Chapter 4
LAUREL
I’ve been thinking about Beck since I left his bathroom last night.
Specifically, his hot body…his shoulders, his chest, and those lickable abs. I can’t get how his muscles flexed when I ran the washcloth over them out of my head.
And how his dark hair trailed down the center of him like a furry arrow pointing below the bubbles to where I’d probably find something…hard and thick.
The truck rumbles over a cattle guard and my coffee sloshes in the travel mug. We’re on the way to the feed store, and Beck's driving with one hand at the bottom of the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, his bad ankle braced carefully on the floorboard.
I close my eyes behind my sunglasses.
Last night was just me trying to be kind. That's all. He'd fallen trying to take a bath and I’m the type of person who helps those in need. I'd have done it for anyone.
Okay, maybe not anyone.
Especially with how soured I am on men these days.
But I admit, it wasn’t all bad, touching him and making him groan in ways that made me clench my thighs together.
I sip my coffee, trying to forget.
I even told him about my ex, Cole. I’ve only told Lark and Lyla, and my therapist, everything Cole put me through.
Why?
Why did I do that?
"You're awful quiet over there."
I open my eyes. He's not looking at me. He's watching the road, the corner of his mouth doing that subtle smirk thing.
"I’m just thinking."
"About?"
"Feed."
"You’re seriously thinking about feed?"
"That's what we're going to get, isn't it?"
He nods slowly. "And here I was, hoping you were thinking about me."
"In your dreams," I say, tapping the armrest.
"Every night, darlin'," he replies.
I stare at the dashboard so hard I might burn a hole in it, and he chuckles as we pull into the parking lot.
The feed store smells of sweet molasses, leather, and alfalfa, and the second we walk in, three men at the register turn around like a flock of birds responding to a noise.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in,” one of them says, scratching his head.
Another lifts his chin our way. "Aldridge."
"Boys," Beck says back, tipping his hat.
The oldest one, a guy in his sixties with a white mustache that rivals Sam Elliot’s, leans on the counter. "You manage to stay off the hay bales this week, son?"
"Working on it."
"That's progress."
Beck huffs. "That's what I keep telling Doc."
There’s a round of low laughter. Beck takes it the way a man takes a slap on the back from an old friend. He rolls with it, that easy grin already on. I notice how worn that grin is. Not fake, exactly. More like a path through grass that's been walked a thousand times.
The youngest of the three, a guy maybe my age with a gold wedding band and droopy eyes, gives Beck a once-over. "How's the ankle?"
"Attached," Beck answers.
"You bring a date?" the mustache asks, eyes sliding to me.
"This is Laurel Dempsey. She's working Riot for me while I’m out of commission."
“Is she now?” he says, eyebrows climbing.
“Keep it to yourself, Earl,” Beck tells him, while the others snicker.
“What?”
Beck shakes his head. “I’m tellin’ ya. She’s got that damn horse eatin’ right outta her hand.”
They all seem impressed.
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am." Earl tips his cap to me, but his eyes are dancing. "You hang on to your hat around this one."
“Among other things,” I say, and they all chuckle.
“I like her,” Earl says, and Beck glances down at me with something like pride.
We buy the feed and Beck tries to help load it, but I shoulder past him with a fifty-pound sack, telling him to sit the hell down before he undoes two weeks of healing.
He plops down on a stack of bagged shavings and pouts.
"Knock it off," I say, hauling the second bag, then dropping it in the truck bed, trying not to laugh.
We decide to get lunch at the Switchback Café before heading back to the cabin.
The bell over the door jingles as we walk in, and a wave of cinnamon washes over me. A woman behind the counter—mid-fifties, gray streak in her dark hair, apron tied twice around her waist—glances up and breaks into a smile.
"Beck Aldridge, as I live and breathe."
Beck removes his hat. "Howdy, Mae."
Her eyes fall onto me. “And who might this be?”
“Laurel Dempsey, ma’am,” I offer.
“Oh, none of that ma’am stuff with me. It’s Mae.”
Beck jumps in. “She’s helping out with Riot while I’m stuck in this brace.”
Mae nods. “Well, welcome to Hollow Peak, sweetheart,” she says, patting my hand.
I smile. “Thank you, Mae.”
She gestures to Beck with the flip of a dishtowel. "Sit anywhere, honey. Lacey'll be right over."
He steers us to a wooden table by the window with his hand barely grazing the small of my back, and even that contact has my heart going. I sit down across from him and study the menu.
"They make the best chicken salad in three counties," he says. “Bread’s homemade.”
"Mmhm,” I say.
"And the cinnamon rolls'll ruin you for any other cinnamon roll."
I nod.
"Laurel."
I lift my head.
His eyes are warm, but serious. "You okay? You've been chewing on something all morning. You wanna talk about it?"
"No."
"Fair enough." He picks up his menu. "But for the record, if it's about last night—"
"It's not."
"—I’ve never had such a relaxing bath."
"Beck."
"What? I’d gladly give you more money, if you’d do that every day."
"I will leave you here," I say through my teeth, hoping no one is listening.
"I'd just hobble after you, darlin’, and you know it."
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don't laugh and his grin widens by a degree, smug as a tomcat who got into the cream. Then he goes back to studying the lunch specials like nothing.
