Face.
Chest.
Hips.
Everything fuller and curvier than before.
An even slower climb back to my face.
I’m aware of the exact moment when his gaze lands on my breasts.
There’s a tiny pause, barely a heartbeat, but it’s enough. His eyes darken in the slightest, sharpest flicker of recognition, like he’s noticed something he shouldn’t.
My breath catches, and heat shoots straight up my neck. When I left this ranch, I was skinny and barely filled an A-cup. Now I’m aching and swollen in a way I can’t hide, not even with my arms pressed tight across my chest. After having a child, my curves have remained, leaving my thighs thick, my ass rounded and my hips wide. I’m a whole lot more woman than he’d expect me to be.
And the worst part, the truly mortifying part, is the sensation that follows his perusal. A deep, heavy pulse behind my nipples, the first warning of letdown.
Not now. God, please not now.
But my body is unconcerned with timing or dignity. It reacts to stress and whatever else I’m feeling. It builds in a slow, painful throb that promises dampness if I so much as breathe wrong.
Still, somehow, I hold my ground. My knees are weak, my palms slick, and I desperately want to look anywhere but directly at Wade Crosby. But I force myself to meet his hard eyes.
“I’m here about the job,” I manage, though my voice is thin, scraped raw, too tight in my throat to sound like mine.
Wade’s mouth moves in a twitch of amusement. He offers no greeting; he just keeps watching me like I’m some wild animal that wandered onto his land, and he’s not sure whether to feed it or shoot it.
Then, without a word, he steps back and holds the door open wider.
“Come on in, Joelle,” he says finally, his voice low and slow like a leather saddle dragged over gravel. “It’s been a while.”
Chapter 2
Wade
It takes me a second to recognize her.
She’s older, obviously. Softer and curvier in some places, and harder and tireder in others. But her wide brown eyes, full of flight and wariness, haven’t changed a damn bit.
Joelle Connors.
Back when she lived here, she was all elbows and attitude, a teenager trying not to disappear in a house she didn’t belong to, dragged in by a mother none of us could stand. That woman waltzed into our father’s life and knocked everything sideways. I stand by my belief that she could smell the cancer on him before he was diagnosed. She was a hyena who wanted her piece of flesh, rotten or not. Joelle wasn’t the problem, not really. But she was a piece of it, and a reminder of the whole damn mess.
And now she’s here on my porch.
She’s shorter than I remember, and shabbier. Her faded shirt clings to huge breasts and rides up a little at the waist,revealing the curve of her belly.
She looks nothing like the kid who used to flinch when I passed her in the hall. She looks like a woman. A tired one. A proud one. One whose physical changes indicate she might be a mother.
And Jesus, she’s leaking. Not a lot. Just a slight darkening on her shirt, like sweat, but in a circle around where her nipple would be.
She brushes past me without a word, careful not to make contact, but tension radiates off her like midday heat. I close the door and watch her move through the space like a ghost returning to an old haunt.
I give myself a breath before following because goddamn, her body is womanly, the curve and sway of her hips hitting me like a sucker-punch. I’ve always liked my women with some meat on their bones, and Joelle sure has filled out nicely.
She’s standing in the kitchen now, arms folded tight, although her stance doesn’t feel defensive. She’s shielding her chest from me and maybe protecting herself from the weight of whatever memory walked in with her.
“This place hasn’t changed,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to the corners, taking everything in. “Same chipped counters. Same creaky floorboards.”
