10. Cash
CHAPTER 10
Cash
TEXAS PETE
I can’t sleep.
Usually, it’s because a wave of grief hits me, and I’m unable to turn off my mind.
Tonight, it’s because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Mollie, even though it’s been three fucking days since I saw her last.
I made her cry. Took it way too far and made the daughter of the man I respected more than anyone else in the world fucking cry .
To be honest, I didn’t think she cared enough about Garrett or the ranch to cry. She never visited us. She and her daddy weren’t close. But that doesn’t mean his death wasn’t a knife through the heart for her.
I would know. I’m embarrassed I assumed losing a parent wouldn’t deeply affect her. I wish he’d been that good to me . Lord, how that must’ve hurt, me throwing in her face proof of how well Garrett cared for my brothers and me. I didn’t do it intentionally, but still. Doesn’t sit right, knowing I reminded her of a past she’d rather forget.
When we got back to the house, Mollie disappeared inside without a word. She didn’t come to supper. I weathered Patsy’s judgmental looks, Wyatt’s not-so-subtle questions, best as I could.
I haven’t seen Mollie since. Patsy mentioned she spoke with Mollie a few times when she emerged from her room for a late breakfast or lunch, and Wyatt told me he ran into her before supper last night. She said she’d been tied up, working on her company, but I have a feeling she’s been avoiding us for other reasons.
Avoiding me in particular, because I crossed every line imaginable and was a total prick to her.
This is exactly what I wanted—to put Mollie on the run. But my victory doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped.
In fact, it feels pretty fucking awful.
Lying awake in bed, I stare at the ceiling as the drone of the air conditioner outside my window fills the silence.
Like her father, maybe Mollie has regrets too. Things she wishes she’d said or done differently.
Maybe she isn’t as careless or self-centered as I thought. The look in her eyes when she’d turned her head to meet my gaze—the vulnerability I saw there, the flicker of intelligence, interest?—
She’s a fucking stunner. Decent on horseback too. Pickleball must actually be a good workout—you gotta have strong legs and a decent amount of stamina to stay in the saddle that long, even with me behind her. We were both sweating, but it just made her prettier. Her skin glowed in the afternoon sun. And the way she moved on the horse with me, hesitant at first but more confident as time went on, makes me think she’d be a good rider if she put her mind to it. That tight little body of hers is surprisingly limber.
I wince when the sheets catch on my dick as I kick them to the bottom of my bed. I’m sweating. The half chub I’ve had all night is suddenly rock hard.
Reaching down, I suck in a breath. I’m already leaking .
Jesus Christ . I need to masturbate while thinking about City Girl like I need a goddamn hole in my head.
Yeah, she’s a knockout, and she tells it like it is. And she didn’t quit on me the other day, despite the overwhelming experience of being back on her daddy’s ranch for the first time in decades.
But Mollie’s also greedy and stuck-up. And the shit she wears. Riding behind her, I could almost see down her purple shirt. The thing was this close to coming totally unbuttoned all the way to her navel, which allowed me a glimpse of the soft swell of her tits as she rolled her hips in time to mine.
I fist my dick in a tight grip and pull. Tell myself I’m only taking care of it because I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t.
Tell myself I’m only this hard, this needy, because it’s been too long since I got laid.
The whole thing is ugly and quick. Hard pulls. Images of Mollie bent over a fence. Bent over a chair. Bent over the edge of my bed. I fuck her with the greediness I saw in her the other day. But she takes it.
Lord, she takes . I’m shoving inside her mouth now. She plays with herself as she sucks my dick. I try to slap away her hand, but she ignores me, running the pads of her fingers over her clit again and again and again.
Her playfulness, her refusal to be pushed around, has me coming in hard, hot spurts into my hand.
I still can’t sleep. At three thirty, I shower. Pull on jeans and a shirt. A belt and Garrett’s boots.
I’ll always want to make him proud. Which means I gotta talk to Mollie. I can’t afford to get fired right now. And maybe…
I mean, what if Garrett wanted us to work together? I have no fucking idea why he’d want that, but I do know he was torn up about the mistakes he’d made with his daughter.
