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)
Bet that’d really get her going. Would she lose her mind on me? Slap me even?
My blood jumps at the thought. I know one thing: My dad would kill me. Much as I can’t stand Miss Priss here, I’d hate disappointing my dad more.
Lainey had to have driven here anyway, right? Where’d she park? What kind of car does she drive?
Why the fuck do I care?
I take the left turn toward the stables a little too fast. Lainey grabs the door as the truck lurches, but she doesn’t say a word. Just keeps looking through the windshield, gripping a pen in her other hand.
See, that gets me going. Must take a lot to ruffle her feathers. Kinda makes me wanna see how fun it’d be to do just that.
“What happens if I do get in the way?” She’s uncapping the pen now. “Is the sheriff going to come and arrest me?”
I furrow my brow. “Sheriff?”
“Y’all have to have a sheriff. You know, the guy with the gun and the ten-gallon hat and the handcuffs—”
“Handcuffs?” I spear her with a look.
“Handcuffs, yes.” She holds up her wrists. The insides are soft white, the bones there delicate. I can see the tiny blue veins that form a road map up into her palm.
I’m gripped by the nonsensical urge to know what she feels like there.
What she tastes like.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. “I see what you’re doing.”
“Tell me what I’m doing with these handcuffs, Colton. Please.”
“You’re trying to get a rise out of me by repeating that word over and over again.”
“What word?”
“You know the word.”
“I don’t know the word, actually.”
I hold the wheel in a death grip. “Handcuffs.”
She angles her body to face me, tucking her back against the door. “Why would handcuffs get a rise out of you? Because you want to be the one to put those handcuffs on me? For being so insubordinate?”
Inappropriate.
Awesome.
Laughter rises up my sides and threatens to spill from my lips. But I feel like I shouldn’t laugh at her joke—it’s a joke, right?—because that would mean admitting something.
Admitting what? That yes, I’d enjoy the fuck out of handcuffing her with her arms behind her back. Better yet, above her head. That way, I’d have unencumbered access to that mouth—
Whoa.
Whoa whoa whoa.
That was explicit. And detailed. And does she have the same image in her head? Because now the anger in her eyes is searing.
Hungry even.
Next thing I know, I’m gesturing to the glove box. “Do me a favor.”
“Don’t tell me there are handcuffs in there. Are you the sheriff?”
“You must have a thing for law enforcement.”
“Not my type.”
“Yeah, and what is your type?”
“Not assholes.”
I harrumph. Since when do I harrumph? Am I eighty-seven years old? “You’re gonna love me, then.”
“Already do.” She smiles tightly as she opens the glove box. Seeing its contents, she blinks, and that smile…it morphs into something almost genuine. Like she’s pleasantly surprised, delighted even, and she’s not afraid to let it show. “Holy cow, Colton, are you fun?”
She holds up a half pint of Woodford Reserve bourbon and a trio of individually packaged Macanudo cigars.
“No time for fun.” I pluck one of the Macanudos from her grip and rip open the package. “But some days are tougher to get through than others. The bourbon keeps you warm when it’s cold.”
Lainey glances out the window at the arid landscape, which has begun to shimmer with the approaching midday heat. “Does it ever get cold here?”
“Dead of February at four a.m.? Yeah, it’s cold.”
“But what about when it’s not cold? What’s your excuse for drinking then?”
Without thinking, I glance in the rearview mirror at Dean’s booster seat. It’s covered in Goldfish crumbs and white smudges of indeterminate origin. Yogurt? Chalk? Vomit?
“Bourbon makes everything better.” I dip my hand into the well on my door, my fingers skating over the familiar shape of my cutter and lighter.
Straightening, I see Lainey looking in the rearview too. Then she looks at me, her expression one of pure shock now.
“You are a dad.”
I dip my head. “Yup.”
“How old—”
“Six.”
“Are you—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“I do.” I clip the tip of the cigar with the cutter and roll the Macanudo between my fingers before putting it in my mouth, using the heels of my hands to steer. “I know because that’s what everyone asks when they find out I have a kid. I’m not married, no.”
“But you—”
“Were? Yes.”
She looks down at the bourbon in her hand. “No wonder you keep this in your car. Being a single parent…”
“Hold the wheel, would you? I gotta light this.”
Now Lainey is staring at me. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. I need you to steer while I light my cigar because I’m not gonna survive the next however many hours you’ll be in my hair without some nicotine.”