Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I splash water on my face, but it does nothing to cool the flush creeping up my neck. Perfect. I look like a wild raccoon, and it’s not even six a.m. I yank my hair into a ponytail, ignore the smudges under my eyes, and hope my coffee will have more backbone than I do.
I hustle into the one fancy outfit I own, grab my notes, and nearly trip over a pile of laundry. If I had two brain cells to rub together, I’d go back to bed and hide until this whole day is over. But no. I have to face the day. And the loss of my best friend. Then I can work on forgetting the hot cowboy who stole my heart with one look.
I make my way to the kitchen, and Grams is already there, posted up at the table, coffee in hand and the newspaper propped open. She stares at me over the rim of her mug, eyes sharp. “You look like you didn’t sleep worth a damn,” she says, not even trying to soften it.
I just grunt and flop into the chair across from her. “Didn’t. Too keyed up about the sale.”
My grandmother doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches me, her gaze steady, like she’s trying to read my mind or spot the lie I haven’t even told yet. I’m not giving her anything, though—not until after the auction.
By the time I make it out to the preview area of the auction house, the place is crawling with every breed of buyer. I’m here for Thunderbolt. The Rolling R needs this if we’re going to keep our heads above water for another year. Even if the thought of selling my best friend sends pain flowing through my soul.
Grams is in her element, holding court with a pack of locals near the coffee urn. My grandmother could sell ice to Eskimos, but today’s about more than charm. It’s about making sure Thunderbolt sells for a good price and goes to a ranch that will take care of him.
I run my hand over Thunderbolt’s shoulder, then grab the grooming kit to give him a final polish. His coat’s shiny, and he’s standing proud, soaking up attention. I’m not at all hoping that my mystery man shows up. Not at all.
The next few minutes are a blur of blinding smiles, bullshit small talk, and a million hands shaking mine too long. But somewhere in the middle of explaining Thunderbolt’s family tree to a guy who smells like money dipped in expensive aftershave, the hair on my neck stands up. I look up. And nearly swallow my tongue.
Oh my God. He's here. I'd know that chiseled jawline anywhere—the one with just enough scruff to leave a burn on a girl's inner thighs, that perfect shadow outlining a mouth made for sin, the kind of face that belongs on billboards but somehow looks better in person. Today, my mystery cowboy is wearing that black cowboy hat I saw on his table yesterday, along with a suit that hugs his broad shoulders like it was painted on. The custom-tailored dark navy suit makes his eyes look like chips of summer sky. The way the fabric catches the light when he moves tells me it’s expensive wool. A crisp white shirt underneath, open at the collar just enough to make my mouth go dry.
I literally forget how to breathe.
He’s even hotter up close, if that’s possible. His hair is a little messy, like he just shoved a hand through before donning the hat. For a split second, I think about what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.
Thunderbolt senses the vibe and flicks his ears like he’s judging me. Same, buddy.
The mystery cowboy makes a beeline right for me. There are at least twenty people milling around, but he’s laser-focused. He doesn’t look left or right, just heads straight in my direction, like some kind of heat-seeking missile.
I try to gather up my dignity, but it’s too late—the clipboard almost slips right out of my fingers, but I catch it. Barely. Smooth, Reine.
He holds my gaze, smiling slowly and hungrily, like we’re the only two people in a five-mile radius. I clutch my clipboard tight against my chest while trying to ignore the weird urge to check if my lipstick’s still in place.
Holy. Shit. This man is hot with a capital H.
He makes a beeline for Thunderbolt’s stall, and I swear the crowd just parts like the Red Sea for him. I try to play it cool, but my heart rate triples as my girly parts wake up and sing. When he gets close, the air goes thick and sticky, like the world is melting around us.
“Morning, Montana.” His voice is deep, warmth curling through me.
He gives me a slow, deliberate smile that warms my soul from the inside out, and I instantly know he just ruined me for all other men. My lungs forget how to do their job. It’s a miracle I somehow manage to stay on my feet.