips her tray in the process. The salad bowl flies through the air and lettuce floats to the floor. The milk carton hits the ground hard and explodes, which makes her wince as the spray douses her and BJ in white droplets. “Shoot. I’m sorry,” she says to him as she leans across the counter to grab serviettes. “It soaked your boots. I’m sorry. Let me wipe them off for you.” She crouches down to clean up the milk.

      “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. Boots are made for getting dirty,” BJ says as he makes eye contact with me. He points down at her and mouths, “Is this the new roomie?”

      I don’t want to answer because I don’t know what he’s going to do with that information. He can obviously tell from my non-reaction that she is, which makes him grin in a way that is only going to mean trouble. He helps her pick up the salad remnants and orders another one for her. He pays for it with what is likely his last ten bucks and then escorts her over to our table.

      I stand to slide over a chair from the table next to us and offer her mine. “Della, that’s BJ,” I say. “This is Chuck.” I shoot them both glares, intended to warn them to be on their best behavior, which they both ignore.

      “Ah, Della,” Chuck says. “We’ve heard all about you. Welcome to Stanford. Have a seat.”

      She sits cautiously and places the tray with the fresh salad and milk on the table. “Hi. Nice to meet you both.” She glances at me and presses her lips together as if she’s forcing herself not to say more.

      “If you need help with anything, I’m happy to show you around,” BJ offers before he raises his eyebrows at me.

      “Thank you,” she says quietly.

      With all of us watching, she takes a sip of milk. She doesn’t touch the salad, though, as if she’s uncomfortable eating in front of people. Maybe I should get the key back from her. If I don’t, I’ll be leading a lamb to the wolves.

      BJ leans back in his chair, sipping his milkshake, sizing her up, and literally licking his chops. “You have an interesting accent, Della. Where you from?”

      “Vancouver, but I was born in Russia. We moved to Canada when I was eight. Then I moved to California yesterday, so here I am. How about you guys? I know Easton is from here. Where are you both from?”

      “Chuckie’s from Oregon. I’m a Texan born and raised.” BJ watches as she finally picks up her fork and eats a small bite of lettuce.

      “Do you prefer to be called Bailey and Taylor or BJ and Chuck?” she asks.

      “Doesn’t matter to me,” BJ says. “Rodeo nickname. Real name. I answer to both.”

      She nods and glances at Chuck, waiting for him to answer.

      With a straight face he says, “You can call me Big Poppa.”

      Her eyebrows angle together as she attempts to read him. I’m pretty sure he’s joking, but honestly, it’s not always easy to tell with Chuck. Either way, I shake my head to let her know that she shouldn’t take him seriously.

      “Are you going to eat this pickle?” He asks me after he’s already taken it off my plate and bitten into it. “You know anything about Rodeo, Della?”

      Her head swivels side to side. “No. Only that there are bulls and horses. And animal rights activists who claim it’s cruel.” She opens the package of salad dressing and it squirts onto the table. “Shoot,” she mutters under her breath as she wipes it up.

      BJ sits forward, defensive. “You think the animals are mistreated?”

      “Oh. No. I don’t know.” Her cheeks flush from his confrontational tone. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never even been to a rodeo.” She clenches her eyes shut for a second as if she’s trying to reset the conversation, then she glances at Chuck’s wrapped shoulder and BJ’s swollen eye. “It does appear to be cruel to cowboys, though.”

      I laugh. Chuck nods to agree and BJ relaxes back in his seat.

      I like her. I don’t know why. She’s not the type I normally go for—awkward, eyes that are so innocent it makes me worry about her safety in the world, and really conservative. We probably have nothing in common. Then again, dating woman I have a lot in common with hasn’t really worked out for me so far.

      BJ pokes Della’s arm to tease her. “Is shoot the worst cuss word you’ve ever said?”

      She frowns and glances at me before she answers him. “I guess. Why?”

      “Do you drink?”

      “Like alcohol?” She immediately cringes and points at the milk carton as if she can’t believe she didn’t realize that