Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 56395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “You’ve checked it?”
“I helped Otis reroof half of it when I was seventeen.”
“You worked here that long?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew Grandpa hired a local boy, and he mentioned a Rourke occasionally, but he never connected you to the Black Crowns or Black Castle.” Her brow puckered as she studied me. “He never called you Stryker.”
“Stubborn old man refused after I patched. Said my mother went through the trouble of naming me, and he wasn’t encouraging foolishness.”
Jacqueline giggled. “That also sounds like him.”
My eyes met hers across the table. “You call me Brogan.”
Her hand stilled on the spoon, and the moment stretched, quiet but not empty. “Brogan?”
“Yes.”
“Only here?” Her lashes lowered, then lifted again with shy courage.
“Anywhere.”
Her lips parted. “But everyone else calls you Stryker.”
“Everyone else isn’t you.” I held her gaze so she understood exactly what that meant.
She absorbed the distinction quietly, but her blush spread across her cheeks and down her throat. Heat built low in my belly as I imagined that same mouth saying my name while she was beneath me, breathless and broken while her nails dug into my shoulders as my cock filled her slowly enough to make every thick inch count.
“How did you and Grandpa become so close?” she asked after a few bites.
“He hired me when I was fifteen and angry at most of the world.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
I gave her a look, and she hid her smile behind her mug. The sass was soft, affectionate, and entirely aimed at me, which made me want to drag her across the table and kiss it off her mouth.
I kept the story brief because she didn’t need a dramatic life history. But I gave her the funny parts too—the blue roan stealing hats, the post-hole digger that criminal coyotes had apparently kidnaped, and the fence he insisted I rebuild three times when I kept trying to use a shortcut.
“Grandpa told me it was four,” Jacqueline quipped with a laugh.
I realized that each giggle she gave me eased another hard place I hadn’t realized the day had left behind.
Her smile faded around the edges. “I wish he’d told me more about you.”
“He probably figured we’d meet eventually.”
“He should be here for it.”
The last word cracked, and I was moving before she could turn toward the window and hide the tears. I caught her wrist, brought her out of the chair, and lifted her sideways across my thighs. One arm slid around my shoulders while the other gripped the front of my shirt, and I tucked her against my chest until her face pressed into the side of my neck.
She held herself rigid, fighting grief because she’d probably been doing too damn much of that alone. I stroked one palm down her back until the tension left her in a shuddering breath.
“I miss him,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
“You should’ve heard how he talked about you, Brogan,” she murmured, her fingers tightening in my shirt. “He was so proud.”
My hand stopped between her shoulder blades. Praise had never meant much to me, but hearing that from Otis’s granddaughter reached someplace medals, rank, money, and votes of confidence had never touched.
“Thanks.”
Her body softened completely after a while, but the comfort shifted when she moved, her ass dragging over the erection trapped behind my jeans. She went still for half a heartbeat, then her fingers tightened instead of letting go, and I held her there long enough for both of us to understand what had changed before I set her back in her chair.
“Finish your dinner.”
Her mouth twitched through the remnants of grief. “You’re very bossy.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
She blinked, clearly unsure what to say, then returned to her soup with cheeks still pink. We finished eating while she told me more, and I started folding her plans into mine.
Afterward, she carried the dishes to the sink, and I took the towel from her hand when she tried to wash and dry at the same time. We worked side by side in easy quiet until a gust of wind struck the back of the house and rattled the door beside the pantry. The sound was wrong enough that I set down the plate in my hand and crossed the room.
The dead bolt turned, but the latch barely entered the warped frame. I pressed my palm against the wood and watched the bolt slip free with almost no resistance. “What the fuck?”
Jacqueline dried her hands and came closer. “Grandpa kept meaning to replace that. It still catches if you lift the handle while you turn the lock.”
“A lock that requires a trick isn’t a lock.”
“It can wait until morning.”
I opened the mudroom cabinet, found Otis’s red toolbox, and pulled out the drill, brackets, and measuring tape. “I’m bracing it now. I’ll replace the frame tomorrow.”
“You’ve been on my property less than six hours, and you’ve already installed surveillance, assigned armed men to the hills, moved into my spare room, inspected my injury, and started repairing the house.”