Page 17 of Worth the Wait

She’s tall. At least five foot eight, with legs for days that paint a picture in my head of exactly what they should be wrapped around. She’s pretty in a nonconventional way. A mixture of quirky and sexy instead of your classic beauty. Her blue eyes are big, her lashes long, and her lips are full and wide.

It takes me a second to remember the presence of mud and water everywhere, because her tits are right there, and hell if it isn’t a damn fine sight.

And then I remember the wet pussy.

“Looks like you could use some help here,” I finally say when I trust myself and take a step toward her.

“With what?” She lifts her chin in a show of defiance.

“I don’t know. Either the mud since it looks like you might have a sprinkler leaking”—another bristling of her shoulders—“or I could always help you take care of that wet pussy of yours.”

She clenches her fists. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

I chuckle to irritate her further. “And you’re the woman going on and on about how you never take care of your pussy, and now it’s trimmed and wet”—I shrug—“and since you went to all that trouble, don’t you think someone might as well reward you?”

I dodge as she throws the rag in her hand my way. “Figures you’d think that way.”

“I take that as a no, then?”

“No.”

“Hey, I’m only going off what I heard. Only crazy people talk to themselves like that.”

“Pussy is Logan St. Claire’s precious cat. And Logan Sinclair is one of the assholiest people out there⁠—”

“Is that even a word?”

“Even more so than you.”

“Probably not,” I say just to push her buttons.

My words stop her—surprise her—and she looks at me with a tilt to her head. Pieces of brown hair that have fallen out of her ponytail rest against her cheek.

“Yeah. You’re right. You take the cake.”

“Says the woman who insulted me in the first two minutes of our initial conversation.”

“Glad I could leave a great first impression. Maybe you should have taken the hint and left me alone,” she says, finding her footing beneath her again and letting that temper reignite.

“You only get one chance to make a first one…”

She huffs in response and out of the corner of my eye I see a mass of white fluff—or perhaps it used to be white fluff because now it’s spotted in brown mud—skirt across the grass and into the open back door.

Pussy.

“Remind me not to like him.”

“Like who?” she asks.

Gotta keep her on her toes.

“Logan St. Asshole,” I say. “Guys who have cats—correction, guys who name their cat Pussy—either aren’t getting any or are using the name as a way to state they’re not gay when everyone already knows they are.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. Why be ashamed of who you are and hide behind a cat? Just live the best life.”

There’s something I say that has her head tilting to the side again. She takes me in a little longer than expected. “It’s the former,” she finally admits.