What the hell is happening?I shouldnotbe a puddle for this guy simply because he’s talking to my dog in those sweet, dulcet tones. It shouldnothave this effect on me.
But it does and my heart takes flight in my chest as I look down at Wes, who is smiling at Dixie like a boy whose Christmas wish just came true.
I clear my throat as I pull open my screen door, my grip tightening on the handle. I need to get him out of here before I do something incredibly stupid—like beg him to stay and fuck me, condom be damned. But before I can muster up a light and breezythanks for the orgasms, now get lost, Wes muscles his way inside, shoving past me without so much as an invitation.
Pushy son of a bitch.
Does he expect me to ask him to spend the night? If he does, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I don’t do sleepovers, especially with guys who will be back in the city in a month.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, covering myself with my rumpled jeans.
Before he can answer, my underwear slips from my hands, landing on the floor at my feet. I barely have time to reach for them before Wes snatches them up.
I hold out my hand, but he keeps them just out of my reach.
He smirks, crumpling the fabric in his fist before shoving it into his pocket like a trophy. “Letting you get cleaned up. Then we’re doing night check.”
This motherfucker.
“Give those back!”
He pats his jacket pocket, and his smirk widens, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I don’t think I will. I really liked those.”
“Yeah. So did I, you weirdo.”They were my favorite pair of underwear. Silky and sky blue with lace trim that never fails to make me feel sexy.
I skewer him with a sharp glare, and he doesn’t bother to look the least bit remorseful as he grins at me. “Better hurry up," he says, sinking into a chair. "The horses won’t wait all night.”
I growl. “Fine.”
I’ll deal with him later. And Iwillget my underwear back—no way in hell he’s keeping them like some kind of pervy souvenir.
I stalk to my bathroom, covering my ass with my jeans as I go, while Wes laughs at me from my kitchen table.
I twist my hair into a quick knot on top of my head, skipping a full wash since Wes is still waiting. The hot spray soothes my muscles, tight from being bent over the cold metal of the truck bed. As much as I’d love to linger, letting the heat work out the last traces of tension, I rush through soaping up and rinsing off.
Towel-drying in record time, I throw on a pair of old sweats, a hoodie, and my long socks before heading back to the kitchen—only to find it empty.
Figures. I must’ve taken too long for his liking.
Rolling my eyes, I tug on my work boots and step outside, grumbling under my breath.
The wind is blowing harder than it was thirty minutes ago, and the temperature has dropped another ten degrees. I regret not grabbing my jacket, but I’ll warm up once I start tossing the hay into the feeders.
The sound of Wes singing in the stable brings me up short, but then I hear what song he’s performing andcan’t help but smile at his off-tune rendition of “Ain’t Nothing ‘Bout You”.
“You’re gonna make the horses’ ears bleed from your caterwauling.”
He chuckles, his head shaking back and forth. “The horses love my singing.”
I scoff. “No one loves your singing, Wes. It’s terrible.”
That’s an outright lie.
Ilove his singing. The way he’s become so damn comfortable that he’s not even embarrassed that none of the notes he’s hitting are the right ones. It pulls an unwitting smile from me, and he winks at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I ignore him and get to work refilling the water buckets in silence. With the horses settled for the night, I kick at the dirt next to the stable awkwardly, unsure of what to say now.
He should go—check on Pops, get some sleep—but he lingers. And damnit, I want nothing more than for him to stay. I’m warring with myself, torn between the things Ishouldsay and the things Iwantto, the weight of the last few weeks pressing between us in the quiet night air.
