Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
BEWARE: A DEAD SNAKE CAN STILL BITE
Shelby
“I feel like this is an existential question.” Daddy grins at Momma in the passenger seat of the sedan as the radio blasts “Who Let the Dogs Out” by Baha Men. It’s my favorite song of the summer.
Momma laughs with her signature crooked smile on full display. Daddy says its imperfection makes it all the more beautiful, and I agree. Momma is undeniably gorgeous, inside and out.
“Shelby, your daddy’s thinking way too hard again.” Her wavy russet hair falls over her shoulder as she winks at me.
I laugh because that’s nothing new.
“Hey!” Daddy pretends to be offended, and I grin back down at the latest edition of Jane magazine resting in my lap.
“Oh, Shelbs, I forgot to tell you,” Momma starts, but when I look back up, she’s gone. And so is Daddy.
All I can see is a speeding truck coming right toward me through the windshield. I slap my hands over my eyes and scream like there’s no tomorrow.
“Shelby!” A shout hits my ears, and I feel someone shaking me. “Sweetness, it’s me!”
I gasp for air, my eyelids fluttering open, only to be blinded by a bedside lamp. It takes almost a minute to steady my breathing and bring my heart rate down as I frantically repeat to myself, “It was only a dream. It was only a dream.”
It takes another thirty seconds to fully realize where I am and that Dallas has been stroking his fingers up and down my back while holding me to his bare chest, my head cradled in his other hand.
I inhale one long, shaky breath through my nose, filling my head with the clean scent of plain old bar soap and a hint of cardamom and amber from Dallas’s favorite shampoo.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, never breaking the rhythm of his strokes as the bed creaks under us, and he adjusts to rest his head against the wooden headboard.
I squeeze my eyes shut, determined to keep the memories and tears at bay. Despite the sweat from my temples wetting Dallas’s skin and the beginnings of embarrassment that I know will flow like lava from a volcano in the morning, I can’t make myself move. Or apologize. Or explain.
It doesn’t take long for the steady beat of his heart under my ear and the hypnotic brush of his hand along my spine to lull me back to sleep. The nightmare is gone, and for once, it doesn’t come back.
Two heavy weights pin me to the mattress when I drift back to consciousness—one over my hip and the other across my shoulder and arm. I open my eyes to get my bearings, only to see unfamiliar olive drapes framing a bright blue morning sky.
Confused, I look down my body to see that it’s not some supersized weighted blanket plastered over me, but two very tan, very firm body limbs belonging to one Dallas Beaufort Gamble.
I’d know that scar on his right knee anywhere.
A light dusting of hair covers both his arm and leg, the latter thrown over my hip like I’m a horse he’s attempting to mount.
My first thought is that I don’t hate waking up like this.
My second is that I must be an idiot, and I need to get my ass out of this bed as soon as humanly possible. This is a road my head does not need to be going down, especially after that nightmare—and also given that I might have myself a stalker waiting on my front porch this very minute.
Oh-so-slowly, I slide Dallas’s arm off my shoulder and begin to flatten onto my stomach to inch away. But before I gain even a millimeter, the arm that was a limp, dead weight a mere moment ago curls around my waist and pulls me back into the hard body behind me.
And hard he is.
Everywhere.
Holy shit!
Dallas groans in his sleep, his hips flexing forward and his aroused dick nestling itself between my ass cheeks like it just received its own engraved invitation.
Dear Dallas’s Dick,
The honor of your presence is requested at your earliest convenience.
Location: Between your best friend’s thighs
Attire: As little as possible
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath before freezing in place. I track his breathing to make sure he hasn’t woken, all the while ignoring the hardened state of my nipples and the fluttering of all parts down south. I can’t help it if my lady bits are all sluts.
Newly determined, I twist onto my stomach and carefully slither my way out from beneath him. But the man’s thigh is as heavy as a Buick, so my legs get trapped while my top half slides off the side of the bed until I’m supporting my weight with both hands on the hardwood floor.
“Fuck,” I repeat in another whisper.
Blood is pooling in my head now, so I do the only thing I can and jerk my knees forward in one quick movement.
The move works, dislodging my legs from beneath Dallas.
However, the force propels me forward where I complete some crude version of a somersault and land flat on my back, limbs splayed and pride a little worse for wear.
So, of course, that’s the moment Dallas’s scruffy, sleep-softened face appears over the edge of the mattress. “Mornin’, Sweetness.” His grin is lopsided to match the laziness in his tone and the tangled mess of hair atop his head.
