Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
REINE
The second my eyes open, I’m thinking about him again.
Jesus. My brain is mush. I spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying every damn second in the diner like some lovesick teenager.
Those ridiculous blue eyes. That slow, cocky grin.
The way he smirked like he’d already undressed me in his head—and yeah, I got zero sleep after that little revelation.
I’ve officially lost my freaking mind. One look at a hot cowboy and my self-control went straight out the window. I can’t stop picturing his hands on me, pinning me tight, his voice all low and dirty against my ear.
Focus, Reine. You’ve got a ranch to save.
There’s no time to wallow in my own sexual frustration, or daydream about a guy whose name I don’t even know.
I force myself out of bed, ignoring the screaming protest from every muscle.
My reflection in the mirror looks like I went three rounds with a professional boxer.
I splash water on my face, but it does nothing to cool the flush creeping up my neck. Perfect. I look like a wild raccoon, and it’s not even six a.m. I yank my hair into a ponytail, ignore the smudges under my eyes, and hope my coffee will have more backbone than I do.
I hustle into the one fancy outfit I own, grab my notes, and nearly trip over a pile of laundry.
If I had two brain cells to rub together, I’d go back to bed and hide until this whole day is over.
But no. I have to face the day. And the loss of my best friend.
Then I can work on forgetting the hot cowboy who stole my heart with one look.
I make my way to the kitchen, and Grams is already there, posted up at the table, coffee in hand and the newspaper propped open. She stares at me over the rim of her mug, eyes sharp. “You look like you didn’t sleep worth a damn,” she says, not even trying to soften it.
I just grunt and flop into the chair across from her. “Didn’t. Too keyed up about the sale.”
My grandmother doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches me, her gaze steady, like she’s trying to read my mind or spot the lie I haven’t even told yet. I’m not giving her anything, though—not until after the auction.
By the time I make it out to the preview area of the auction house, the place is crawling with every breed of buyer.
I’m here for Thunderbolt. The Rolling R needs this if we’re going to keep our heads above water for another year.
Even if the thought of selling my best friend sends pain flowing through my soul.
Grams is in her element, holding court with a pack of locals near the coffee urn. My grandmother could sell ice to Eskimos, but today’s about more than charm. It’s about making sure Thunderbolt sells for a good price and goes to a ranch that will take care of him.
I run my hand over Thunderbolt’s shoulder, then grab the grooming kit to give him a final polish. His coat’s shiny, and he’s standing proud, soaking up attention. I’m not at all hoping that my mystery man shows up. Not at all.
The next few minutes are a blur of blinding smiles, bullshit small talk, and a million hands shaking mine too long.
But somewhere in the middle of explaining Thunderbolt’s family tree to a guy who smells like money dipped in expensive aftershave, the hair on my neck stands up.
I look up. And nearly swallow my tongue.
Oh my God. He's here. I'd know that chiseled jawline anywhere—the one with just enough scruff to leave a burn on a girl's inner thighs, that perfect shadow outlining a mouth made for sin, the kind of face that belongs on billboards but somehow looks better in person. Today, my mystery cowboy is wearing that black cowboy hat I saw on his table yesterday, along with a suit that hugs his broad shoulders like it was painted on. The custom-tailored dark navy suit makes his eyes look like chips of summer sky. The way the fabric catches the light when he moves tells me it’s expensive wool.
A crisp white shirt underneath, open at the collar just enough to make my mouth go dry.
I literally forget how to breathe.
He’s even hotter up close, if that’s possible. His hair is a little messy, like he just shoved a hand through before donning the hat. For a split second, I think about what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.
Thunderbolt senses the vibe and flicks his ears like he’s judging me. Same, buddy.
The mystery cowboy makes a beeline right for me. There are at least twenty people milling around, but he’s laser-focused. He doesn’t look left or right, just heads straight in my direction, like some kind of heat-seeking missile.
I try to gather up my dignity, but it’s too late—the clipboard almost slips right out of my fingers, but I catch it. Barely. Smooth, Reine.
He holds my gaze, smiling slowly and hungrily, like we’re the only two people in a five-mile radius. I clutch my clipboard tight against my chest while trying to ignore the weird urge to check if my lipstick’s still in place.
Holy. Shit. This man is hot with a capital H.
He makes a beeline for Thunderbolt’s stall, and I swear the crowd just parts like the Red Sea for him. I try to play it cool, but my heart rate triples as my girly parts wake up and sing. When he gets close, the air goes thick and sticky, like the world is melting around us.
“Morning, Montana.” His voice is deep, warmth curling through me.
He gives me a slow, deliberate smile that warms my soul from the inside out, and I instantly know he just ruined me for all other men. My lungs forget how to do their job. It’s a miracle I somehow manage to stay on my feet.
“Good morning,” I manage to croak out past the hot cowboy-sized lump in my throat. “I’m Reine Rockwell, Thunderbolt’s owner.”
He laughs, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes even Thunderbolt flick his ears in approval.
“I’m Cole, Thunderbolt’s prospective buyer,” he says, sticking out a hand. His grip is warm and firm, and I swear electricity flows from the spot our palms are touching—right down the center of my body and straight to my clit.
“Nice to meet you, Cole.” I think back to the list of attendees, trying to figure out his last name, but I don’t remember seeing “Cole” on the list.
“Mr. Carrington. I'm glad you could make it to our auction.” My grandmother walks up, answering my silent question. Carrington? Oh my God. My hot cowboy is a Carrington? Those Carringtons? The ones who live in Silver Spoon Falls, Texas? My heart drops as I’m hit with the realization that the man I’ve been dreaming about is way out of my league.
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as the Arizona desert.
Of course he’s a Carrington. Not just any hot cowboy, but Cole fucking Carrington.
The ranching equivalent of a supermodel billionaire prince.
If I had a dollar for every time someone in the ranching world dropped the Carrington name like it was sprinkled in gold, we wouldn’t be desperate to sell Thunderbolt in the first place.
Cole’s hand still covers mine, warm and just the right amount of rough, and I can’t stop thinking about what those fingers would feel like gripping my hips.
“I’m happy to be here, Mrs. Rockwell.” He glances over at Grams and turns on the billion-dollar charm.
“But Mr. Carrington is my father. Please, call me Cole.” He watches me, gaze steady, and that lazy smile of his gets even cockier like he knows exactly what he’s doing to my brain chemistry.
Oh, God. No woman alive stands a chance against him.
“You can call me Louise.” I’ve never heard my grandmother gush like that. “My granddaughter is here if you need anything at all.” Good God, Grams. Make me sound desperate.
I want to die on the spot, but I just smile like this isn’t the most mortifying moment of my life.
“Happy to help,” I manage, even though my voice comes out weird and breathless.
All I can think about is Cole’s hand still wrapped around mine, warm and huge and rough in a way that makes my knees quake, and holy hell, I want to feel those hands everywhere.
Cole lets go of my hand so slowly, I swear it’s on purpose, his thumb dragging across my palm. I almost moan. Why is that allowed?
“I’ll let her know if I need…” Cole pauses and winks at me, “Aanything.” I nearly combust on the spot.