Page 76 of Roped

“That’s why you always insist on me having breakfast,” I breathe out in conclusion, my blood rushing in my veins like I didn’t know how minutely he notices things about me. Just like his prowess on the horse, I should probably be used to it by now, but somehow I am not and every time he reveals a little piece about myself to me, it feels like the first time.

“Can’t take on the day on an empty belly,” he comments.

“And no juice,” I quip.

“Well, gotta stay hydrated. You drink too much of that bullshit frilly coffee not to.”

“I’ll have you know,” I say with raised eyebrows, “that my bullshit frilly butterscotch coffee is really delicious. You need to taste it. Trust me, it’s mind-blowing. It’ll change your life.”

He runs his eyes over my face before replying, “Tasted somethin’ else that changed my life yesterday and I don’t need to taste your butterscotch fuckin’ coffee to be able to say that. If I need my mind blown, I’ll just close my eyes and lick my finger again.” He licks his lips as he continues, “Or my mouth.”

My belly and my pussy clench so hard that I swear it feels like an orgasm. It’s a good thing I’m holding on to the fence or my knees would’ve buckled as I whisper, “You can’t… It’s not still”—I swallow—“on there. Is it?”

My flustered response makes his lips twitch. “It’s called an imagination, Princess. Pretty sure they should’ve taught you that up in your fancy city college.”

I blush, feeling ridiculous and young, something only he can cause, and mutter uselessly, “My college isn’t all that fancy and I skipped most of my classes, so… Whatever.”

His amusement is still thick. “Aware of that too.”

I have a very strong urge to poke my tongue out at him, but I refuse to stoop down to such childish levels. So I gather myself and ask, “Tomorrow, can I make the breakfast? I-I just want to help out.”

“You don’t know how to cook,” he reminds me, as if he knows me more than I know myself, but then again, it’s not really a lie.

“I can learn.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why?”

I look at him for a few seconds, frustrated. “Because you’re doing everything. Everything. You’re keeping me safe. You’re trying to figure out who these people are so you can get your sister back. And you got shot on top of all this. I just… I just want to do my part. And can’t I just thank you? Can’t I just—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Don’t need it. Don’t want it. Ain’t doin’ it for you. Doin’ it for myself.”

God, he’s so frustrating. And endearing. I want to both shake him and kiss him. I want to tell him he really didn’t give me what I wanted yesterday. When I said I wanted his mouth on me, I meant on my mouth. Not down there. As amazing as that felt. I also want to tell him I’m breaking my promise and running away again. Because how am I going to protect myself from him if he insists on being so… wonderful?

“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask then, letting this argument go for now.

“From my ma,” he answers, surprising me. And then he keeps on doing that as he continues, “Told me a man needs to know how to cook. A decent one, anyhow. It ain’t always a woman’s job to feed her man. Said she was doin’ some future girl a favor.”

I let my heartbeats calm down because he told me something so personal about himself. And yes, he’s shared a lot more with me, but this is different. This is easy, conversational, rather than a harrowing undertaking for him. Something that I always wanted from him.

“Your mom sounds wonderful,” I say quietly.

“She was.”

“Just like your dad and your… sister,” I dare to add.

He doesn’t reply, but he dips his chin in acknowledgment. I take it as progress. Just like when he told me he doesn’t blame me for what my father did. Even though I don’t think there’s any progress to be made here. Nothing is ever going to change the past or the fact that I’m Hank Turner’s daughter. It doesn’t matter how much I hate him and how I wish he would be punished for every single crime, my father’s blood still flows in my veins and it’ll always stay between us.