“Fuck that,” I say before I can stop myself. I don’t know why, but the idea of her around a bunch of cowboys sends an instant summersault to my stomach and chest.
Morgan arches an eyebrow, smirking. “So she’s staying with you?”
“Better than a bunch of roughnecks that haven’t seen tits in years.”
He laughs. “That’s not true. Betsy gives them a show from time to time. And most of them are married.”
I eye my brother carefully. “Didn’t stop you.”
“You know.” He shoves me hard. I slip in the snow and land on my ass. “You’re being a real dick tonight.”
“Fuck you,” I mumble, picking myself up and dusting off my jeans. “You know what I mean.”
He does. Those guys, I’m not sure what their morals are or if any of them have ’em. We have one girl on the ranch, if you can call Betsy a girl. Sure, she has tits and an ass, but she’s been ridden hard and put away haggard. Twice my age, she talks like a trucker, has spent way too much time in the sun, and her hands are more calloused than mine. Married or not, I’m pretty sure every cowboy here, aside from me and Morgan, has fucked her a time or two.
I shiver at the thought of Betsy naked. Nope. Not an image I want.
Inside the shop, the girls follow us back to where the woman is staring at her bloody car. This chick wearing my jacket, I can think of some things I’d like to do to her. I let my eyes drift from her dark hair to her leather boots to the skintight jeans she’s wearing.
She spots me and the corners of her mouth turn up. “Sorry about all this.”
Do you notice the way I shift my body toward hers and unintentionally breathe in? That’s a man who hasn’t had any in a while. “I have a couch. You could stay there.”
Her shoulders lift and then fall, my jacket on her looking like it’s going to swallow her whole. “Okay.”
Camdyn tugs on my hand. “She can sleep with us.”
I stare at Camdyn and Sev, who is now sound asleep in Morgan’s arms. “You don’t even know her,” I whisper.
“Neither do you,” she whispers back. “She can sleep in Sev’s bed.”
“Where’s Sev going to sleep?”
“I don’t care.”
And sadly, she doesn’t.
I help the woman with her bag when she reaches for my hand. “Thank you. My name is Kacy Conner.”
I shake her hand, fighting through the urge to bring her body flush with mine. “Barron Grady.”
She stiffens, eyes falling to the girls. “Barron Grady?” she repeats, as if she’s heard my name before. “Thanks for letting me stay with you tonight.” Her words come out forced, and I chalk it up to the cold, but there’s something in her tone that’s off.
With Kacy in the back with the girls, we drop Morgan off at his house with the buck and then head up the road to my house. I drive faster than I usually would with the girl in the side by side, but it’s so fucking cold I fear my balls have become ovaries at this point.
It’s when we pull up to the house and are inside the garage I think maybe I’ve made a bad decision. I watch with rapt attention as she peels my jacket off and hands it to me. I discretely check out the outline of her breasts and the curve of her waist. The plumpness filling her jeans in the back and the insane urge I have to grab her and haul her onto my lap.
Okay, balls are back, but so is my semi. Fuck. This is going to be harder than I initially thought.
Literally.
Maybe I should have let her stay in the bunkhouse.
No. Fucking. Way.
With a capital F!
KACY
What the fuck was I thinking? I know who he is. It’s obvious. How in the world did I manage to run into him out of all the places I could have crashed into a deer?
Oh, right, I wasn’t. But have you ever heard the sound of someone’s voice and have your knees weaken?
I have now. In Tara’s husband. Ex-husband? No, he refuses to sign the papers, so definitely still married. I wonder if he knows about her getting engaged. Or that she’s desperate to tie the knot with the actor dude that she’s sent the papers back three times in the last few months. All the while, Barron refuses.
I should tell him that I know who he is, that his wife’s the biggest bitch in Brentwood, but knowing I won’t be staying long, leads me to believe I shouldn’t. What’s a little white lie from a girl that’s not planning on staying in this town?
He has kids, for Christ’s sake. I should keep my mouth shut and not invade his privacy.
So I remain quiet as he puts his kids to bed for what he tells me is the second time tonight, and hands me a blanket, a pillow, and warmth I hadn’t expected from someone like him. I think I had in my head that he’d be just as cold and aloof as Tara, but he’s not. There’s a kindness to his eyes, a gentleness with his kids, and the way he looks at me, well, I know what a man does when he’s attracted to a woman, and I bet if I climbed on top of him, he’d have no complaints.
After returning his jacket to him, my body smells like him—leather, smoke, grease, all things southern and manly.
Damn it. Of all the places I could have crashed my car, why’d it have to be his shop?
Sighing, I peer out the large windows in what appears to be his living room. It’s a nice house. Nicer than I would have expected by the way Tara made him out to be some kind of country boy living in the sticks. A grand floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace draws my attention to the middle of the room as the rest of the home seems built around it. A dwindling fire cracks in the background, the orange flame captivating, giving almost a serene feel with the snow falling in the distance.
“The couch isn’t all that comfortable.” His presence behind me startles me, and I jump at the sound of his voice. “But it’s better than a cold shop.”
I turn to face him, digging my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “Does it usually snow like this?” I ask, trying to make conversation and ease the awkwardness.
He shakes his head but doesn’t make eye contact with me. “Not usually like this, but every once in a while, a storm rolls through.”
“Like tonight,” I note, smiling. I take in his facial features holding my attention. Dark hair that’s matted to his head from his beanie. High cheekbones, straight nose, strong, defined jaw. Like a Southern, bulkier version of James Dean with a scruffy face and mysterious dark eyes. He has the look Hollywood tries for, but he has effortlessly.
He motions me forward and into his kitchen, where he’s holding a wet towel and a first-aid kit beside him. Knocking his knuckles on the counter, he smiles. “Let’s take a look at that cut.”
My heartbeat dips. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”
He stares at my forehead, squinting as if he’s trying to exam it from a distance. “I’d still like to look at it.”
“Well.” I stop short of the kitchen island, feet from him. “I’d like to look at you naked, but that’s not going to happen tonight.”
Shit. I said that out loud.
He snorts or coughs, I’m not sure which, but the warmth in his cheeks tells me he hasn’t met anyone like me. Recovering just as quickly, he winks, a deep laugh rumbling his chest. In that second, it’s as if the air changes around us. “Let’s start with cleaning this up,” he says softly, invading the space where I’m standing and leading me toward the better lighting near the sink.