Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“I’ll have you know that my best friend as a girl, Bridget Mary O’Reilly, had a farm, and they milked the cows for their own milk, and whenever I spent time there, I was permitted to milk them myself.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You squatted on a stool and milked a cow?”
“Well, to be fair, I was a wee girl, so I didn’t have to squat. I sat.” She grins and sits back, mirroring me. “And I’ll also have you know that I was quite good at it. Someday, you’ll take me out and introduce me to Bessy, and I’ll show you what I’m about.”
Jesus, I’ll take her there right now and keep her there.
“You’ve got a date. You’re welcome out there anytime, and you don’t even have to milk anything.”
She chuckles and takes a bite of her pizza. “Billie said you make ice cream. What flavors do you offer?”
I can’t help but grin at her. “Are you an ice cream fan?”
“It’s a weakness, but I don’t indulge often. Tell me you make peppermint ice cream, and I might try to sweet-talk you into a pint.”
“During the holidays, we do. Mostly, we specialize in the typical vanilla, chocolate, huckleberry, and strawberry. But we add one or two flavors with the different seasons.”
“I haven’t had huckleberry ice cream yet,” she says, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “I didn’t even know what a huckleberry was until I moved here last year. I was too late to pick some of my own.”
“I will have plenty growing on the ranch this summer. You can pick all you want.”
Her smile is so wide, I feel like I just won the lottery.
“How often do you get back to Ireland?” I ask.
“Typically just once a year, during the holidays. Maybe now that I’m not dancing, I can try to get over there for a couple of weeks in the summer as well.”
“Do you miss it?”
She tips her head to the side as she finishes her crust as if she’s giving it some thought. “I miss my parents, and yes, there’s plenty about Ireland to love, but I adapted well to living in the States. How long has your family owned the ranch?”
“My parents bought it when Brooks was a baby, and the rest of us were all born there. Home births.”
“You were born in the house you still live in?” She blinks at me in surprise. “That’s amazing, Beck. And quite unusual these days.”
“My mom was afraid of hospitals,” I reply. “I find it ironic that one of her kids is now a doctor and spends most of his time in one.”
“That is funny.” The conversation continues to flow as we eat. Not only does Skyla ask intelligent questions but she also seems interested in the answers.
When we’ve finished our dinner and the server approaches, I’m surprised to discover we’ve been here for over an hour.
“Can I get you two any dessert?” the server asks, and we shake our heads. I pay the bill, and my jaw tightens because I don’t want to simply drop her off and leave.
There’s still so much to talk about.
And I’ve quickly become addicted to being in her company.
“I should get Riley home,” Skyla says quietly.
With a nod, I stand and offer her my hand, helping her to her feet. Before letting her go, I pull her fingers to my lips and press a kiss against her knuckles.
I’d never stop touching her if I thought she’d let me.
We’re quiet on our way back to her place. When we reach the gate, I look her way.
I have to punch in a code to get us in, and she worries her bottom lip before saying softly, “Six one nine four.”
I’m quite sure that telling me the code to her gate was a big deal for her, and I won’t let her regret it.
The gate swings open, and I park her SUV in the garage, where she had it before. However, she turns to me in the darkness before we can get out.
“Why don’t you come inside for some tea?”
Thank Christ.
Chapter Eight
SKYLA
The truth is, I’m not ready for him to leave. I’ve never felt so comfortable talking to a man in my life. Certainly not one I’m attracted to.
Connor and Mik don’t count.
“I’m just going to quickly let Riley outside, then I’ll put the kettle on.”
Beckett smiles in that soft, patient way he does, which immediately puts me at ease. I love how calm and patient he is. And that face of his makes me ache. I so want to run my fingers through his whiskers. “I can put the kettle on,” he says and drags his hand from my shoulder to my hand, sending shivers through me. “Take care of your boy, Irish.”
Irish.
That’s the second time he’s called me that, and I don’t hate it. I’ve had many nicknames over the years, but nothing sounds quite as sexy as Beckett saying that one simple word.