Page 52 of Homebound

I like hearing him spit out dirty curses.

It takes a truckload of problems to rile up Wyatt Patterson, so rage is an emotion I rarely see from him, if ever.

But it’s refreshing to see him feeling this injustice as deeply as me. I’ve spent so much of my life fighting my own battles and carving out a path in a male-dominated world, that it’s nice to have someone by my side who wants to fight on my behalf.

But a second later, his bubble of anger pops. “You know, I never liked that guy. He was never good enough for you.”

I smile up at him, the sunset making his blond hair glow like a halo. I knew my summer boy couldn’t stay mad for long. Grumpy™ is my modus operandi, not his.

“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” I agree.

“Why do you always date assholes?” he says, pulling us deeper into the water.

I don’t miss a beat. “I don’t date assholes, not anymore. I sleep with them. There’s a difference.”

“Fine,” he says with an eye roll, his hands skating up my waist, leaving a prickly path of goosebumps. “Why do you only sleep with assholes?”

I shrug against his solid chest. He’s so warm. “Because they tend to be good in bed, unfortunately.”

“You know…” He arches a brow. “Nice guys can be good in bed, too.”

My breath hitches at his low tone.

“I wouldn’t know.” I gasp a little, unable to look away from his penetrating stare. “I’ve never dated a nice guy.”

“Maybe you should change that.” He leans forward to murmur in my ear. “Us gentlemen can be really generous.”

My throat goes from dry to parched. “Are you offering up your services in the bedroom?” I try to joke, but my voice is too tight.

I’m imagining it now. Him. Us, tangling in bedsheets, scraping toes down each other’s calves. I shouldn’t be thinking of this, but I can’t stop. He’s acting so different tonight, and I’m not used to this brazen confidence from him. This is starting to feel too friendly.

His calloused fingertips brush my bra clasp beneath the water, tracing the valley of my spine, and my shiver has nothing to do with the cool river. “I’m just saying, if you ever get tired of sleeping with assholes… my bedroom’s only a few steps away from yours.”

All I do is nod because, for the first time ever, Wyatt Patterson has left me speechless.

20

EVERYTHING’S BIGGER IN TEXAS

DAKOTA

Patterson sure knows how to work out a woman.

After a week of planking and more lunges than I’ve done in a lifetime, my muscles need a yearlong soak in an Epsom salt bath. I’m tempted to down a bottle of pain killers if it wouldn’t wreck my kidneys.

The bigger bull riders have private massage therapists, weekly acupuncture appointments, and chiropractors on speed dial, but I’m not to that level yet.

I’m still treading in the minors, which is fine. My thighs are getting thicker. I can keep treading water.

But I need a break, so after Patterson’s workout from hell, I grab a blueberry scone from the Granite Falls Bakery, and now Lana and I are tending to Windmill Meadow Ranch’s fields with Tuna-Toons frolicking through the rows.

Wyatt’s family and their ranch managers do most of the heavy lifting, but I like to help out where I can. It’s satisfying, helping things grow.

The scorching Texas sun blazes down, barely filtered by my straw hat, as I send a sharp whistle slicing through the air with my fingers.

“Luna! Hobble your ass back here, girlie! There are rattles out in those fields, and I don’t want you getting a snake bite!”

Her recall is amazing, so she wobbles her way through rows upon rows of orange zinnias, Texas sage, and violet coneflowers. I release a breath when she reaches my side. The nearest emergency vet is over an hour away, so if she got bit by a snake, she’d be a goner, and I’d be destroyed by the loss of my furriest friend.