Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
I want to tell him he’s perfect too, but the deep, aching pleasure that’s building inside me renders speech impossible.
So, I do the only thing I can do and hold on for the ride.
Sure, it’s temporary and fleeting, but so is every roller coaster I’ve ever been on, and I’ve never looked back on experiencing one and considered it a waste of time.
13
Tad
Tuesday, January 19th
I wake up to an empty bed.
The sheets are still warm on the side Breezy slept on, and a faint trace of her perfume lingers in the air, but she’s nowhere to be found.
And damn if it doesn’t make me grin.
Some men might be insulted, waking up to nothing but a dent in the pillow, but I’m downright entertained. Hell, I’m relieved. Serious is bad. Serious is heavy. Serious ends in a fucking sheep-farm-driven pointless existence and never-ending sibling resentment.
But a temporary little fling with the visitor next door? That’s safe. That’s easy. That doesn’t end in destruction.
I stretch, rub the sleep from my eyes, and I’m still grinning when my bedroom door bangs open.
“Tad!” Randy’s voice is sharp enough to cut steel. “We’re missing half the damn flock.”
I groan and sit up. “Morning to you too, sunshine.”
Randy stomps into the room like he’s auditioning for a cattle drive. “I mean it. Gate’s wide open. I counted, and we’re down by at least twenty. I think that bastard Crosby figured out the goddamn latch.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “See? We’re not bad with sheep, Randy. We’re bad with fences. The flock’s healthy. So healthy, in fact, that I think we should get Crosby’s IQ tested. That bastard is abnormally smart.”
His glare could curdle milk. He lets out a deep exhale and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to choose to ignore every stupid thing you just said in the name of keeping myself out of prison.” He sighs. “I swear, I’m throwing a fucking party when spring hits and we can take these fuckers to market. And I’m hoping that’s that on the sheep shit.”
Oh, here he goes again. The “we need to be done with sheep farming” conversation that comes up every two weeks or so like clockwork.
I swing my legs out of bed and tug on my jeans. “Sheep soothe me, you know that.”
“Fuck right off, Tad.”
I laugh, which only makes him glower harder. “Okay, okay. I’ll go find the flock this morning, princess. You can relax and have some breakfast.”
Randy crosses his arms, still fuming. “I’ve been going along with this for so long that I’m starting to wonder if I’m the crazy one, Tad. When are you going to give up the sheep farce and use the damn insurance money to invest in something that might lead somewhere other than Betty Bagley’s front yard every other day?”
The words hit like a sledgehammer to the ribs, and my grin dies swiftly. The air in the room thickens into a cold and heavy mist of lines crossed and unearthed demons. We may volley, but he’s crossed a line this time, and he knows it.
“Don’t.” My voice is cutting. Randy opens his mouth, but I interrupt him before he can say another word. I don’t want to hear it. Not even if it’s an apology. “Don’t even fucking go there.”
For once, he listens. His jaw works, muscles ticking, but he knows the cost of honesty on this subject.
I stand, yanking on my shirt. My movements are clipped and mechanical, and I grind my jaw so hard I feel it in my molars. When I slip on my boots, my ears buzz with all the unsaid things between us, burning me alive from the inside out. But I can’t give this tailspin legs, and I know the risks of breaking open the dam of guilt and shame, and the worst kind of grief could pull me under in ways I’m never sure I’ll come back from.
Randy didn’t mean to hit the nerve, I know that. But intent doesn’t matter when the nerve is always this raw.
“I’m going to get the fucking sheep,” I announce.
Randy mutters something under his breath as he stomps down the hall and toward my kitchen, but I barely hear it over the rush in my head. I grab my coat and head for the door, anger still boiling under my skin.
Ten minutes ago, I was in a decent mood, still riding the afterglow of hot sex with Breezy Bishop and a rare night that didn’t feel heavy. But it doesn’t take much to kill a spark.
Or light one, for that matter. One wrong word and I’m right back where I always end up—standing in the ruins, trying to pretend they aren’t still burning.
The cold hits my face as I step outside, but it brings none of the invigoration it usually does. The sky is gray and viscous, and the world smells like hay and frost and the faint ghosts of smoke that never really leave me.