Even if he didn’t want Mollie and me working together—even if he did really just forget to update the will—I still have to iron this out.
And, yeah, maybe if I establish some kind of functional working relationship with Mollie, there’ll be rewards for my brothers and me down the road.
Maybe, if I play nice, she’ll eventually get bored and spend all her time making more sparkly cowboy boots, leaving the ranch to me and the boys. And Ella, of course.
A year is nothing.
I can do anything for a year. Keep four brothers and a niece alive. Tend to fifteen thousand head of cattle.
Surely, I can work with Mollie Luck without one or both of our lifeless bodies ending up in a ditch?
At four, I’m at the house. Through the open window above the sink, I can see Patsy is already in the kitchen, the velvety smell of coffee filling my head as I step up to the door.
I draw up short when I see Mollie standing at the stove.
Wait a second.
Wait .
She’s finally showing her face? What’s changed?
I’m shocked—relieved—to see her. I’m also shocked she’s up this early. But the most shocking thing of all? She appears to be actively helping Patsy cook breakfast, stirring something in a pan while our chef chops some veggies by the sink.
“I went on this stupid diet once where all I could have was egg whites, green peppers, and mezcal,” Mollie tells Patsy as she sips a mug of coffee. “Now I’m an expert at making omelets. And mezcal margaritas.”
Patsy laughs. “What kind of diet was that?”
“I get really bad stomachaches all the time. No one can really figure out what the problem is, so I’ve been put on all these different diets to see if anything makes me feel better.”
“Have you had any luck?”
Mollie shrugs. “Not yet.”
She gets stomachaches? Is that why she only ate green beans the other day?
Also, why the fuck do I care?
Sweet Jesus, why does she have to look so damn cute so early in the morning? My eyes rove up her legs and back. For the first time, she’s wearing something semi-normal: a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
She’s also wearing glasses. I step closer to the entrance and peer through the open screen door.
Fuck, since when am I attracted to girls who wear glasses?
“I’m so glad you decided to join us today,” Patsy says. “I hope you’re feeling better?”
Mollie is quiet for a beat. “I am. I think I needed a little time to…process. Work’s also been crazy, so that didn’t help. I’ve been chained to my laptop all day, every day.”
“But I hope exciting things are in store?”
Mollie smiles. “I hope so, yes. Would you like hot sauce on your omelet?”
City Girl is actually doing something nice for someone else? I’m confused.
Patsy slides a tray of sweet potato hash browns into the oven. “I’d love some, thanks. I keep it there in that cabinet to the right of the range. We go through it like you wouldn’t believe—the cowboys dowse everything in Texas Pete.”
Mollie reaches up, her shirt lifting to reveal a tanned slice of stomach and side. That’s when I see the words, embroidered in sequins because of course , on the front of her shirt: I AM A LUXURY.
I don’t wanna smile, but I do. Shirt’s ridiculous, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s the point when it comes to Mollie’s clothes.
“I don’t see the hot sauce,” Mollie says.
Patsy straightens. “We must’ve run out again. There’s a few more bottles on the top shelf there, I think. Here, I’ll get the step stool…”
I open the door. “I got it.”
The women whip around at the sound of my voice.
Mollie’s hand immediately flies to her glasses. “Jesus, Cash.”
“Good mornin’ to you too.”
“Shoulda known you were coming. Always the first up.” Patsy crosses the kitchen to press a kiss to my cheek. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really. You?”
“I did all right.”
I head for the range. Mollie moves out of the way, her hand still on her glasses. She embarrassed about them?
“How many bottles of hot sauce do you want?” I ask.
Mollie clears her throat. She’s barefoot, and I tower over her.
“Just one.”
I grab a bottle of Texas Pete and hold it out to her.
She looks at it. Looks up at me. “Thanks.”
“Want me to open it?”
“I got it.” She takes the bottle.
“Smells good. Whatcha making?”
Mollie peels off the green plastic sleeve that covers the bottle cap. “Egg white omelets. I’d offer you one, but you’re kind of a dick, so no.”
