Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
I don’t know how long we stay cuddled together but eventually he says, “I’m taking you home with me tonight. We’ll cross the creek in the morning.”
My heart leaps in my chest at the idea that I’m going to get to spend the night here with Walker. Maybe we’ll even get to do more sexy things together.
I start to move from his arms, but he tightens his hold on me.
“Stay put,” he growls in that deep tone that melts my panties.
I still instantly. I’ve learned I like what happens when I listen to him. He makes the rules and when I obey, I get rewarded.
A second later, he swings open his door and gets out of his truck with me still in his arms. He’s carrying me, holding me tight and doing his best to shelter me from the rain that’s pelting us. Wrapped up in his arms in this downpour, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. That’s because Walker will always keep me safe and protect me.
I close my eyes, trying to commit this moment to memory as he carries me up the porch and through the house. When he finally sets me down on my feet, he looks almost reluctant to let me go.
The rain has made his normally thick brown hair into curly, wet tendrils that I want to run my fingers through. He clears his throat. “I’ll get you something dry to put on.”
I nod, feeling suddenly awkward. What am I going to say tonight to this hot cowboy that fingered me into the best orgasm of my life? Maybe I should just chance the rain and hope I don’t drown.
While I debate my odds of surviving, I study my surroundings. His home is cozy with plenty of throw pillows on the floral couch and the stained coffee table that has a pile of paperbacks on it. Apparently, Walker is a reader and judging by the covers, he likes thrillers.
The room is pretty if a bit dated with the gray Berber carpet and the peeling paint. But then I remember what he said about his folks passing away. He probably hasn’t taken the time to redecorate it since then. Walker doesn’t exactly strike me as the type to spend hours pouring over decorating magazines and making those online boards with the perfect color scheme.
Glancing out the window of his living room, I spot a red bird feeder. Sadness washes over me when I see it, the same as it always does. I made my dad one for Father’s Day when I was little. He spent over half an hour critiquing it and telling me all the ways I made it wrong. Now I just stick to safe gifts like a new pair of socks.
I know I should call him and my shoulders slump at the thought. “I have to go back to the truck. I need my—”
Walker holds out my bag. I didn’t even realize he was still standing here.
I take it from him and search through it as he moves to start a fire in the fireplace. It only takes him a few quick motions and I marvel at it. He’s so good with his hands.
Glancing back at my phone, I realize it has no service. “Any chance you have a phone I can use?”
“In the foyer,” he says over his shoulder before he leaves the room.
His cellphone is on a small entry way table. It’s a distressed oak chest that’s beautiful. A matching mirror hangs over it, and I wonder if he made the set himself. The idea of Walker getting sweaty as he works has my body ready for round two.
Focus here.
I dial my dad’s number, praying that he doesn’t pick up. If I’m lucky, I can just leave a message. It’s my preferred way to talk to my dad. Unfortunately, fate doesn’t care about what I want, and he answers. His words are already slurring when he asks, “What mess have you made this time, Jenna?”
I explain the situation as quickly as I can. I want to get this conversation over before Walker returns. He said he was proud of me. I don’t want him seeing me through my dad’s eyes.
“Just try to stay out of Walker’s way. People like him,” dad says in a tone that implies that people don’t feel nearly as warm toward me.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell him, hating that my voice comes across as a little bit desperate. I’m in the house of a man he doesn’t know all that well. Doesn’t he want to threaten him or talk to him or do something embarrassing the way dads are supposed to?
“Don’t ruin the engine on your way home.”
I blink to keep from letting the tears come. If he could just give me a little sign that he cares. But that’s not coming. It never is. “I won’t let anything happen to the truck.”