“You’re not gonna tell Pops about all this, are you?” she asks, eyes pleading.
I shake my head. I should. Technically, I’m an adult now, and it’d be the responsible thing. But I’ve never been good at being responsible.
She holds up her pinky. “Promise?”
My lips curl into a smile as I hook my pinky with hers. “I promise.”
I grab the water bottle I’d stashed earlier and press it into her hand. “Drink all of this, and take some aspirin. I don’t need you hungover tomorrow. If Pops finds out I knew you’d been drinking and didn’t say anything, I’m dead.”
She nods, clutching the water bottle like it’s a lifeline. I wait until she disappears inside before I finally head back to my truck, wishing like hell I didn’t miss how she’d melted into my arms when I’d hugged her.
Damn Tequila
Quinn
My head is still delightfully fuzzy when we pull up to the ranch, though the food Tripp insisted I eat sobered me up some.
The cab of his pickup smells like a mixture of dirt, leather, cows—and now, bar food. Maybe not the sexiest combination, but with the windows rolled down and country music playing low on the radio it’s not exactly unwelcome.
He hums along in the driver's seat, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing as he grips the wheel. The gravel crunches under his tires before he eases the truck to a stop in front of the ranch. Then he turns toward me and leans in—and all at once my senses are bombarded byhim.
The blond scruff on his face glistens from the light shining on the porch, making me wonder what it would feel like between my thighs. That warm, smoky scent that clings to him—like old leather andsomething with a spicy edge—envelops me. His T-shirt, soft and worn, rides up as he reaches into the back seat, and I have to forcibly stop myself from running my fingers over that line of hair that trails down his stomach.
He passes me a sweatshirt, and I stare at it a moment before realizing he wants me to take it.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“I know you weren’t ready to leave Herds,” he says. “So, I thought I’d keep you company out here for a while. Maybe lay in the bed of the truck and watch the stars—for old time’s sake.”
I take in the old farmhouse glowing white under the full moon as I slip into the warmth of his sweatshirt. Tripp grabs an old quilt from the back and spreads it across the truck bed, then braces his hands on either side of me to give me a boost onto the tailgate. His touch lasts less than a second, but it sears into my skin. He climbs up beside me, unbothered by the spring chill.
“Sorry you had to leave early to bring me home,” I murmur, taking a deep drink of the water he’s been pushing at me all the way home.
The good-girl perfectionist in me flushes crimson when I remember the way I’d danced on the bar. But a darker thrill lingers too—the part of me that came alive under all those eyes that drank me in with open hunger.
And then Tripp had swooped in and carried me out like a child who needed chastising. But the look of desire in his eyes when he’d set me in his truck had nearly stolen my breath away. It had been so intense it was nearly tangible, until he’d blinked it away, replacing it with only concern.
Shame winds through me, dowsing the heat of the memory like I’ve been hit with a bucket of ice water. I shouldn’t like being looked at like that, least of all by him.
“I’m sure you’d rather be in someone’s bed than making sure I get home okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. A twinge of something sour twists in my stomach.
Jealousy?
God, was I really jealous over Tripp being in some woman’s bed?
Definitely drunk. If I were sober, I wouldn’t be thinking about how good it might feel to have this cowboy inmybed.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Go home with some girl from a bar.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, what do you call this?”
His tongue swipes over his lower lip, and suddenly I’m mesmerized by his mouth as he says, “I call it making sure my best friend’s little sister is safe.”
My heart dips in my chest, and grim disappointment twists my stomach into knots.
