But all it does is make his hand shift again—just a fraction, but enough that my traitorous body perks right up.
"You better stop," he growls, voice low and thick now, amusement softening the edges. Not quite sing-song, but dangerously close.
His hand inches higher, curling with the precision of a predator toying with its prey.
My breath shatters, eyelids sinking shut.
It’s not the words themselves, but how he says them—gritty, almost reverent. The heat pooling between my thighs becomes molten, and my chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. His arm steadies me as I sway, the dizziness stealing what little sense I have left.
“Mmmmm… That’s my girl.”
I’m supposed to be the wrong type of woman.
My eyes flutter open, my vision blurry, but coming into focus, and finding Sierra.
So if I’m the wrong type of woman, why is Chance here with me rather than sitting back there with the right one?
Chapter Eighteen
Chance
The barn doorgroans as I shove it open, ancient hinges protesting. Wind whips through at my back, but it does jack shit to cool the inferno raging inside me.
She better fucking hide because when I get my hands on her… we’re going to have one hell of a talk. Meaning, I’m going to talk and she’snotgoing to keep her mouth all the way shut while I set a few things straight.
My jaw aches from clenching it, the muscle there jumping with a life of its own. The memory of her staring at Everett's mouth burns through me to my core.
She’s not interested in him, not really.
I know this.
But that’s the thing about betrayal—it gets its hooks in you, and logic doesn’t mean shit.
Scents of hay, motor oil, and wood pull me back to nights spent hiding in the shadows with stolen beers and endless stories. When our mistakes were innocent—forgettable.
Now I’m becoming a fucking pro at the mindfuck variety, with the power to destroy everything and everyone I’ve ever loved.
The sleigh sits silent in its corner, that damn wagon still hitched behind it like some kind of witness to what went down tonight.
To where my hand was.
To how she trembled.
To how she ran.
The low hum fills my ears, that familiar sense kicking in—a skill honed through years of dealing with the little stalker dogging our every step, like some pint-sized CIA operative.
And right now, every instinct is dragging me toward the corner.
Because maybe the best place to hide is in the very place you were running from. My hand, her thigh, and then some—the fucking sleigh.
Oh yeah, that would be just like her… feeling all the goddamned things, go to the one place where your forced to relive it.
The tarp over the back shifts, just enough to confirm what I already know.
My boots crunch over the dirt-caked wood as I tear up the distance between us. Taylor Swift’s muffled voice drifts from beneath the tarp. Followed by that little hum Holly does during the bridge.
Always the fucking bridge with this woman.
