Page 75 of Ridin’ Dirty

I was so excited at the prospect of replacing mismatched boxes and opened bags of dry goods with clear containers, making the pantry a destination, I forgot to feel guilty about the money I spent on them. I occupied the next couple of hours washing the containers before I filled them and organized the pantry. It was almost unreasonably satisfying to see it all come together. When I was finished, I snapped a picture and sent it to Charity with a text.

Am I a domestic goddess?

To which she immediately replied.

Livin the dream…

I had just enough time to rid the kitchen of boxes before I had to get ready for work. My shift was busy but normal, like a typical Friday evening, and it was nearly eleven when I returned to my car at the end of the night.

I arrived home to find Pistol’s truck parked in the driveway. Strange as it was for my heart rate to accelerate in excitement at the sight of a man’s truck—a man who was both my husband and barely more than a stranger—I hurried inside, all the while thinking one thing.

Charity was right.

This was the dream.

Or, at least, the real possibility of it.

I was coming home to a Stallion.

My Stallion.

Or, at least, I thought I was.

I took two steps into a dark house and knew immediately he wasn’t there. Neither was Reaper. As I locked myself inside, I pulled out my phone, curious if he’d sent me a message.

While I wasn’t surprised, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed to find nothing.

A part of me wanted to be irate. He moved me into his house so he could keep tabs on me, but he was never there. I thought briefly about turning around, getting back in my car, and driving over to the clubhouse to remind him of the woman he had at home.

The idea fizzled almost as quickly as it came. I didn’t want to come across as thirsty.

But I wasn’t giving up, either.

I decided to make it an early night.

I wasn’t typically an up at dawn kind of gal, but it seemed like my next best play.

Fifteen minutes later—face washed, teeth brushed, and covered in the smallest sleep shorts I could find—I crawled into bed and willed myself to sleep.

“Lyla!”

I woke with a start, not entirely sure if I was dreaming.

Taking in the details of the room, I realized the sun was already shining through the windows.

Shit, I thought as I folded myself over the side of the bed, reaching for my phone. It was on the floor, its charger plugged into a nearby outlet. I didn’t spare a thought to how badly I wanted a nightstand, too distracted by the display on my screen.

Eight twelve.

I slept in.

I didn’t mean to sleep in.

I could have sworn I set an alarm.

Did I set it for PM rather than AM?

Before I got the chance to check, my wakeup call sounded again.