Chapter 17
17
JOHNNY
I’ve never been afraid of hard work.
As the only man in a house full of women, I’ve always taken my responsibilities seriously. My moms aren’t old-fashioned in the sense of having separate tasks for both me and my sisters—quite the opposite, really—but I took it upon myself to carry that weight.
If the lawn needed mowing? I was out doing it. My sister had a boy over? I was the one standing in her bedroom doorway with my arms crossed and my glare fixed on the douche. Late-night pickups, telling off bullies, watching tutorials on how to fix leaky pipes so we didn’t have to spend money on plumbers. I’ve made myself learn skills that I knew would be beneficial in the future.
Like when I meet the woman I decide to marry. Which isn’t me saying I’m ready to propose to Aurora right now or anything. God, my moms would kick my ass for even considering that already, but the fact still stands. I want to be able to say that I know how to take care of a woman and be someone that she can depend on when that time comes.
That’s what has me pushing my ass so hard to do as much as I can for Rory while I’m here, sweaty and desperate to impress her. The sun isn’t glaring in my eyes anymore, which means I’m running out of time. Every nervous glance Rory shoots at the neighbouring houses has me speeding up, desperate to get as much done as I can before being forced to stop.
Maybe I should be slowing down and dragging this out. If this place wasn’t such a death trap, I probably would, as selfish as that is. But I’m confident that I’ll be able to capture her attention in other ways once I’m finished with this project.
“Give me just a couple more minutes to get this all cleaned off your yard, and then I’ll go,” I say once she’s tossed another chunk of rotten wood onto the pile.
Blowing a piece of hair out of her face, she sets her hands on her waist and stretches her back before looking across the yard at me. Her lips are just the slightest bit downturned, but it’s enough to have me speaking again.
“I don’t want to keep your neighbours up.”
“Right,” she says coolly, unbothered. “It is late.”
“You’ll keep the beer, yeah? If I take it home, Tommy will end up finding it the next time he’s over, and I’ll have to house the drunk while he sleeps it off.”
“You won’t just drink it yourself?”
Dropping to a crouch in front of the bottom porch step, I use my gloved hands to rip the final piece of wood off. It’s soft, rotted, and full of water from the last rain. The nails are rusted and dull as they stick up out of the plank like the majority of them have been.
Just like I’ve done with all the rusted-nail-infected planks, I toss it directly into the bed of my truck. I’d never forgive myself if she stepped on one because I left it lying on her front lawn.
Facing her again, I answer, “I’m not much of a drinker outside of Saturday nights. Alcohol doesn’t mix well with bein’ up at five every morning.”
“Five? That sounds terrible.”
I chuckle and move closer to her. “You get used to it.”
“I doubt it. ”
“When do you get up in the morning?”
“Seven at the earliest.”
I blow out a breath. “That’s my Sunday sleep-in time. Even that’s pushin’ it. My internal clock is a sensitive little shit.”
“When’s the last time you slept in properly?”
“I don’t actually remember. Gotta be at least before I turned sixteen and started at the ranch.”
“Why did you want to work there so young?” she asks, throwing herself back into work as if that will make her question that much more casual.
I see past every attempt she makes to pretend she isn’t interested.
She bends to fill her arms with the rotten wood on the lawn and then crinkles her nose in disgust when it rubs against the skin of her forearms. The sleeves of her deep blue shirt are shoved up to her elbows, but she hasn’t been scratched too badly from the wood.
Her jeans are the high-waisted type. I only know because I watched her fiddle with the waistband through her shirt when she joined me in ripping apart the porch, and it was far too high to be normal. The flicker of discomfort I saw when she gave it a tug had me wanting to urge her to change into a pair of sweatpants instead, but I figured that wasn’t the smartest move. Plus, I like thinking that she wore the painted-on denim just for me. That in itself was enough to have me keeping my mouth shut.
Her steps are confident as she carries the armful to the truck and dumps it all onto the open tailgate before beginning to toss each piece into the bed. Unable to help myself, I join her.
“I always wanted to work on Steele Ranch,” I say, keeping an eye on her bare fingers as she grips each piece of wood. Every haphazard toss has my muscles tensing. “You should wear gloves. You’re going to get a sliver?—”
“Fuck!” she shouts while yanking her hand to her chest and then holding it up to her face. Her eyes slide toward me as she adds, “Don’t say a damn word. ”
I make the zipping my lips motion before gently taking hold of her wrist and guiding it toward me. She watches as I bring it up in front of my nose.
“Which finger?”
“Pointer.”
I hum and pull the finger up, taking in the inflamed tip. The thick sliver is easy to spot, and I fight the urge to press my lips over it.
“Do you have tweezers?”
“Yes. And I know how to use them myself.”
“I don’t doubt you can. It’ll be easier if I help, though. I’ve got incredible eyesight.” My grin is wide as I wink at her and reluctantly release her hand.
She rolls her lips together, thinking. Probably contemplating whether or not I have a sliver fetish, which I do not , for the record. More like just an undying obsession with helping her with anything and everything.
“The guys get slivers all the time. I’m a pro at removing them at this point,” I add, trying to sweeten up my offer.
Sighing, she nods behind me toward the house. “Fine. But you have to finish telling me about why you wanted to work on the ranch so young while you’re performing surgery on my finger.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, darlin’,” I promise without a second thought.
She doesn’t reply, and I don’t push. Not even once we step inside and I’m led down a dark, stuffy hallway toward the bathroom. The wood panelling gives me the shivers, reminding me of the days I spent at my great-grandmother’s house before she passed away. That place was truly haunted, and I really, really hope this one isn’t.
