CHAPTER 9
Special K
I sit on the couch and flip channels on the television. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, doing nothing, trying to beat the shit out of my thoughts with bad satellite TV.
This isn’t like me. I hate hanging out in my house doing nothing. And fuck, I despise TV. But here I am. Alone. My thoughts racing. Staring at moving shadows on a cutting-edge OLED screen.
With my thoughts on Boots.
Why can’t I get her out of my head?
I wasn’t even sure that part of me still worked. Sure, I’ve had women since my ex-girlfriend Harper, but they meant nothing to me, and I meant even less to them. Those women were short interludes. Physical releases. And every empty encounter was over before it got started.
But Boots?
She’s got my attention. I’m intrigued. I’m fucking fascinated.
She matters to me, which makes absolutely no sense. I can’t put my finger on why. One thing I do know is this—her eyes are deep wells of distrust and distress. And I can’t turn away. I can’t pretend I don’t see it and I can’t just walk away when she needs—if not me in particular—she needs somebody.
I won’t turn my back on her.
Grit and grief. Delicate strength. Boots is a woman who’s seen some shit and come out the other side. I need to know more about her. I need her to talk to me. Reveal herself to me.
I don’t even know her fucking name.
Holy shit. I nearly kissed her. I was about to grab her upper arms and yank her against me so that I could take her with my mouth.
Dammit. I toss the remote control onto the coffee table and stand. I’m done with relationships with women. No matter how hot they are. I can take them to bed, but I’ve promised myself I’ll never take anyone into my life—my heart—again.
Harper Dunn-Spence was the end of that road.
If a beautiful captain in US Naval Intelligence isn’t the right woman for me, then who the fuck is? Our minds worked the same. The sex was great. Harper’s ambition was as intense as mine.
Moreso, as I learned.
Harper did me dirty in the most spectacular way possible. She turned her back on me when I became a liability to her career. The hell of it is, I understand her logic. I really do. I understand why she felt she had to do it.
Overnight, I went from poster-boy hero to less-than-zero. What I did in the zone of combat was inexcusable. And the shitshow I found myself in afterward was more than Harper wanted to take on.
My career was already destroyed, and if she stayed with me, it would’ve destroyed her career as well.
Was she wrong? Hell yes, she was. If she meant it when she told me she loved me, then it was all kinds of wrong to leave me when I needed her most. I’d never do that to her.
If the woman I loved suddenly found herself facing the wrath of both the Pentagon and one of the most powerful political dynasties in the country, I’d stay by her side. I’d do everything possible to help her, my military career be damned.
I guess that’s the difference between us. I’m a MacLaine. Harper’s not.
Though there was a time I wanted nothing more than for her to share my family name, for her to be a MacLaine. That feeling is long gone. Dead and buried.
I had plenty of time on my hands these last few years, and I thought plenty about Harper. More than plenty. But nowadays, the memories of our life together enter and exit my mind without meaning, evaporating like smoke, leaving no mark on my heart.
Harper is old news. I moved on.
And now, suddenly, my brain is locked on Boots, the woman on the ridge. I can’t stop thinking of her. She may have the face of an angel, but that body is gyott damn sizzling.
She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.
The smeared mascara and wild hair are enough to put this into my brain: what she’d look like rolling out of my bed after a night of hot, intense, non-stop sex.
After I’ve shown her exactly what it feels like to be thoroughly fucked.
All right—that’s enough.
I’m up off the couch and headed for a cold shower. I reach the bathroom, turn on the overhead rainfall fixture, and wait for the flow to get icy-cold, enough to beat some sense into me. I strip and step in. There’s an initial shock to the system.
And then nothing.
Not happening.
My thoughts swirl in a circle like water spinning in the drain.
Why am I standing naked in an ice storm? To get Boots out of my thoughts.
Why is she still in my thoughts? Because I can’t get the image of her out of my brain.
Why can’t I get the image of her out of my brain? Because she’s so fucking spectacular that I’m now standing naked in an ice storm.
And that’s when it hits me—there’s no running water in the cabin, of any temperature. She can’t be comfortable and she sure as hell can’t wash off her mascara. I need to do something about that.
Ah, fuck.
Now I’m picturing Boots taking a shower or soaking in the bath.
In my mind’s eye, I see water cascading down her flawless flesh.
I feel the heat of her wet skin as I put my hands all over her.
Cupping the weight of her tits. Spreading my palms on her firm belly.
Gripping her ass as I pull her into the front of my body, slipping my hand between her hot thighs and sliding a finger into her wet pussy.
Knowing what her soft lips feel like under mine.
And how fucking good it is to lift her up, open her legs as I lean her against the wall, and bury my dick deep inside her. Every inch.
I reach for the controls, needing the water colder. Nope. It doesn’t get any colder. I’m already maxing out the ice storm setting.
But it’s not working. Nothing’s working.
I rest my palms against the cold marble tile of my shower and hang my head between my arms. Freezing water strikes the back of my head and neck. My back, my ass, and the back of my legs.
Seriously? What’s the deal with me right now? What’s my reasoning here? The only woman I ever loved kicked my ass to the gravel, and I’ve suddenly decided that I’m destined to get my groove back with Boots, the Squatter of Washoe Ridge?
I laugh at myself and raise my face toward the shower head, hoping one last time that the bone-chilling downpour can beat some sense into me. My teeth chatter. My skin pebbles. My flesh shudders.
And still… she’s not going anywhere. I’m still thinking of her, seeing her in my mind’s eye. The beautiful mystery woman can’t be washed away, frozen out, or deleted with reason.
She’s here to stay.
So, what am I going to do about it?