Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I’m here to do a job, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do it and do it well.
I’m gonna knock your socks off, Colt. Colton. Whatever the hell your stupid-but-also-kinda-hot name is.
Also, fuck you.
CHAPTER 5
Ride Along
COLT
I laugh.
It comes out loud, a boom that I feel in my chest and stomach.
I got the windows rolled down—always do when the weather’s this good—so hopefully she can hear it.
Watching her sprint toward me through my windshield, I laugh harder. Louder. Even though my stomach is in knots.
She looks like a fucking flamingo in those jeans and shoes. Long, slender legs. Hair flying. She’s throwing elbows in an attempt to remain upright as she crosses the yard toward the driveway. She hits a divot in the grass and pitches forward, only catching herself at the last minute to avoid tumbling ass over boots—or clogs, in her case—onto the ground.
I grip the door handle. I gotta go help her, right?
But then she straightens. Throws back her shoulders. Our eyes meet through the windshield, and the defiance I see in her expression—the rage—has me laughing again.
Aw, she don’t need no help.
What she needs is to get gone.
I’m being a dickhead. I own that. But I need a gorgeous “branding expert” riding shotgun like I need a hole in my head. She’s full of shit—people that intense, that earnest, that fucking young always are—and it’s my job to protect my family from charlatans like her.
Let’s not forget that my brothers already have an almost three-hour head start on me. Before Abby passed, I reported for duty at the stables or office at 4 a.m. sharp too. Now the earliest I show up is eight fifteen. While I hate starting the day on my back foot, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at playing catch-up.
Sometimes I have to work on weekends—let’s be real, a lot of the time—but Dean doesn’t mind tagging along. In fact, he’s really started to enjoy cowboying now that he’s older.
Lainey maintains eye contact for the remainder of her flamingo dance toward my truck. Gotta give credit where credit is due. Girl is not afraid to communicate a nonverbal fuck you.
I’d admire her spirit if I didn’t distrust everything she is. Everything she represents.
Vibes. What the hell do I even do with that?
And yeah, maybe I’m a little concerned Dad bit off more than he could chew here. I meant what I said when I told Lainey we’re busy. We do fall calving on our ranch, so we’re in the thick of that right now. Even when that’s not the case, I can’t imagine expanding our operations any further. With the new arena we just built—Dad and I agreed it was high time to start a training program for barrel racers—we’re stretched to the limit in terms of staffing.
In terms of what I can handle.
Draping my wrist over the steering wheel, I look out the windshield as Lainey climbs inside.
“Thanks for waiting.” She’s breathless.
“You’re welcome.” I lift my fingers in an approximation of a wave, biting back a grin. “How ya doin’?”
She pulls the door shut behind her, and then all of a sudden, I’m looking at her again.
Her face is flushed. Cheeks are a pretty shade of pink. She’s breathing hard, her ample chest rising and falling, straining the buttons of her shirt.
My skin pulses. Any other woman, I’d be asking her out to see Frisky Whiskey, a local cover band, at the Rattler on Friday night. But this woman? This twenty-four-year-old bullshit expert? I’m not touching her with a ten-foot pole.
She offers me a smile so big it shows how pointy her incisors are. The rage in her eyes sparkles. “I’m doing pretty damn great. How about yourself?”
There’s a tug in my center. More like a squeeze, actually, that has me feeling short of breath. So we’re playing it like that.
“Fuckin’ peachy.”
I try not to watch her tug on her jeans as she gets settled in the seat. I blame my inability to look away on how weird it is to have a girl in my truck. Last time was…never? Mom and Billie like to drive themselves wherever they go, and the hookups I’ve had usually take place in someone else’s bed or back seat.
“You wanna talk about it?” Her hair falls in her face as she looks down to buckle her seat belt.
I put the truck in reverse. “Talk about what?”
“The weather,” she deadpans.
“Weather’s good. Hot. But good.”
“No shit. Why don’t you trust me?”
Fuck her for diving right in. It’s infuriating. Who does she think she is?
“Because.”
She waits for me to finish the thought. I don’t.
“Excellent. I work better when it’s quiet anyway.” Straightening, she settles her notebook on her lap and gives me that angry, glittering smile again. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
“Just stay outta my way, yeah?” I pull out of the driveway. For a split second, I consider hanging a right. That would take us to Hartsville, the town closest to the ranch. From there, she could catch a bus home.