Page 104 of Homebound

It’s ridiculous.

She stares at me with a challenge set in her smile, but what she doesn’t know is I’ve never minded losing if she’s the one doing the winning.

I flip over my pocket aces with a grin. “Three-eight off-suit.”

Those dimples pop, and I’ll lose to her every time if it means seeing that grin.

“Look at that,” Dakota drawls, scooping up her chips. “Guess I win that round. Again. Who wants another margarita? I spent over an hour picking those prickly pears out in the fields for the homemade syrup, and the tiny thorns got all up in my gloves, so please tell me y’all want more.”

Everyone at the table slumps up a sad, defeated hand because we’re all losing. This is the fifth round she’s won, or at least she thinks.

“Dammit, Colt,” my mom playfully chastises. “Did you have to teach your daughter every trick in the book? You raised a poker prodigy.”

Colt smiles proudly at his daughter, as he should. She’s won almost every round besides this one. “Course I did. She’s my girl, and my girl’s got to know how to beat ’em all. Oh, and would you make my margarita a ranch water, darlin’?” he grunts, the cigar wobbling from his lips. He pats his flat, muscular stomach. “Gotta watch my weight to keep up with you.”

“Pops. Stop it,” she sighs, dropping Vi into my mama’s waiting arms. “You’re more fit than a Clydesdale horse.”

“Can you make mine a ranch water, too, babe?” Alanna asks. “I’m also trying to watch my weight, so I don’t need the sugar.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Willie grunts, pulling down his bandana on his forehead. “I don’t want to watch your weight go anywhere.”

Alanna tosses her hair to the side. “I didn’t ask for your commentary on my body.”

“Here, I’ll help you with the margaritas,” I say, pushing back from the porch table as they continue bickering.

Dakota makes the world’s best margaritas (her secret is pickled jalapeño slices), but I’ll take any excuse to be alone so I can get my hands on her.

Mr. Cutler lets out a gruff harrumph, cutting me a glare. “I didn’t realize slicing limes was a two-person job.”

He’s playing the grumpy dad, but he can’t fool me. He’s starting to like me again.

Dakota flicks an airy hand. “Stop it, Pops. We’ll be right back.”

Looping her fingers through mine, she guides me from the wraparound porch into the vintage kitchen with a giant wooden island. As she washes the cutting knife at the sink, she gazes out over the sprawling fields highlighted in sunset shades of pink while I gaze at her.

Standing behind her, I brush my scruffy cheek against hers. “You know what I’m thinking about?” I whisper, the warmth of my breath dancing along her ear.

She nestles into me, resting her head against my shoulder. “What’re you thinking about?”

I sway, rocking us in a quiet rhythm. “I’m thinking about getting you home, to bed.”

She tilts her head back, letting the cutting knife clatter to the sink. “Oh? And what would we do at home?”

Smiling into her warm skin, I slide my fingers just under the edge of her jeans, teasing the delicate lace of her panties. “Well, for starters…” I murmur, my voice a husky whisper, “I’d slip you out of these Wranglers.”

“Oh?”

The word is nothing more than a quick gasp, like she can’t spare any more oxygen for a longer sentence.

“Yeah, and then I’d watch those jeans fall to the floor.” I lick up her neck, gently grazing her earlobe with my teeth, and she lets out a sexy little moan that has heat rushing down my body.

I drop my voice to a hopefully seductive hum, singing in her ear. She laughs, loud and addicting. “Are you serenading me, Wyatt Patterson?”

With a swift move, I spin her around to face me, her back against the kitchen counter, and capture her mouth in a slow, leisurely kiss.

Her lips meet mine eagerly, and she tugs on my hair, but I try to slow her down, tease her with my tongue. She’s gunning ahead while I’m always trying to leave her wanting more of me, more of us.

She tastes like the tang of margarita salt and lime juice, and it’s difficult not to drag her back to a bedroom, but I remind myself there are people on the front porch—namely, her perpetually grunting father.