Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“I was working on that,” I say weakly. I was, though.
An unremarkable car tears down the ranch driveway and we both stop to watch. It pulls up to the trailer and a woman, the notorious Melissa I’m assuming, comes out of the trailer and gets in the back. Then the car takes off, back the way it came.
“Can we pretend that didn’t happen?” he says, still staring in the direction of the now-departed Melissa, jaw clenched like someone has his picture-perfect family jewels in a vise.
When I fail to answer in a timely fashion, he turns to look at me and the worry surfaces, the stony mask slipping away. “Please.”
I guess I should applaud the love he has for his brother in spite of whatever went down between them. And something definitely did. The worry breaks me. No matter how shitty he’s been to me, I can’t be shitty in return.
“Melissa never happened,” I tell him, choosing my words carefully. He doesn’t get a free pass to insult me and Mona because of his personal issues with his brother. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Then it dims and he goes back to grabbing bags.
“Jules called me,” I add. This gets his attention. “She wants pictures of Aidan working with the animals. For the PR campaign.”
He nods. “I’ll handle Jules. Is the door to the feed room open?”
“Not yet.”
“Go open it and I’ll be right there.” This man is way too comfortable giving orders, but I’m too hot and too tired to argue with him. It’s a lost cause anyway, so I do as he suggested. I go open the feed room door.
A few minutes later, he enters the barn pushing the dolly stacked with feed bags, sweat dripping down his temples, the veins on the back of his hands popping off, his t-shirt molding itself to his chest like it’s a contest to see who can look better in a t-shirt. Surprise! He wins.
I’m not too proud to admit that I’m enjoying the show. Not even a little. In fact, all that’s missing is a recliner and a tub of buttered popcorn. I don’t even hide it. It feels good to be a grown-up again.
“No. Really. Let me help you,” I say without even a pretense of meaning it. Instead, I sit on a bale of hay, legs crossed, enjoying the entertainment for a change. I should probably make a small effort to sell myself as the kind of woman who can #doitall. Surprise! I can’t. I welcome with open arms any help I can get from a man.
“Make yourself comfortable, shirina.”
What the table flipping hell did he just call me? That’s the second time today he insulted me. He even had the gall to do it in a language I don’t speak. Which means I can pretend I didn’t hear him. Meanwhile, he stacks the bags of feed all by himself while I watch. All ten bags.
“You insisted.” I check my nails. Yep, still dirty. I get my phone out and pretend to look at that.
His lips twitch, desperate to curve up, but he fights the feeling.
“Don’t fight it, Shane,” I want to tell him, “Go with it.” But I keep my trap shut. I’ve learned the hard way that people don’t want to be helped. They want to stumble through life and make their own mistakes. No matter how long that lesson takes to be learned. I’m speaking about myself, of course.
Finished, he brushes his hands together.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot one last bag by the barn entrance. “You missed one,” I say, my eyes still purposely glued to my phone.
Watching me, he exhales. I can feel his searching eyes burn the roots of my hair. He takes his t-shirt off and wipes his sweaty face with it. Then he shoves one end into the waistband of his jeans and walks off to pick up the last bag.
As hard as I try… I can’t resist. Peeking up, I watch his naked broad shoulders, the lines of thick muscle and bone move as he picks up the heavy bag. The show is even better without the binoculars.
He’s got marks on his back, what appear to be shrapnel wounds. Some of the guys I worked with in the past, firemen and LEOs, served, and many came back covered in the same wounds.
He turns to make his way back and I forget to look back down, too taken by the sight of a few more scars on his chest, a more noticeable one on his side. He pauses briefly when he sees the look on my face and then continues into the feed room.
“Were you in the service?” comes out of me without thought.
“Sixteen years,” he says, standing in the doorway of the feed room. “Lieutenant Colonel Hughes at your service.”