Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Wyatt
The pump is a lost cause. I’ve spent two hours knuckle-deep in grease and dirt, and all I have to show for it is a bruised ego and a wrench that’s snapped clean in half.
I stomp back toward the main yard, ready to bite the head off anyone who so much as looks at me sideways, when I realize those motherfuckers are nowhere to be seen.
It’s two fucking p.m., and a ranch like this is never quiet at two p.m. What I should be hearing is people clearing out the stalls, or at least the sound of those idiots arguing over whose turn it is to haul bales.
Instead, there’s nothing, and I’m about to lose my shit.
I’ve got half an hour before I need to leave to pick up Alex from school.
The last thing I need to deal with is a bunch of slackers.
I barge around the corner toward the equipment shed, where I can hear distant muttering and long shadows from the side of it.
My jaw is set, and I’m ready to tear them a new one when I stop dead.
Dayton, Wes, and two of the younger hands are lined up against the fence of the paddock like they’re watching a championship rodeo. But their eyes aren’t on the horses.
“What the hell is this? A union meeting?” I growl.
None of them moves.
Wes lets out a low, breathy whistle, his hat pushed so far back on his head it’s practically hanging on by a thread. “Boss…you might want to hold off on the lecture for a second.”
I follow his gaze, and the air leaves my lungs.
There, in the middle of the gravel drive, is that damn neon-blue Mini Cooper. And standing over it, armed with a sponge and a bucket of suds, is Emily.
But not just Emily and a bucket of suds.
This is Emily in a pair of cut-off denim shorts that are frayed at the edges and a ribbed white tank top.
Her hair is pulled back into a chaotic knot at the top of her head, with a few loose strands escaping around her face.
As she reaches for the roof of the car with the sponge, it becomes agonizingly clear that she isn’t wearing a bra.
Despite this, her ample breasts seem to follow a law of gravity that is entirely their own.
She’s scrubbing that car like she’s on a mission, the gray slurry of Montana dust running in streaks down the metallic blue paint.
She moves with a focused grace, her hips swaying as she works the sponge in circles.
Every time she reaches over the hood, the shorts ride up just a little higher over the cheeks of her perfectly full ass, exposing them to me and every other motherfucker on this ranch.
Every time she dips back into the bucket, water splashes over her legs, making her skin glisten in the brutal afternoon sun.
“Jesus,” Dayton mutters, sounding like he’s in church. “I didn’t know a car wash could be a religious experience.”
I feel a sudden wave of heat flooding my chest. I can feel the territorial snarl starting in my gut, making its way up through my chest. These are my men, this is my ranch, and that is…
That is what, Wyatt? Your guest? Your childhood shadow? Your ultimate fucking fantasy?
I don’t have a word for what she is to me, but I know I don’t want Wes staring at the way her tank top is turning translucent where the soapy water has splattered against her chest.
“Wes,” I bark, the sound sharp enough to make him jump. “If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to mend the fence in the north-east corner. Move.”
Wes looks like he wants to argue, but one look at my face tells him I’m not joking. He scrambles, nearly tripping over his own boots.
“Dayton, take the others and get out of here.”
I don’t wait to see them leave. I start walking toward her, my boots crunching on the gravel with a heavy, deliberate force. I want her to hear me coming. I want her to stop moving before I lose my mind entirely.
She doesn’t hear me, though. She’s humming some upbeat song as she dunks the sponge again and lifts it high.
A stream of suds runs down her lifted arm, traveling over the curve of her toned shoulder and disappearing into the neckline of her shirt, expanding the wet patch that now clings to the side of her tits.
“You’re gonna take the paint right off that thing if you scrub any harder,” I say, my voice sounding like I’ve choked down a handful of the very gravel I’m standing on.
Emily gasps, spinning around so fast she nearly loses her footing. The sponge hits the hood of the car with a wet thwack.
“Wyatt!” She presses a soapy hand to her chest, right over her heart. “You scared the life out of me.”
My eyes betray me. They drop to her soapy hand, then to the translucent wet patches on her shirt, then down the long, tanned length of her legs.
“I can get one of the guys to do that for you, you know?” I offer. My voice is too deep, but the thought of this little show becoming a weekly occurrence is going to be the end of me.
“Oh, it’s okay! I just decided to do it on a whim,” she replies. There’s a look of genuine pride in her eyes as she surveys her handiwork. “I was bored this afternoon, and she was looking a little dusty after those old Montana tracks. I didn’t want it to settle on the paintwork.”
She reaches for the hose, and the movement pulls her shirt even tighter. I feel a bead of sweat roll down my spine that I know damn well isn’t caused by the midday sun.
“Okay, well…next time just ask Wes or one of the guys to do it,” I grit out, turning quickly before I lose my resolve. “And it’s gonna get colder soon. You should wear a jacket.”
A jacket? What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s eighty degrees and not a cloud in the sky.
I catch the confused eyebrow-raise she gives me, and I try my darnedest not to notice the way the cold water has made her nipples harden against the surface of that thin tank top. I turn away, my boots crunching into the gravel as I make a break for the barn.
I don’t look back. I don’t have to. I can feel her eyes on my shoulder blades, watching me walk away, probably wondering why the hell I basically eye-fucked her on the driveway and then lectured her about the weather.
I need to get a grip. I need a cold shower. Or a lobotomy. Whichever comes first.