18. Beck
Beck
Lyla’s car pulls in the drive and winds toward me, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. I watch her drive up to the guest house and get out from where I’m seated on the porch, concealed by the shade.
That sounds fucking creepy. I’m not spying on Lyla. I just happen to be enjoying a beer on the porch after a long day of work, before I start barbecuing for tonight’s family dinner. And Lyla just so happened to come home at the same time.
Her head whips around, almost as if she senses someone watching. Her normally short frame looks long and slender in black dress pants and impossibly tall black heels, and her usually windswept chestnut hair has been wrangled into a sleek, straight pony tail that swishes down her back.
I’m not savvy about style; my outfits consist of Wrangler jeans, a t-shirt or a button down, and either a baseball cap or a cowboy hat, whichever fits the mood.
That’s as creative as I get, but even I know that’s not the kind of outfit you wear to a gyno appointment.
I mean, unless she makes her gyno take her out for dinner first.
But no, I am painfully aware that this outfit is a best-foot-forward, go-get-em-tiger look for Lyla. Because Lyla had her job interview in the city today. I bet she’s even wearing a bra under that blouse.
My fingers twitch with the sudden urge to march over there, rip her buttons open, and take her on the hood of her car. Sink between those soft, creamy thighs and fuck her until she decides it’s not worth leaving. Until she decides to stay in Sage Valley for good.
That’s a chasm that can’t be crossed.
It’s too wide, too far. And way too risky.
Instead, I opt to wait a moment once her form retreats inside the guest house, and go down to invite her to dinner.
I know my dad has invited her to eat with us on a few occasions, and Lyla has politely declined.
I’m not sure if it’s her general dislike for feeling like an imposition, or the fact that up until recently, I haven’t been exactly warm and inviting.
Either way, I fully expect Lyla to take one look at me standing on her doorstep and slam the door in my face.
She’s polite with my dad, I do not anticipate she’ll bother to be polite with me.
Nor would I ever want her to be. I never want her to filter herself around me.
I glance down at my watch, covering the only patch of skin on my body that isn’t tanned from the sun.
Not the only spot. Whatever. It’s been about ten minutes since Lyla shut the front door.
Plenty of time for her to be changed into something that allows her to believe I don’t know what she’s doing.
I make my way down to the house. Crickets in the grass jump out from wherever my feet land, and I dodge the clouds of tiny flies that like to congregate once the sun is no longer hot. I stand on the porch and swing open the wooden screen door, holding my hand up to knock.
My skin buzzes with nerves, just like the first time I did this. I rap my knuckles on the door three times and wait, bouncing on the balls of my feet.
Lyla swings the door open, her eyes going wide when she sees me.
“Beck, hi.”
She’s wearing that creamy off the shoulder sweater again, exposing one side of her collarbone, and denim cut off shorts. She pops a hip and slides one hand into her back pocket. It makes me want to do it, too. To feel the round curve of her ass.
“Dinner,” I blurt, with no other explanation. It’s not even a full sentence. I try again. “Barbecue.”
Nope. Nowhere near better. I know I’m not much of a talker, but this is fucking awful. I shake my head, trying to collect my thoughts.
“Beck,” Lyla starts before I have the chance to get it right. “Are you asking me to come to dinner?”
I let out a breath as I nod. Somehow, Lyla sees through me, and understands me all at once.
“Are you nervous to ask me to dinner?” She asks, her mouth sliding into a cheeky grin.
I nod again. Fuck.
“Because you think I might say no?”
She’s fucking teasing me, playing with me, and it stirs something within me. It riles me up, just like she wants it to. But with the flare of annoyance at her prodding, my nerves dissipate. I reach a hand up and rest it on the top of the door jamb, and lean in close.
“Lyla. Come to dinner tonight,” I nearly growl.
Lyla crosses her arms over her chest and it pushes her breasts up. I can’t help but let my eyes roam over her.
“Please?” She coos.
“Fuck, woman,” I groan, shaking my head. “I’m asking you to join me, and my family, for a barbecue tonight. Take it, or leave it.”
“Okay,” she says, and I light up inside.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll come. It sounds nice. As long as you aren’t going to scowl at me all evening,” Lyla stipulates.
“Okay,” I agree, although I think my mouth is set in a permanent scowl, by Lyla’s standards anyway. She always seems to have a bright, cheery expression that I don’t think I’d be capable of imitating.
I turn to walk away but remember what I’ve been meaning to bring up ever since I found her notepad on the coffee table. “Bring whatever notes you have so far on the ranch, we can talk about it after dinner. And feel free to bring Critter, too.”
Lyla smiles, that infuriatingly adorable cheery smile of hers, and nods. I turn to walk away.
“Those jeans make your butt look good,” she calls after me.
I stop in my tracks. She gives me no indication of where the hell that came from, but the compliment makes my chest puff out as I turn to face her again.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, flirtation lacing my tone. “I had a feeling you had a thing for hot cowboys.”
She laughs and shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head, Bossman. I was just testing a theory.”
I shake my head and keep walking, but inside, I feel like I got the most popular girl in school to go on a date with me.
Of course, it’s not a date. Because my dad, Skye and Nash are already seated around the patio table and ribbing me about something stupid I said the other day by the time Lyla saunters over to join us.
She’s still dressed in her sweater and cutoffs, but her pale legs disappear into brown western boots and god fucking help me.
Lyla Morgan is every cowboy’s wet dream.
She’s definitely mine.