Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
But first, I need to find him. Although I shouldn’t have worried about it, because I see him as soon as I step out of the door. And he sees me. Don’t I know by now that he’ll never go so far away as to not be able to watch me. But his eyes, as stunning as they are, are not what get my heart racing. Or at least, that’s not all. It’s also the fact that he’s up on a horse, riding along the fence of the corral, circling it, wearing his Stetson and his faded jeans, those big boots.
I’ve seen him ride on a horse plenty of times by now so I should be used to it, but I’m not. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s already so tall and large, so authoritative, that everyone around him defers to him in all things. So watching him up on a saddle, also commanding and controlling that great beast between his legs with such finesse, is a sight to behold. Or it could be that everything about him just does it for me. His body, his voice, his dominance and skill, were all made for me. Like he said, I’m made for him.
I squeeze my thighs together and wipe my sweaty hands down my dress before I descend the stairs slowly. Without taking my eyes off him, I head over to the fence just across from the house and he guides the horse—this one’s black—toward me. We come to a stop across from each other and I grab the fence as I look up at him. From this angle, it seems like he’s carrying the whole summer sky, deep blue and clear, up on his massive shoulders.
“Hi,” I say.
His face is cast in the shadows, thanks to his Stetson and him blocking the sun, but I can see his eyes move. As they take me in, my new dress. My skin becomes hot and coarse with goose bumps and a quickening starts up in my belly. I choose to ignore it, though, because I’ve decided if I’m to stay with him until all of this is resolved, I need stricter boundaries. What happened between us at that bar, what keeps happening every time we’re in each other’s orbits, can’t happen again. If I’m going to leave with some pieces of my heart, my very soul intact, then I can’t have him wreck me like he does every time he touches me. I can’t have him ruin me for everything else in this world.
So I try to focus on important things. To that effect, I blurt out, “I was right.”
He was busy studying me, but at this he looks up.
And I blush. “About the color. Of the shirt you have on. Brown definitely brings out your eyes. Makes them look moss green. Or like the leaves just, uh… just after the rain.”
Fabulous, Peyton. You’re making total sense right now. Also, what happened to focusing on the important things?
“And your dress makes you look like a rose,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“But then again, no matter the color, you always look like a flower of some kind. On top of a princess. Somethin’ delicate and untouchable, so”—he looks me up and down once again—“it ain’t the pink.”
I clutch my dress, which is, indeed, pink. I want to tell him I’m not untouchable. He can touch me any time he wants, but that’s the opposite of what I want or should want. So I push that thought away and say, “Uh, thanks for the breakfast.”
Instead of responding, he lets his eyes roam over me once again.
I shuffle my feet and keep going, “You didn’t really have to do that.”
Nothing to that as well.
“Or keep doing it like you always do,” I continue, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I’m not really a breakfast person.”
Even though I’ve never tasted anything more delicious than what he cooks for me.
This makes him come back to my eyes. He tips his chin at me as he says, “You don’t really have to braid your hair for me every day, but you still do it.”
My heart jumps and I blush even harder. Of course I braided my hair today as well, but I shouldn’t have done that. Doing it back at Rawhide was pushing it too. It sends the wrong message, like I’m doing it for him, to please him, to make him happy. Which is sort of true, but I don’t want him to know that. He already knows how tangled up in him I am; he doesn’t need to catch on to the fact that I never want to be free, despite all the promises we’ve made to each other. Not to mention, I need to send myself that message if I want to contain the damage when I leave. But in my defense, it wasn’t conscious. Not this morning at least.