Laughter rumbles in my chest. “I was a dick the other day. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Y’all need a minute?” Patsy asks.
“No,” Mollie replies .
I smile at Patsy. “That’d be great, Patsy, thank you.”
“I’ll be in the pantry. Holler if you need me.”
Mollie twists the cap off the Texas Pete. Tries to, anyway.
“You always up this early?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up when she replies, “Sometimes, when I have a lot to do.”
I nod at the Texas Pete. “Can I help you with that?”
“No.”
“I really am sorry.”
“I really don’t care.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
She grits her teeth, twisting the cap. “I’d rather you not.”
“We had a new foal hit the ground last week. Ella’s preschool class is coming to the ranch to see it today. The baby goats, too.”
That gets Mollie’s attention. She looks at me. “Y’all have baby goats?”
“Of course we have baby goats. They eat the stuff on the ground cows won’t, so we use the pastures more efficiently. Sally’s also got a side gig, making goat cheese.”
“Freaking yum.”
“It’s delicious. Can I count you in? Ella seemed to take a shine to you the other day.”
Mollie looks back down at the hot sauce, twisting the cap so hard her knuckles turn white. “Maybe. If I have time.”
“I hope you do. Jesus, Mollie, give me that.” I grab the bottle and crack it open. “See? Easier when you let people help you.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling you need to take your own advice?”
“That’s my business. Speaking of business, you said you had a lot to do today.”
“Goody is coming over to walk me through a bunch of nuts-and-bolts stuff this morning. I have a few calls to make for Bellamy Brooks after that. ”
“Bellamy Brooks?”
“My company.”
“Ah. Right.” I make a mental note to Google the name. Wonder if they have a website?
“Patsy!” Mollie turns off the burner. “Omelets are ready.”
I put a hand on the counter. “We’re meeting at ten o’clock at the barn. I hope to see you there.”
“I hope you get bitten by a snake.”
“Well!” Patsy claps her hands. “That seemed to go…well.”
Mollie scoops an omelet onto a plate and shakes a couple of dashes of Texas Pete onto it. She holds out the plate. “Patsy, you’re a saint for not poisoning him.”
“Aw, he’s a good man underneath all that gruffness.” Patsy eyes me. “Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to knock some sense into that thick skull of his sometimes.”
I shrug. “I’ve been knocked around plenty. Three concussions. Three that were diagnosed, anyway.”
“Really?” Mollie scrunches her brow. “Occupational hazard?”
Patsy laughs. “Two of them were. The third he got when he fell on a dance floor, trying to do the Cotton Eye Joe.”
Mollie blinks. “ You dance?”
“Used to, until the concussion.” I lean my backside against the counter and cross my arms. I don’t miss the way Mollie’s eyes flick over my torso, stopping to linger on my forearms. “Made a rookie mistake and wore new boots to The Rattler. Hadn’t scuffed up the soles enough to get traction.”
Patsy’s face lights up. “Oh! Speaking of The Rattler! We’re playing there tomorrow night. Mollie, you have to come. We’re pretty darn awesome, if I do say so myself.”
“You’re playing?” Mollie scrunches her brow. “Are you a guitarist or…”
“Patsy and Sally are in a band called Frisky Whiskey,” I explain. “And they are really, really good. ”
Mollie smiles at Patsy. “As if I couldn’t adore you more. How cool! I’ll be there.” She looks at me. “As long as you’re not going.”
Patsy gently elbows me. “Cash hasn’t been to The Rattler in a while.”
“Don’t mean I ain’t itchin’ to go back.” I mean that. Sort of. I don’t miss the hangovers, but I do miss the live music. And the dancing. And the ice-cold beer.
“Hmm.” Mollie taps a finger against her chin. “Maybe I’ll pass, then.”
I hold up my hands. “Then I won’t go.”
Mollie grins. I’m gripped by the urge to grab her face and?—
Hell no . No more fantasies about Mollie’s mouth.
No more fantasies about Mollie, period.
“Then I will,” she says. “I love live music. Thanks for the invite, Patsy.”
Jesus, Mollie is such a brat.
I wish I hated that about her as much as I did three days ago.