Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
A little before two in the morning, she finally steps outside, looking like she's completely done with cowboys and all our bullshit.
My dick still twitches in my jeans, pressing up against the fly. Goddamn, she's beautiful. Wild red hair frames her heart-shaped face, tendrils plastered to her porcelain skin. Her uniform—a green t-shirt with Silver Spoon Spur emblazoned across the front and jeans—skims her body, hinting at the curves beneath.
Even from across the parking lot, I sense the frustration and leeriness in her emerald eyes when she spots me leaning against the tailgate of my truck. Her steps falter before her shoulders go back, her chin lifting stubbornly in the air.
She's brave; I'll give her that. She stomps toward me like she's ready to set me on fire, her wide hips swaying hypnotically. A little bolt of pride goes through me when she tightens her grip on her keys, placing one between her fingers like she's prepared to shiv me with it if necessary.
"I thought I told you to leave hours ago, Jessup."
"Wade."
"What?" Her brows furrow, confusion flickering across her expression.
"My name is Wade," I murmur, staying right where I am so I don't end up with her key between my ribs. "Wade Jessup."
"Oh. Well, why are you standing in the parking lot?"
My gaze flicks to her keys. "You going to shiv me with that key if I tell you that I was waiting for you to get off work?"
"Maybe."
"Good girl." I grin at her. "You know how to take care of yourself."
"It happens when you do it long enough," she says, her gaze still full of distrust even though she's standing in the shadows. "What do you want?"
Just how long has she been taking care of herself? I'd love to know the answer to that question, but I'm guessing she isn't going to tell me, at least not right now.
"Morgan Hendrix sent me," I say instead of asking.
"Morg…" she trails off with a groan. "Of course she did. Is that why you told Danny that we're dating?"
"Something like that," I say, not entirely sure that is why I said it. I mean, that was the plan when I got here. And then I saw her. I can't explain what the fuck happened between point A and point B, but now, I'm not so sure I have a plan. This is all just…instinct and intuition, or whatever it's called when meeting someone feels like a goddamn electric shock right to your heart.
Punching Danny in the face probably didn't do me any favors here, but it's not like I regret punching him in the face, either. He has a very punchable face. Sue me.
"Well, thank you for your service," she says. "I could have done without the fight and the hour and a half it took to clean up after you."
"I offered to take care of that," I point out.
If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. "And yet, I'm the one with the backache from mopping up," she says, her tone dry. "Imagine that." She tosses her head. "Next time Morgan wants to send a cowboy to help me out, can you ask her to send me one who doesn't destroy everything in his path?"
"Hey, now," I protest. "You were the one with the water."
"I could have called the sheriff instead."
Well, hell. She's got me there.
"Does Danny bother you often?"
"Sometimes." She shrugs like it's not a big deal, but the way her eye twitches tells a different story. He stresses her out. "Usually, he just watches me."
"You into him?"
She doesn't even have to say anything for me to know that's a hell no. It's written all over her face. But she answers anyway. "Oh, sure. I'd just love to be property for some cowboy who thinks a woman's place is serving him. Who wouldn't want that?" She rolls her eyes at me, her tone acerbic. "You're not the brightest cowboy in the corral, are you?"
I splutter a protest, though I'm pretty sure I insulted her first. It wasn't intentional. I just wanted to make sure I don't need to bury that fucker six feet under. The only cowboy I want her into is me. "I do alright."
"Uh-huh. You're a one-man wrecking crew, Wade Jessup," she says, relaxing enough to loosen her grip on her keys.
How much do I hate that she has the wrong impression of me? A lot, actually. But I'm not sorry I hit him after he called her a cocktease. The prick deserved it. I won't be telling her that, though. If she didn't hear him, she doesn't need to know what he said.
The important thing is, he learned not to say it again. And if he didn't learn the lesson well enough, I have no problem reintroducing his face to my fist.
Hitting him is all kinds of therapeutic.