Chapter 6
Six
While I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m a morning person, I’ll admit that having time to read my book and enjoy a full cup of coffee before I need to deal with either of the Kearney brothers is a luxury worth setting an alarm for.
When we pulled into our new stop somewhere in rural Saskatchewan just before midnight last night, I considered cancelling this morning’s alarm.
Sleep is arguably more important than being able to drink coffee in peace.
And besides, we’ll be parked in this spot for the entire weekend, so I won’t have Holden rushing me out the door in the morning.
But when I was twelve, my mom brought home a life coach named Jay, who loved to spew bullshit about habits taking twenty-one days so he could make my mom feel shitty about her supposed lack of willpower.
I don’t know… I guess it stuck with me, because his nasally voice wouldn’t shut the fuck up until I pulled myself out of bed this morning.
But the rain pattering on the metal roof and the steady rumble of the furnace is lulling me back to sleep in my cozy dinette corner, and no amount of smut, coffee, or concentrated eye-widening seems to be helping me wake up.
Holden lets out a loud, reverberating yawn as he stretches out on the sofa bed.
I’ve done my best to ignore the state he wakes up in—pajama pants slung low on his hips, tousled wavy hair, and a softness in his face that seems to harden as soon as he’s properly awake—but it’s a lot easier when I’m not facing him immediately after reading a hot sex scene in my book.
A woman only has so much strength at six a.m.
“You’re up early again.” The gravel in his voice rasps my skin like the rough touch of a callused hand.
“The peace and quiet is nice.”
“I know. That’s why I always get up early—so I can be alone.
” As he sits, his bare feet land on the vinyl floor planks with a smack.
I don’t look at him. I know what his morning stretch looks like, when his muscles are flexed and lickable, and I know I don’t have it in me to pretend I’m disgusted by the sight today.
“Don’t worry, Holden. You have your entire life to be alone.” I tip my cup back, letting the remaining drops of coffee trickle down my throat, before sliding out of the booth for a refill. “Just you and your blow-up doll.”
“I’ll take that over being in a relationship where I’m pretending to love them.”
I glare at him over my shoulder, my heart filling the back of my throat until I can barely breathe around it.
Canting his head to the right, he catches my eye in the low light, pulling at my emotions with his narrowed gaze and knitted brows.
A deadly silence fills the room, and the longer we stare at one another, the closer I come to crying.
It’s stupid to be upset when I am pretending, and it’s Holden who asked me to continue doing so.
But a voice in my head—one that sounds way too much like my mother—panics over the thought of never finding someone better than Logan. Maybe pretend love is the best I’ll get. The best I deserve.
“Want coffee?” I pry my eyes away from him to focus on the task at hand.
“Please.” He yawns. “Today’s going to be a long one, especially if this rain doesn’t let up.”
I gathered as much from the way they were talking in the truck last night.
Honestly, I haven’t bothered to learn the ins-and-outs of the rodeo world, which is probably a testament to how little value I’ve placed on my relationship over the last year.
The gist of it is that they’ll be roping all day, and I’ll be crushing poutine and probably an entire romance novel, if the weather stays as crappy as it currently is.
The air around us shifts as Holden stands.
This place is too small for two people to pass without touching, and he knows that.
But suddenly he’s stepping toward me, en route to the fridge, and the closeness makes my skin spark and hum.
I’m aware of him in a way I’ve spent the past two weeks fighting not to be.
I should press myself against the counter, become as small as possible, to limit the chance of his body grazing mine.
Instead, I take up space—I was here first, after all—and continue pouring dark roast into two mugs as if the thought of his body close to mine doesn’t make my pulse race, full-throttle like a runaway train.
Then he touches me.
In a completely innocuous way, and surely without him wanting to, his hip bumps into my ass and his fingers drag across my shoulder blade.
And because I’m apparently a complete weirdo, I inhale a small sip of air, with a sound like a tiny hiccup, at the barely-there touch.
I’m thankful for the soft lighting, so he can’t see the flush warming my cheeks.
He pulls a drinkable yogurt from the fridge, then grabs my peppermint mocha creamer for me just before the door softly clicks closed. “You know it’s weird as hell to drink peppermint outside of the Christmas season, right?”