I open my mouth in the hopes that a perfectly snarky comeback will magically spill forth, but before my tongue can even begin to form a word, Dallas points a finger at my tank top and shoots me a casual, “By the way, your tit’s out.”
I proceed to go into cardiac arrest and die on his beautiful hand-hewn wood floor.
Not really, but I consider it.
“This towel has a tag on it,” Ryder announces twenty minutes later as he descends the staircase wearing yellow swim trunks and nothing else.
I’m sipping coffee on one of the industrial barstools at Dallas’s kitchen counter. The whole place screams Dallas Gamble with its homey wood beams and masculine industrial touches. It’s rugged, warm, and full of character all at once. Just like the man who designed and built it.
“Come here,” I beckon to Ryder as I stand from my stool. “I’ll cut it off.”
He pads over on bare feet and watches while I locate a pair of scissors in the junk drawer and remove the offending tag.
Tags are a big NOPE in Ryder’s book, as are seams on socks and scratchy fabrics.
I’m actually surprised Dallas let the towel tag slip by him.
He’s always right on top of the vile things.
“All fixed.” I hand the towel back with a grin. “Now, how about those blueberry pancakes?”
“I already had cereal. Dad said we’d do pancakes tomorrow when I don’t have practice.”
“Oh,” I respond in surprise. “Okay then.” Is this part of Dallas’s ploy to get me to stay for more than one night?
“Shoot! I forgot my goggles!” Ryder tosses the towel on the counter and scurries back upstairs, uncombed hair flopping with each step.
“Brush your teeth while you’re up there, okay?”
When he’s out of sight, I crane my neck, listening for the sound of the shower from Dallas’s room down the hall. Only when I hear it do I relax back onto the stool.
I moved like a cheetah earlier, stashing my rogue boob back into my tank and snatching one of Dallas’s discarded T-shirts before hauling ass out of his bedroom. His laughter followed me down the hall to the second bathroom, but I didn’t dare look back.
Now he’s showering, allowing me the peace to drink my coffee and stew over the wellspring of humiliation I’ve endured over the last day. I honestly can’t decide which part to focus on first.
The confirmation that every person in town now knows exactly how horrible I am at choosing men?
Or maybe my ex acting like such a colossal douchebag that my best friend feels he has no other choice than to declare himself my personal bodyguard?
How about being lucky enough to have my stupid recurring nightmare make an appearance on the one night my new bodyguard happens to be within earshot?
But that pity marriage proposal-slash-matchmaking plan is a real contender too.
No. It’s got to be feeling my hot best friend’s cock knocking on my back door while he was most likely dreaming about some sexy, size-zero model.
Or perhaps I should just focus all my attention on the humiliation of giving said best friend a free titty show while flat on my back on his bedroom floor, looking like death warmed over, complete with bed hair and morning breath.
“You are a hot fucking mess,” I groan into my coffee mug.
Nelly whines from his spot on the couch, head up and ears back.
“Oh, not you,” I reassure. “You’re perfect. Don’t ever change a thing.”
Satisfied, he sighs and rests his chin back on his front paws.
I need to get to work before Dallas comes out here to “chat,” but my clothes are in his bedroom—the same room where he’s probably stalking around naked now, dripping wet from his shower.
My first appointment is in an hour at a ranch just down the way, but I promised Violet at Rockers ’n Knockers that I’d stop by on my way to check on her goat.
Violet is a bit of a hypochondriac, and that extends to Curly as well.
She once asked me to test her goat for STIs ’cause she caught him watching internet porn with her godson.
“I was looking for that shirt.”
I turn on my stool to see Dallas pulling a black T-shirt over his head.
His hair is wet and mussed from the shower, and his ab muscles ripple with his movements as he saunters my way.
I glance down at the Old Dominion T-shirt covering my tank top—the same tank top that’s going in the trash as soon as I find a bra and some clothes.
His shirt is tight across my chest, but at least it covers me up.
“Finders keepers.” I shrug, spinning my mug on the counter to give me something to do with my hands.
He has the audacity to wink and say, “Looks better on you anyway.”
While I mull over that one, Dallas takes his sweet ass time adjusting his belt and wandering into the kitchen to fix himself a cup. Only when it’s full and he’s made his way directly across from me to rest his elbows on the counter does he speak again.
“So, how long have you been havin’ those nightmares?”