Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24659 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24659 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
She’s all grown up now—long legs, a sassy mouth, and fire in her eyes. When she's sent to the ranch, it’s my job to keep her in line. Teach her some discipline…not put my filthy cowboy hands on her.
She doesn’t understand why I keep my distance. Why I clench my fists every time she sways those hips. Why I walk away instead of pinning her to the barn wall and showing her who she belongs to.
It’s not because I don’t want her.
It’s because I want her too much.
Not for a night. Not for a taste.
Forever.
If I take her now, there’s no undoing it.
And when her father finds out, all hell’s gonna break loose.
AUTHOR’S Breaking Her In is a scorching-hot, off-limits cowboy romance with a growly alpha, forbidden obsession, and a dirty-talking ranch hand who’s ready to risk it all for love. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and as always, a happily ever after
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
LENA
The soles of my designer flats sink into the mud as the town car pulls away, kicking up a cloud of dust that coats my shorts and T-shirt. I immediately start coughing.
Wonderful.
My eyes take in the cracked earth, the rickety old wire fence, the green pastures, and open sunset-sky stretching above me like a prison cell with no roof. In front of me is the ranch house. Old wood, weathered by time–it might as well be a thousand miles from the New York City life that I know.
This is my punishment.
Dad didn’t ground me, take away my allowance, or even cancel my girls’ trip to Monaco this August. Nope. He just took my phone, all my cards, and dumped me here so I could, in his words, “learn some respect.”
All because I got expelled.
Well, technically I wasn’t expelled. I still get to graduate. I just don’t get to attend graduation or the last two weeks of school. And all because I told Mr. Morris to “start grading fairly and not giving As to the cheerleading team.” I guess that was a bit too far.
But what can I say? I’ve got a bit of a smart mouth, and I’m not afraid to speak my mind. Mr. Morris is a massive prick anyway.
“You can’t go through life mouthing off to people in positions of power, Lena,” Dad growled when he heard the news. “The world’s a rough place; you’re gonna learn that soon. I’m sending you to the ranch for a month. Colt’s gonna put you to work.”
Colt Ryder.
I froze like a statue when he told me that.
And now, I swallow hard, ignoring the way my heart flutters like a baby bird at the sound of his name in my head.
I haven’t seen Colt in years. The last time I was probably thirteen, and he was a grim-faced, sun-kissed, eighteen-year-old cowboy with arms like tree trunks and hands rougher than concrete.
Despite being the youngest of Dad’s workers, he was his most prized foreman. An ex-rodeo rider, raised by ranchers, built like an Adonis, who never once had a kind word for me. Even when I would follow him around like a pest, showering Dad jokes on him that I thought might get him to smile.
But he never did. Not once. I’m not even sure he’s capable of it.
Now I’m the eighteen-year-old. I’m still mouthy (obviously), maybe a bit of a brat, and I’ve been handed over to the one man in the world who probably loves the fact that for the next four weeks, it’s going to be his job to make me shovel horse crap.
“Well,” I mutter, grabbing my one bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. “This is going to be great.”
I can’t imagine how much mud is accumulating in the bottom of my shoes. I can even feel the wet soaking through the canvas and into my socks. It must have just rained, and I don’t even own a pair of boots suitable for a place like this.
As I approach the house, the screen door creaks and slowly opens.
I stop–well, actually, I freeze as Colt emerges from inside.
It’s him. It’s really him.
He leans against the doorframe, towering muscle and irritation, his broad shoulders threatening to tear the seams of his faded plaid shirt. My gaze dips–against my will–to his thick forearms, corded with chiseled muscle, tanned from the sun and dusted with the kind of grit that doesn’t wash off without an extra hand.
He looks like punishment with a pulse, already figuring out just how much pain he’s going to put me through.
My whole body goes hot in an instant. Yeah, I remember him being hot, but what in the world happened? He’s not just hot anymore…he’s dangerous. What’s he doing working on a ranch? He should be in front of a camera somewhere, acting or modeling. Both?