Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Give it back.”
His gray eyes twinkle in the growing darkness. “So Miss Perfect has some secrets, huh?”
“Secrets? Hardly.” I force out a laugh. “Also, you gotta quit with the terrible nicknames. Now give me the suitcase, Colton.”
“Thing’s got stamina.”
“It does belong to me.” Oh Christ. Why?
Why do I always rise to the occasion when I’m with this man?
He chuckles, a deep, somehow different sound than I’m used to from him, and then he tosses the suitcase into my trunk. “I’m not gonna touch that one.”
“Thank God, because it’s mine.” I reach up and slam the trunk shut. I can feel the sweat gathering under my arms and on my forehead. “I am an adult, you know. I’m allowed to…um…okay, never mind.”
Despite the fact that the trunk is now closed, the buzzing is still audible. So audible, in fact, that I wonder if it’s making the car vibrate too.
“Sounds big.” Colton casually tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The ones that fit him like a glove.
I resist the urge to commit an act of physical violence against him. “Please, please don’t make a joke about you being bigger.”
“You think that’s a line I’d cross?” He cocks an eyebrow.
Cocks.
I need to get laid already.
“You cross every other line you encounter, so yes.” I round the car while frantically digging into my purse for the keys.
My Jetta is cute, but she’s vintage. I still need to insert an actual key into an actual ignition to start her.
I dig. And sweat. And dig.
My eyes sting. I’m embarrassed and tired and brimming with conflicting feelings about this cowboy with the shitty attitude but very cute son. Colton is clearly a good dad. Patient. Interested. Invested in teaching Dean important things like how to clean up from a meal and talk to adults. But Colton’s also kind of an asshole, and that doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.
Oh God, no. I can’t cry now. I have to wait until I’m safely ensconced in my new apartment to sob out this epic sense of mortification. And exhaustion. And…bewilderment over how wonderful the Wallaces are compared to my own family. Dinner was so fun. And easy. I love how everybody pitched in, even Grumpy Pants here.
Of course Colton helped. He knows exactly what to do with those big, calloused hands of his.
I find the keys. But then I whip them out so quickly that I drop them in the gravel.
“Shit.” My voice sounds thin. I hope Colton doesn’t pick up on the fact that I’m about to burst into tears.
The only thing he picks up, though, are my keys. I don’t know how he moved so fast, but then he’s straightening. He’s cupping my hand in his and placing the keys gently in my palm.
“There’s no rushing when you’re on the ranch.” His gaze is crystal clear and…almost kind. The soft timbre of his voice raises goose bumps on my arms. “Ain’t got nothing but time out here, yeah? So take your time, Dallas.”
I swallow, hard, willing the melting sensation low in my core to disappear. He’s still holding my hand.
Why this (admittedly small) act of kindness?
Why now?
And why does my chest feel like it’s about to crumple? It’s true that the men I’ve encountered recently haven’t treated me all that great. But the bar for how guys treat girls shouldn’t be in hell.
A gesture as small as this one shouldn’t give me pause.
“I’m always in a rush to get away from you,” I manage, because I don’t quite know what to do with this nice version of Colton.
Another velvety chuckle. “Bad things happen when you’re rushing. Trust me.”
He’s probably talking about horses and cows and hay and other cowboy-adjacent stuff. But part of me wonders if there’s something hidden inside those words. Something deeper.
Or maybe something just hornier.
You’re the horny one, honey.
He drops my hand at the same moment as I pull away.
“I’m following you,” I manage.
“Stay close.”
“Only because I have to.”
He smirks, and my heart tips over. “You don’t gotta like me to trust me. Word to the wise.”
Then he turns and heads for his truck.
It’s not okay, wondering what Colton and Dean talk about as we bump our way across the ranch.
It’s not okay to keep looking at Colton’s massive side mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face.
It’s definitely not okay to use my ill-behaved vibrator while thinking about Colton later that night.
But that’s exactly what I do.
Twice.
Word to the wise, you’re playing a dangerous game here.
I hate myself in the morning.
Mostly because I wake up thinking about how hard I came as I fantasized about my kinda-sorta-but-not-really boss/foreman/nemesis kissing my mouth, my thighs, my clit. The way his scruff would scrape my skin raw—the gentle way he’d say my name as I came on his tongue—
“Nope.” I throw off the covers, then laugh when I realize I’m quoting Colton.