With a flick of the light, the small—no, tiny —room grows bright enough to burn my eyes. Rory moves quickly through the space, grabbing the first aid kit from the shelf beside the standing sink, and sets it in the basin. I’ve never kept tweezers in a first aid kit, but when she pulls them out from within the mess of bandages and antiseptic sprays, I wonder if maybe I should.
Stepping behind her, I reach around her body and hold her wrist again. I need to pluck the tweezers from her grip, but I’m frozen. She sucks in an audible breath and darts her stare to the medicine cabinet above the sink. The mirror makes it hard to hide the brutal desire in my eyes as I stare at her, trailing my gaze over every inch of her beautiful face. From the few hairs on the arch of her left brow that stick up more than the others to the small white scar that cuts into her bottom lip.
I want to know how she got it and how it would feel beneath my finger as I trace the shape of her lips. Fuck, she’s got me all tangled up inside. I just wish she would admit to herself that she feels the same way about me.
Her wrist is so small compared to the length of my fingers. They wrap around it with room to spare. The warmth seeping from her skin into mine is intoxicating. Addictive.
“Let me,” I whisper, finally releasing her wrist and sliding the tweezers free of the death grip she has on them.
“I can do it myself, Johnny.”
Her breathless tone has my cock straining in my jeans. She’ll feel it if I don’t take a step back, but fuck me, it feels like we’ve been tethered together, and pulling away will yank my heart right from my chest.
I swallow, grappling for my manners. “It’ll be quicker if I do it.”
Her lashes flutter as our stares hold in the mirror. “This doesn’t feel quicker.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t.”
The tweezers are cold between my fingers. So different from the blazing heat from her skin. I want to toss them in the trash and touch her again, but instead, I take that dreaded step back. When my heart stays rooted behind my rib cage, I take another step, giving us both room to breathe .
Her perfume lingers on my shirt, and that has my jeans growing even tighter.
“Let me see your finger,” I coax.
She turns to face me, and the blue in her eyes is even more vibrant up close. You can almost see the rough waves crashing around her pupils as she looks up at me, her hand extended between us, fingers brushing my chest.
“Should I time how long it takes you?” she asks, the tease so obvious in her voice that I can’t help but grin like a fool.
“Go for it, gorgeous. Maybe we should take bets.”
She hums, pushing her fingers a bit harder into my sternum. I lean forward, encouraging her to keep going.
Shove them deep, Rory. Wrap them around my heart and feel how fast it beats in your company.
“Bets are dangerous,” she muses.
“The best things are.”
Her pupils flare, swallowing all that dark blue. Her palm makes contact with my chest, and I swallow a groan, dropping my gaze to stare at it. Five fingers splayed, she keeps it there, unmoving.
Suddenly, the last thing I want to do is talk about my history with the ranch. Fuck it all to hell, I just want to stay like this.
“Are you dangerous, Johnny?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
Her lips part as she flicks her tongue along the bottom one, right over that small scar. “Liar.”
“We were making a bet. I’ll go first.” I shift closer again, testing her. She doesn’t drop her hand. Her elbow bends with the sudden lack of space between us. “It’ll take me under a minute to get the sliver out.”
“That’s a confident bet.”
I smirk. “Surprised?”
“Not at all,” she says, finally drifting her eyes back up to mine. “Three minutes.”
“So little faith in me, Rory,” I tease, swaying even closer .
She rolls her eyes, and damn, I think her attitude turns me on even more. “What do I get when I win the bet?”
“When?” I blow out a long breath and reach behind her to grip the edge of the sink. The move brings us too close to pretend it’s just my heart thumping like crazy. “No, darlin’. If you win.”
“ If I win, what do I get?” she corrects herself.
“Name it.”
Her brow curves. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Wanda’s number.” It’s said so gently I wonder if she’s scared of me hearing her properly. “I want Wanda’s number. If you have it. If you don’t, can you ask for it? I don’t want anyone to know that I’m looking for it. For her.”
My chest aches at her nervousness. At the pain that swells in her voice.
“Deal,” I say.
Relief ripples across her expression. “What do you want if you win?”
I don’t need to think about it. “A kiss.”
“A kiss?” she echoes, eyes wide.
“That surprises you?”
“Well . . . no. I guess not. But you could have had anything.”
“There’s nothin’ else I want.”
Her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink, and my heart thumps in answer. “Better get to it, then.”
With a low laugh, I take a step back and take her hand in mine. Holding her finger up beneath the domed, yellow ceiling light, I find the nearly sliver in the pad of it and abandon the tweezers in the sink.
“Don’t forget the timer,” I remind her when I feel her eyes burying themselves into my face and bring her finger to press between my lips.
She shifts, slipping her phone out and setting a timer as her pink cheeks grow apple red. “Go. ”
It only takes me a handful of full breaths to slide her finger into my mouth and suck on the tip, my tongue swiping over the sliver once before it comes out. Far less than a minute. With the sliver on my tongue, I slide her finger free and wink at her.
“How did I do?”
Her glower and red cheeks are answer enough. “Is that how you get slivers out of all the ranch hands’ fingers too?”
“Nah, just you, darlin’. You’re the only one special enough for that treatment. The others get jabbed with tweezers because they don’t know how to stand still and let me work. Stubborn mules, those guys.”
“Are you saying that you aren’t stubborn?”
“Depends,” I say, flashing my best innocent smile, knowing my dimple’s out.
“Right. Well, you won fair and square. I suppose you want to claim your prize?”
I shake my head, bringing her finger to my lips. Goosebumps grow over her skin. With a soft kiss to the red, inflamed skin, I declare, “Not quite yet. I’ve got plans for my prize, and they don’t include claimin’ it just yet.”