He loves to poke fun at my coffee habits. The man needs to come up with some new jokes.
“Not as weird as consuming yogurt drinks meant for toddlers.”
He scoffs, popping the lid open with his thumb. “This kind is clearly for adults—note the lack of cartoon dogs on the label.”
His maintained eye contact as he basically suckles at the leak-proof top makes a laugh bubble up from my chest. I shake my head, leaning back against the counter and relishing the heat of my coffee in my hands. “You’re doing a poor job of convincing me.”
And yet, he’s still hot. He’s drinking a damn yogurt drink after just waking up.
He has no business looking like that. Really puts the phrase one of God’s favorites in perspective.
The plastic container’s dwarfed by his huge, veined hand, and the overcast daylight trickling in through the small windows highlights every dip and bulge of his well-defined arm muscles.
I don’t dare more than a quick glance further south, to the soft curls of chest hair and the dark treasure trail dipping below the gathered waist of his pants.
The way he looks right now, and the thought of him touching me again, has my thighs squeezing together. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it must be something, because I shouldn’t want to be close to him.
“You’re staring, angel.”
Then again, if I’m going to punch him in the throat, I’ll need to be close to him. Maybe I’m fine, after all.
“I’m so disturbed by the sight of you drinking yogurt out of a sippy cup, I can’t look away,” I say dryly, lifting my mug to my lips and taking a pointed sip. “Like a crime scene or car accident.”
His lip twitches. “Just showcasing the things I can do with my mouth.”
I grip the counter edge with my free hand. A losing battle to keep my cool even though my legs are turning to jelly at the thought of all the things I’m sure a mouth as kissable as his is capable of. Finally, I spit out, “Your inflatable girlfriend is a lucky woman.”
The empty yogurt bottle clunks against the counter, and he reaches past me for his coffee. A tiny chin dimple I’ve never seen before accompanies his devilish grin. “Somebody sounds jealous. Careful—I might start thinking there are nefarious reasons behind you waking up early every day.”
“I like coffee and reading my book in peace.” I nod toward the Kindle sitting on the table. “You’re… a nuisance.”
“Funny. I was going to say the same about you.” He lifts his mug a little too fast, and a splash of coffee slips over the side, running down his fingers.
And as if I needed any more images added to my extremely inappropriate spank bank, he switches his coffee to the other hand and licks his fingers clean—one by one.
“You make a damn good cup of coffee, though.”
Holden and Logan didn’t set any arena records, or even have the fastest time, at today’s events.
In fact, at the main event, Logan missed his catch entirely.
That might mean I’ve already lost the title of good luck charm, though I’m not about to ask, since Logan’s been teetering on the brink of losing his cool ever since.
Naturally, Holden’s been absent all evening. I don’t blame him.
Logan rummages through the bedside cupboard, searching for his tooled leather belt in the most hurricane-force way possible.
When he doesn’t immediately spot it in the messy pile of unfolded clothing, he slams the door shut, only to curse under his breath when it bounces back open.
His fists clench at his sides, and he lets out a low growl before closing it with even more force.
“Logan, stop before you break something,” I half-heartedly say, only so I can tell Holden I tried to stop him if something breaks.
The living quarters are way nicer than most would expect, given the primary function of this trailer is to haul livestock.
I can only imagine how much money the two of them paid for it, and how much they’ll sell it for after this summer—assuming Logan doesn’t fly into a fit of rage and punch holes in the walls or something after Holden tells him he’s done with rodeo.
“Just wear your other belt.”
He huffs. “The one I’m looking for is my lucky belt, though. It’s got that nice silver buckle I won down in Texas.”
“Not that lucky, or you’d be able to find it,” I mutter.
“Did you move it?” He throws open the cutlery drawer and shuts it a little harder than necessary.
“Where would I move it? There’s only like… five cupboards in this place.”
“I don’t—” Logan lifts the hoodie draped over the back of the dinette bench and exhales a heavy sigh of relief when he locates his belt underneath. “There. Jesus. If you’d at least tried to help, I would’ve found it ages ago.”
Probably true, considering I would’ve checked that spot long before looking in the places we keep granola bars or forks.
I gesture at the leather he’s sliding through his pant loops. “You found it just fine.”