Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
I listen to the sound of her wheelchair rolling away and bend over to grab another box that I almost missed. My ass is in the air as I mutter under my breath, “Just don’t ask me how long it’s been since I’ve had an O that wasn’t a donut.”
A masculine voice answers me, “That’s a damn shame. I could help you with that problem.”
Startled, I quickly straighten and turn around. Standing in the doorway of the inventory room is the biggest cowboy I’ve ever seen. He’s leaning against the frame, casually propped up on it as if he’s here every day. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his blue jeans which—I have to be honest—are framing a very impressive bulge.
Everything, from his scuffed boots to his worn Stetson, gives him a rugged appearance. One glance and it’s obvious this is a man who would know exactly how to probe a girl. He gives me a confident smirk, as if he’s aware of my filthy thoughts.
“Excuse me?” I demand, certain I’ve misheard him. He did not just offer to help me with my O problem, did he?
He doesn’t look the least bit repentant as he repeats loudly, “I said I can help with that.”
The flush on my cheeks is from anger at having this perfect stranger invade my space and make this tiny inventory room seem the size of a cupboard. It’s not arousal. Not even a little bit of arousal. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the anger that has clearly caused my nipples to turn into sharp points. “You can help with this?”
He looks me up and down, licking his lips in an exaggerated motion that indicates he likes what he sees. “Oh, yeah. This cowboy can ride all night long.”
He’s being ridiculous. Surely, this is just some silly joke to him. One where I’m the punchline. “You can’t say stuff like that to people!”
He straightens from the doorframe, heat sparking in his gaze. He leans close to me and why is it suddenly so hot in here? Why is this tiny cupboard shrinking even more? Have I passed out again? Am I lying somewhere with a head injury this time?
He glances at my lips, angling his head closer to me. If he leaned down just a couple more inches, he could kiss me. My face tingles at the thought. “I didn’t say it to people. I said it to my future wife.”
I snort at that. Yeah, I’ve definitely fainted. I wonder if I’ll remember this delusion when my head injury heals. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“I know my future is standing right in front of me.”
So, he’s not purple, but I’m in serious danger of swooning. That’s totally a side effect of whatever happened when I hit my head. I’m not sure which one of us I’m talking to when I say, “You need help.”
I reach for a heavy box, trying to figure out if I’m awake or not. The one time I had vivid dreams after hitting my head, nothing felt real. When my fingertips brush the cardboard, I’m pretty sure I am awake.
OK, then the cowboy is nuts. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve heard the rumors that the happily married women here in Courage whisper about. They talk of gruff cowboys and grumpy mountain men who fall madly in love with a woman in a single glance.
The cowboy scowls at me and takes the box from my hands before I can lift it. “We’re discussing your need for help.”
The way he says it leaves no doubt what he meant. Could I do that? Could I take a perfect stranger up on his offer to give me a few orgasms?
“Barrett, is that you?” Linda calls from the production room.
Oh, no. No, no, no. I recognize the name Barrett. That’s her son. I’m standing here in my good friend’s candle shop while her sexy-as-sin son flirts with me. My cheeks heat even hotter. Is spontaneous combustion a real thing? I need to look that up on the internet because I’m pretty sure it’s about to happen to me. “I have to go.”
Before Barrett can say anything or Linda can roll into the room, I duck my head and sprint for the door. Without looking back, I jog from her shop into the back of mine, only pausing to put my hands on my knees and gulp in oxygen when I’m safely back in my kitchen. My heart pounds in my chest, and I try to take calming breaths.
Coco, my tan Chihuahua and fur baby, tilts her head at me as if she’s asking me what I’m running from. I keep the kitchen blocked off so she can’t accidentally wander back here, but she must have found a way around the doggie gate again.