Chapter Fourteen
Wade
Three hours of sleep, maybe less, and here I am, driving toward the main house at this ungodly hour. All because I couldn’t stand another minute staring at the ceiling of my cabin with a brain that would not shut the fuck up.
My headlights cut through the darkness as I pull up to my destination. Her spot is empty.
Of course it is. I’m forty minutes earlier than usual. But my eyes still dart to Mom’s old swing chair on the porch, the one Maeve’s taken a liking to, where she curls up every morning with that e-reader she’s attached to.
It’s become a habit, searching for her in this little morning routine I didn’t mean to fall into.
It started as curiosity, I tell myself. I'm not a man who is easily intrigued, and yet this woman showed up on my ranch and held herself in a room full of over-testosteroned cowboys, including me, and didn’t fold like most people would.
She's proved she can work too. Keeps up with men twice her size without complaint. Well… Only complaining when she thinks someone's babying her, which to be fair, is a reasonable complaint.
She knows how she wants to be treated and doesn’t take anything less. I admire that. Even when I'm on the receiving end of that smart mouth of hers, because, damn, she looks good when riled up. Too good.
The professional distance I'd planned on keeping has been crumbling down for weeks. I know it. And I keep finding reasons to stand closer to the edge anyway.
I’ve caught myself more than once watching the beads of sweat roll down her chest, disappearing between her breasts as they spill out of the little tank tops she chooses to wear. Inappropriate as hell for ranch work, but I haven’t said a word. I won’t be either.
There are lines I still can’t cross. And won’t be crossing. It would complicate too many things, so I need to get my head straight and get through today. A day I got myself into because I didn't trust Bryan alone with her. Love the guy, but he's a dog when it comes to women.
Problem is, I'm beginning to think I can’t trust myself any better.
I let myself into the house, moving past Ruby's paintings that Colt refuses to let me take down. I’ve never argued about it.
He needs them there, and if it’s another thing that will bring him some happiness, then I will grin and bear the daily reminder of the woman who, till this day, weighs my life down.
The paintings are beautiful; I’ll give her that. Ruby could always find beauty in things others missed. She saw something in me once, back when we were kids. Pushed me to want more, to chase my dreams. Until it was no longer convenient for her.
The smell of fresh coffee hits me as I enter the kitchen, but with one sweep, I confirm it’s empty. She must already be up. Should’ve known, I don’t think that woman gets any sleep.
Where was she, though?
I head for the family lounge first, hoping I don't find her in there, because the idea of her knowing too much about me sits uncomfortably.
That room is the last place that holds any trace of who we were before everything broke into pieces.
Before Ruby left. Before Dad died. Before I became the version of myself that Colt resents and most people keep a careful distance from.
The door pushes open with little effort. The room’s empty. The breath that comes out through my nose is harder than intended.
“Wade?”
I turn, ensuring the door behind me is firmly shut. There she is, wrapped like a burrito in a blanket, hair piled on top of her head. Standing in the doorway of what we call the common room—just another lounge that I set up so nobody uses this one.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” Her voice is rough with sleep, and she squints at me like I'm slightly suspicious, which, to be fair, I am.
“Told you to get a good night's sleep.” The lie comes easily. “We need to head out before breakfast. No porch reading today, we'll get the horses ready early, get ahead of the morning crew.”
She nods and disappears upstairs, leaving me to follow the smell of coffee into the kitchen, where her e-reader sits on the table. She never leaves it behind. The thing goes everywhere with her.
I'm a curious man. It's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count.
So, when I reach for it, I tell myself it's nothing more than that.
Just curiosity about what has this woman so thoroughly absorbed every morning that the entire ranch could fall around her, and she'd only look up if someone drank all the coffee.
I pick it up and tap on the screen. Nothing happens. I begin to turn it over in my hands when my finger runs along a button. The screen lights. The title, Lassoed Up, is in the centre of the screen, with rope and a horse show behind it, before turning into a page of text.
Has she been researching ranch work or something? How dedicated is she to this scheme?
Then I actually read what’s on the screen.
This is basically porn.
Porn based on a ranch.
My dick twitches in my jeans as I continue to read. My eyes skimming over the highlighted text.
The rope bit into her wrists as he secured them above her head against the beam. His chest pressed close, one hand firmly around her neck his breath hot against her cheek.
“How desperate are you for my fingers to be inside you?” he whispered, his hand sliding down her stomach.
She gasped, pulling against the restraints.
“Use your words, city girl,” His thumb hooked into her waistband. “Or I’ll edge you for hours and enjoy watching you squirm.”
Shit. So, Maeve’s not the angel I dubbed her to be.
I am also suddenly and inconveniently aware that I am a forty-three-year-old man standing alone in a kitchen holding someone else's erotica at five in the morning, and my body is responding to it like I'm twenty-two again. The material of my jeans is getting tighter by the second.
I want to read more, need to know what else she’s got highlighted on this little dirty device, but footsteps pound down the stairs. I fumble with the device, turn off the screen, and drop it back where I found it.
I readjust myself, trying not to think about Maeve being the one against the beam, but any hope fades when she saunters into the kitchen wearing tight jeans and one of those damn vests again. She’s got a plaid shirt over it, but it's unbuttoned, and I can trace every curve of her body.
“Eyes up here, Mr. Carter.”
Fuck. Caught red-handed.
“See you wore your boots in.” What a shit recovery.
She nods, mercifully letting it go.
“Good. We’ll be out in the sun all day, so you’re gonna need your hat too”
And I am gonna need a miracle to get through this day without the worst case of blue balls I’ve had in years.
We head out before sunrise, and I know with absolute certainty that this is going to be one of the most testing days I've had in years.