Chapter 12 Ina
Twelve
Ina
I don’t mean for it to go public. It just… happens. The way everything happens in a small town. Somebody sees something, tells somebody, who tells someone else, and by the time you’re pouring your morning coffee, the entire county knows you’re seeing the youngest Redding boy.
It starts at the feed store.
Beau insists on driving me. Which is ridiculous because I’ve been making this run by myself for eight months.
But he stands in my kitchen with his keys in his hand and his hat already on, forearms crossed, veins popping, looking like he was carved out of oak…
and says, “I’m coming with you,” in that low, no-room-for-discussion voice.
And my dumbass just grabs my purse.
He opens my door. Helps me into his truck.
His hand lingers on my waist as I climb in…
big, warm, firm…and my whole body lights up like he plugged me into a wall socket.
I’m still sore from last night. Still sore from this morning.
My inner thighs ache when I settle into the seat.
And the second his palm lands on my bare thigh, heavy and possessive, all that soreness blooms into a low, sweet throb that makes me press my knees together.
This man has ruined me. I can’t even ride in a truck without getting wet.
We drive into town in broad daylight. Together. Like a couple, like this is normal.
It is not normal. My heart is hammering.
The parking lot at Miller’s Feed the stares don’t matter, the gossip, the judgment, the Pattys and Marthas…
none of it touches what I feel when this man looks at me.
My body knows. Has known since that very first handshake.
My skin hums when he’s near; my pulse picks up when he enters a room.
My pussy clenches when he says my name. Every part of me is tuned to Beau Redding, like he’s the only frequency that matters.
And that’s what scares me. Not the talk. The talk will die. Small towns move on. But what this man does to me …to my body, my chest, my stupid, guarded, terrified heart …that’s not going anywhere.
He reaches the porch. Tips his hat back. Squints up at me. Sweat on his brow. Dirt on his hands. Looking like sin and salvation, all wrapped up in one big, beautiful package.
“You done overthinking?” he asks.
“How do you know I was overthinking?”
“Baby, I can hear your brain from the barn.” He steps up onto the porch.
Pulls me into his chest. I go easily …press my face against his damp shirt and breathe him in.
He smells of sweat and hay and cedar and the warm, masculine scent that’s become my favorite thing in the world.
His arms wrap around me. Big. Heavy. Sure.
His heartbeat thuds steadily against my cheek.
“Let ‘em talk, Ina,” he murmurs into my hair. His hand slides down my spine, slow, settling at the base of my back. His thumb strokes. “The only opinion that matters is yours.”
I pull back and look up at him. “And if my opinion is that this is crazy?”
He brushes a braid off my face. His calloused fingers graze my cheek, and I feel it everywhere. My skin, my chest, that low pulse between my legs that never fully goes away when he’s touching me.
“Then it’s crazy,” he says. “But it’s ours.”
I exhale. Long and slow. And something loosens in my chest. Not all the way. But enough.
“You want some lemonade?” I ask.
“I want you.” His eyes drop to my mouth. Then lower. Then back up. Slow and shameless. “But I’ll take the lemonade.”
I shove his shoulder. He laughs in that low, full rumble that vibrates through my whole body and settles between my legs like a promise.