Brooks didn’t reply as he pulled into the driveway of the ranch house and parked. He put on the parking brake and cut the engine before turning to me.
“Do I expect sex?” he repeated, his eyes searching mine. “For changing your locks? That would make me a world class asshole.”
I let out a rickety breath, relief curling through me. Then I reached for the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Uh, inside?”
He shook his head. “We’re not done talking.”
“We’re not?”
“I get the sense that the men of your past have been dickwads, because why else would you even think that?”
Now was the time to tell Brooks the truth about my virginity. But the words stuck to my tongue, and I couldn’t.
“Freckles,” he said, his voice low. “I want you. I think I’ve made that pretty clear. But I’m not going to pressure you into anything. When you want me, when you’re ready, you let me know. We’ll take it slow. We’ll go at your speed.”
“You’re not just saying that, are you,” I said in amazement. “You actually mean it.”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?”
“Because other men?—”
“Other men had you. Other men lost you. That’s their mistake. I’m not like other men.”
“No,” I murmured. “You’re definitely not.”
“Now kiss me goodbye and tell me to have a good day.”
Smiling, I leaned close and pressed my lips to his. “Have a good day.”
The front door to the ranch house opened and Connor Powell stepped outside. He peered at the truck and waited, sipping his cup of coffee.
Even though he wasn’t my dad, I felt the weight of his paternal stare when I clambered out of the truck.
“Morning, Poet,” he greeted.
“Hi, Mr. Powell,” I said as I trekked up the front porch steps.
He wrapped me in a one-armed hug, his suede jacket smelling like pipe tobacco and hay.
Brooks opened the driver’s side door and climbed out.
“Brooks,” Mr. Powell intoned.
“Morning, sir.”
I watched Mr. Powell and Brooks exchange a loaded look.
“How are you enjoying The Regal Beagle?” Mr. Powell asked, ending the silent standoff.
“Roomier than the RV,” Brooks said.
Mr. Powell took another drink of his coffee. “My daughters get home from the rodeo circuit in a couple of days, and we’re going to have a welcome-home dinner. You and Poet are invited. We’ll see you there.”
It wasn’t so much as an invitation as it was a command.
