Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
I agreed because I didn’t know what else to do. I know this marriage may not be the best thing for me. I mean, he’s movie-star handsome, but he knows it. He struts around like a peacock and the thought of being his makes bile rise in my throat. Still, I made a promise, and I’ll stand by my word.
This is the only way out so I’ll take it with my head held high and the little dignity I can muster. After all, Whitlocks don’t whine. How many times did Papa say that when the crops failed to yield enough, or half his herd died due to contaminated drinking water? He was a strong man and I’m going to make him proud.
When I turn to greet my customer, my heart leaps in my chest and my breath comes out in a whoosh.
Striker.
I’ve seen him around town. Lately, he seems to have a tendency to show up where I am, but I know that has to be nothing more than my imagination. He’s probably twice my age with thick brown hair covered by a Stetson. His long beard is peppered with gray, and every time I see it, I want to run my fingers through it. I want to know if it’s just as soft as I’m thinking it would be.
His black work shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, showing off muscular forearms that are covered in tattoos. My eyes skim higher, appreciating the swells of his biceps. More tattoos are there, disappearing under his sleeves. I want to tell him to take it off. I want to see all of them, to map his skin and know it intimately.
But it’s more than the beard and tattoos. Striker is attractive because of the way he looks at me with that brown gaze. It’s always filled with masculine hunger and primal need, like he would eat me up if he ever got me alone. Which I guess, we kind of are now.
I try to remind myself that I’m engaged. I’ll be married to another man soon and that means ignoring this pesky attraction. Even if I can’t help comparing Tristan’s beady gaze to the adoration in Striker’s. No, not adoration. Just lust. I need to remember that.
“What can I do for you?” My voice comes out in a breathy whisper.
He pulls off his Stetson but doesn’t say anything. I don’t think Striker has ever said a single word to me. Oh, I’ve heard of his reputation. They say he’s mean as a rattlesnake. Most of the townsfolk try to avoid him. Even Emma May doesn’t like to ring up his groceries at the store and she’s practically Mother Teresa around here.
It’s strange to me the way people treat him. I can’t explain why he hides behind the reputation but for some reason, he does. I know deep in my bones that he’s not like that. Underneath the grumpy cowboy exterior, there beats the heart of a good man.
I step behind him, suddenly aware of how small I am compared to him. His shoulders are huge, so wide and broad. I bet he’s the kind of man that could scoop up the triplets and carry them all at once.
With shaking fingers, I reach for the leather tie holding his hair back. Long, silky strands fall free, and I run my hands through the locks. It’s part of my job. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Striker groans like I’m doing something far more erotic than just touching his hair and the thought that I’m being inappropriate with a customer forces me to drop my hand. Calming myself, I slip back into business mode. “How about I even some of this up and maybe trim your beard?”
He nods, and I try to think if I’ve ever heard him say a word to anyone in town. I’m pretty sure he just grunts to communicate.
I lead him to the shampoo chairs, feeling his gaze on me the entire time. There’s an awareness in my body that wasn’t here before he arrived. My nipples are pebbled in my bra. My thighs are slick and I’m hot all over. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to strip down and cool off. To let Striker’s hungry gaze consume my naked curves. Would he like them? Would he find the roundness of my breasts enticing? Would he slide his big, work-roughened hands around my hips and groan about how perfect they are?
He settles in the chair I indicate, and it groans under his weight. He’s so big, a hulking Goliath in a doll’s chair. The thought has me wanting to crawl into his lap and let him put his fingers up my too short skirt.
“Lean back,” I instruct as I wrap the cape around him to keep him from getting wet. I let my fingers linger against the warm skin of his neck a second longer than I normally would. Is this what it’s like to be attracted to someone?