Page 41 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“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.

Chapter Fifteen

Wade

Out of all the days for my most trusted horse—besides Marcellus, of course—to kick her shoe off, it had to be this one. Gravel bites into my knees through the denim as I crouch to assess Clementine’s bare hoof. I push to my feet and turn to find Maeve already watching me from where she's leaning against one of the barn beams, arms folded, waiting.