"...is that Beck?" Someone says in a hushed voice, as if they’re trying to be quiet.
It’s a woman’s voice. There's a pause and then a second voice, younger, asks who.
"Beck Aldridge. By the window. Don't stare, Meg."
I keep my eyes on my menu. Beck's facing me, his back to them. He hasn't reacted, but there’s no way he didn't hear. They’re just a few tables away.
The two women continue:
"Who's the woman?"
"No idea. I don’t think she’s from around here."
"He's still hot."
"Yeah, well." She gives a curt laugh. "That's how he gets you."
My fingers tighten on the menu.
"Got me when I was twenty-three. Two months of you're the only girl in the world, baby. Met me at the Timberline, took me up to that cabin of his folks', gave me the whole song and dance. I really thought I was different."
"What happened?"
"I find out from Cassidy Palmer that he'd taken her up there the weekend before. And then Becca Hill the weekend before that. Three of us. And after all that he didn't even bother to break it off. Just stopped calling. I had to hear it through a friend of a friend that he'd gone back out to L.A."
I look up.
Beck’s eyes are on the salt shaker between us, and a small muscle ticks in his jaw under the scruff.
Then his eyes lift to mine and his mouth twitches into a sheepish grin.
He sets his menu down, and pushes himself up out of the chair.
He limps over to the table with the two women, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
The woman is maybe my age, maybe a little older. She’s got a pretty face with blond hair pulled back. When she sees him standing there she pales.
“Hey, Tara."
"I didn’t—" She glances at her friend. "I didn't know you could hear me.”
"It's okay. That's why I came over." He swallows. "Uh, I owe you an apology."
The whole café doesn't go quiet, but our corner of it does. A man nearby eating a piece of apple pie, lowers his fork. The friend, Meg, is staring up at Beck with her mouth open.
"I was a cocky kid and I treated you like you didn't matter. I should’ve done this years ago and I didn't, because I was stupid and a coward, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."
Tara's eyes are wide. She’s obviously stunned.
"You don’t have to say anything," Beck adds. “I just wanted to let you know.”
He nods to her. Nods to Meg, who looks frozen in time. Then he turns and hobbles back to our table and lowers himself into his chair.
He picks up his menu. "I'm gonna get the chicken salad."
I’m speechless.
Lacey finally comes over with her pad.
And I order the chicken salad, too.
Later that day, after I’ve ridden Riot and put him away, I go back to my room to change.
When I come back out, I remember I wrote down a question in my notebook earlier that I needed to ask Beck.
But I check the house, and he’s nowhere to be found.
I head out toward the barn. The grass is still warm from the sun as I cross the yard, the breeze blowing gently.
When I get close, I hear someone talking. I peer through the door and there he is, giving Riot a molasses treat.
Riot's ear flicks forward, and I press myself against the wall to listen.
"...not gonna lie to you, bud," he's saying. "I don't know what to do."
Riot huffs.
"Yeah, exactly." Beck rubs the soft parts of Riot's muzzle. "She's something really special. And I don't even know if I deserve that yet. Hell of a thing."
Riot bobs his head.
"I know."
He laughs, and my heart aches.
I move my foot, and a twig snaps under my boot.
Beck's shoulders drop, but he doesn't turn around right away. He pats Riot’s neck, and finally looks over toward me.
He doesn't ask how much I heard.
I think he can tell from my face.
I cross the rest of the distance and walk right up to him, taking his face in both hands, and kiss him.
He doesn’t skip a beat. His hands slide down my back to grab my ass, hauling me against him. And the kiss goes from one to ten in the space of one breath.
Our mouths are open, tongues tangling, and I’m trembling. My fingers slide into his hair, and the groan he lets go, rattles my entire body.
Riot snorts and stomps off toward the run-in shed, miffed at suddenly being ignored.
I press Beck back into the wall, and one of his hands pulls on my braid so I’ll drop my head back. Then his mouth descends to my throat, and I’m spiraling into oblivion.
His teeth graze my skin and I gasp.
"Laurel."
It's a wreck of a word. All gravel and desperation.
His thigh slides between mine as one of his rough hands slips under my tank top, his fingers on the bare skin of my waist, thumb dragging up along my ribs, and every nerve I have lights up at once.
I roll my hips against his thigh and he shudders. He kisses back up to my mouth and we sink into one another.
One hand squeezes my ass, and he's lifting—
"Beck, wait."
He stops instantly, breath sawing in and out at my ear, hand on my waist.
I press my forehead to his neck.
My pulse is running wild. My mouth is swollen. And my pussy is throbbing. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't be sorry."
"I just…" My hands slide down from his hair. "I came out here to ask you about something I wrote down in my notebook. But now, I can’t remember what it was for the life of me."
He laughs into my temple, low and raw.
"I jumped the gun a bit, here. Acted on impulse. That’s so unlike me," I say.
I feel him smile against my hair, and I almost tip my face up and start the whole thing over. But I make my palms flatten on his chest, then step back, one shaky boot at a time. “I need some time to think.”
He lets me pull away, watching, dark-eyed, hair sticking up from where my hands ran through it.
"Take all the time you need. I’ll be here," he says.
I nod and turn around, walking back toward the house on shaky legs.
What’s gotten into me?