Page 61 of Ridin’ Dirty

Without further prompting, he lifted his free hand and placed it over mine. I gently freed my fingers, reached for his plate of spoiled dinner, and went to the kitchen for a do-over.

Lyla made three bacon grilled cheese sandwiches.

Two for him, one for her.

The smell of the fatty meat, buttered-fried bread and melted cheese intensified his hunger which—until he began to relax—had been an afterthought, overshadowed by conflict and aggravatingly immense pain.

While Lyla cooked, Pistol found himself watching her contemplatively.

It seemed at every turn she wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

Or, perhaps more accurately, she was more than he cared to notice before.

She was a smoke show, but anyone with eyes knew that.

She was a wildly good time in bed—as he hoped she would be.

But the rest?

The meager fight she put up to marry him.

The weight she assigned to their vows.

The way she curled herself around him when he was left otherwise defenseless.

Fuck—but he never would have expected that.

He’d been a Stallion for a long time. He knew his brothers had his back, and he never questioned it. They proved it time and time again. But no woman had ever offered herself as a human shield for him.

His mother would have. He knew her fight against cancer was brutal and she did it not for herself, but for him. In his selfishness, he wanted her to go to battle for her life. He didn’t want to live in a world without her in it.

In the end, they both let go—the disease robbing them of the choice.

But Lyla didn’t know him. Hell, he was smart enough to admit she didn’t even have much reason to like him, let alone protect him.

Yet, she’d been so unafraid.

Watching her, he was reminded how much he didn’t know her.

It wasn’t simply a matter of lack of trust.

He straight up didn’t know her. Where she came from, where she’d been, and why the hell she raced across that room to prevent him from the state of unconsciousness knocking at his door.

“You’re dripping,” she said, yanking him free of his thoughts.

Lyla set two plates on the table before reaching for the soaked towel he had pressed against the side of his face.

“I should refresh the ice,” she continued, taking the other towel he still had against his side.

“Don’t worry about it. Sit. Eat.”

She hesitated, as if unsure whether or not she wanted to listen to him. Pistol reached for one of his sandwiches and took a healthy bite, ignoring her indecision. His groan of satisfaction was unconscious, but it sent a message. Lyla dumped what remained of the melting ice into the sink, set aside the towels, then joined him at the table.

“So…what happens now?” she asked before taking her first bite.

His mouth full of his second, he chewed a couple times before he mumbled, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the one they’re looking for? They’re not going to find him. They suspect you and they’re not wrong so—what happens now?”